


Freia

by Winterfelland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jon Snow didn't go to The Wall, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, Endgame, F/M, Happy Ending, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Jon, Miscarriage, Motherhood, POV Multiple, Parenthood, Parents Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Past Daenerys Targaryen/Jon Snow, R plus L equals J, Rhaegar Lives, Rhaegar wins, Rhaenys and Aegon live, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 68
Words: 615,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterfelland/pseuds/Winterfelland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has never heard so much sadness and regret in simply a name, ‘Lyanna... Lyanna’s boy. I tried.’</p><p>She desperately wants to leave and for a second she fears he might die and she will be the only one to witness it. Then, he finds his breath again and shakes his head as if he himself does not understand his own foolishness.</p><p>‘Why didn’t you love him?’ Sansa asks, finding boldness in his silence, ‘He is so terribly easy to love.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salt

**Author's Note:**

> I know exactly what I want this to become but I highly doubt it will, if that makes any sense. It has been so long since I last wrote a fanfic and this has not been beta'd so I'm sorry about errors.

 

* * *

_**Epilogue** _

* * *

 

As Ned reads the letter multiple times he tries to imagine what Jon Snow may look like now. He still often thinks of the day they took the boy away, remembers it as if it happened this very morning, not six years ago. When he closes his eyes, he can still see Jon stand there, in the courtyard, dressed like a proper Northerner, his little face frightened and incapable of hiding his discomfort and incomprehension.

 _Promise_ _me, Ned_.

He kept his promise for twelve years. Lyanna used her last breath to make him promise and he kept it.

_His name is Jon, and he will be a Snow, a son of the North, born at Winterfell. My blood runs through his veins, he is my sister’s boy and I will raise him as my own._

At two and ten years old, still a child, he was maturing rapidly, perhaps a bit too much, faster than most, like all bastards do. His face was long, solemn and guarded, it gave nothing away. He was handsome, some called him pretty, but Ned knew that when he grew up, the prettiness would fade away. Jon was tall and skinny too. with his dark hair and grey eyes he looked like his mother, he looked like a Stark. Ned knew and knows that it did and does not matter what he looked like back then or looks like now, for Jon Snow was and is not a Stark, as in the end, all that matters is the name. No matter how much Stark blood runs through his veins, he will never have the name.

 _The time has come for my son to be returned to me_.

It was never returning. For over ten years, Rhaegar Targaryen tried his best to pretend Jon Snow did not exist. He never travelled north, never left his pretty, red castle and his crowded stinking capital to meet the bastard he fathered. He never wrote, not to Jon nor to Ned. He did not care, he did not even pretend to. He never asked, never seemed to wonder, always ignorant, always indifferent.

When Ned wrote to him once, so long ago, to tell him he wanted the babe to remain in Winterfell where he was born, his mother's home, the king responded with nothing but a short, written agreement, offering settlements of payment, with carefully chosen words written in the most elegant of handwritings. Ned did not care about gold, he cared about the boy, about his promise.

He betrayed Robert to keep his promise.

 _Robert will kill him, you know he will._ She said.

He bend the knee and swore fealty to the family that watched his father and brother burn. He held Lyanna’s hand when Robert fell in battle and watched her die in a bed of blood when the Kingslayer pressed his sword through the mad king's back. Ned remained in the North when Rhaegar was crowned, when he wedded the Lannister girl. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and the last time a Stark rode south, he never returned.

There is only one thing the king ever said to Ned as he looked into his eyes, when they met that day, shortly after a shared victory over the Greyjoy Rebellion, and they caused him more sleepless nights than any words spoken to his face before or after.

_Be loyal to me, Eddard Stark. If you choose to be loyal to me, I shall be loyal to you. We are bound by blood, he is my son, always remember that._

Nearly 15 moons after the end of Robert's war, Catelyn gave him a son of his own. They named him Robb, for his closest friend, always his companion, died at the trident, Where Ned should have been by his side. It might have been a great insult to name a son, his first, after an usurper but if Rhaegar was insulted nobody ever knew about it.

Then Cat gave him two daughters. The eldest they named Sansa, for Sansa Stark, the she-wolf of Winterfell his grandmother used to so often tell him stories about. They named another daughter Arya, after that grandmother. Then, two more sons came, Brandon for his brother, Rickon for his father. He asked the Gods to let them love and protect each other. _Let them grow up to become a pack of wolves._

Ned was watching Jon and Robb swing their wooden swords at each other in the summer sun when the letter was placed in his hands. He recognized the three-headed dragon as instantly as any man would.

_My son shall be accompanied by my men as he travels south. The time has come for him to be where he belongs._

Jon belonged in the north, at Winterfell, with his family who loved him, who would protect him. He belonged with his pack of wolves. But Ned knew there was nothing he could do. He kept his promise to Lyanna and now Rheagar once again had come to claim what was not his to claim and there was no one to stop him, nobody ever did, nobody could.

It was early in the morrow, winter left long before, not able to protect them. Ned knew he raised Jon to one day become a fine man and he would make him proud when they would meet again. Ned had placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders, squeezed them and tried to smile reassuringly, ‘Son,’ He said, ‘listen to me, listen carefully.’

Jon nodded, firmly, surprisingly confident.

‘Your king calls for you and you shall obey him. We must do things we’d rather not in the name of duty, but you will always find a home in Winterfell and we shall always be your family. Do you understand me, boy?’

‘Yes, uncle.’ He said, but Ned knew he did not.

Now, six years after taking Jon Snow away, Rhaegar has written to Ned again, and it no longer concerns Jon Snow only. 

 

 

 

**Eddard**

* * *

 

‘How do you plan on telling her?’ Cat looks at him, a deep frown on her face.

‘Sansa?’

‘Yes, Sansa! Who else?’ She crosses her arms after throwing the letter back at him.

‘I never believed he would ever accept.’ Ned stares at the letter he must’ve looked at a dozen times since it arrived this morning.

‘You were wrong.’ Cat says, she shakes her head and starts to pace around their bedroom.

‘I don’t understand.’ Ned says, ‘I never did anything to deserve this. He has no reason to trust me.’

‘You practically raised his boy.’ Cat says, ‘Maybe this is his way of showing you his gratitude? If it is, I demand you to tell him no!’

‘I cannot say no. I gave him my conditions, he accepted.’

‘Then there you have it!’ She throws her arms in the air, ‘That was your mistake.’

‘It’s as if he’s offering me a trade,’ Ned stares at the words in his hands, 'As if he's saying; you will travel south, serve as Hand in the capital, where I can control and watch you, and I'll give you Jon Snow back.'

‘But he won’t give you Jon Snow back, will he? I’ll be stuck with the boy as you ride south, leaving me.’

‘Don’t speak of him in such a way.’ Ned's voice is calm, but the warning as serious as any.

Cat shakes her head in disbelief, ‘This cannot be, this cannot be...’ She continues her pacing, ‘He planned on marrying our daughter to a son of his since the day she was born, we both knew it, you agreed even when we never knew which one she'd end up with!’ Ned says nothing and he can see his silence annoys her when she adds, ‘Now, instead of a real prince, we can give her a bastard.’

‘Her cousin.’ Ned says, ‘She is marrying her cousin, my sister's boy, a king’s son.'

‘A bastard all the same.’ Cat says, ‘She won’t like it Ned, you know she won’t.’

‘She can stay home.’ Ned says, knowing it won’t mean a thing to Sansa, but perhaps it will be of value to her mother, ‘They will marry here, in the godswood, by the old gods, she can stay in her home, in Winterfell, with her family.’

‘She’s been dreaming of southron princes, knights in the capital, Dornish wine and Tyroshi silks!’ Ned knows his lady wife speaks the truth when she coldly decides, ‘She’ll be disappointed when she finds out she is marrying a landless bastard with no name and nothing to inherit. She deserves far better than that Ned, she deserves a title, at least. It is insulting.'

Of all his children, who can still remember Jon, Sansa speaks of him the least. Jon grew up with Robb as rivals and brothers, Arya loved him like a true sibling and even though Bran was still in his swaddling clothes when Jon left, Jon helped teach Bran how to walk and talk. They all remember him fondly, all of them but Sansa who, much like his father, is indifferent about Jon Snow. The poor boy is doomed to have those most important in his life feel indifferent about him.

‘They may grow to care for each other.’ He tries, ‘As we did.’

'And if they will not?' Catelyn logically suggests, 'She'll be unhappily married to a boy who offers her nothing but a life in a dreary holdfast somewhere in the Gift. Is that what you want for her? For her to be humiliated and unhappy? She has so much potential, she deserves to see her dreams come true.'

Ned wishes he could tell her not to be so very dramatic, but he knows he can't, because she's not dramatizing, she's only saying what he does not dare think of, 'I raised him, he will be... I believe he shall be good to her.'

Catelyn shakes her head, because it does not reassure her, and he understands, because he cannot even reassure himself. He is only glad she has not yet mentioned aloud how this is the second time, that Rhaegar takes the Stark betrothed of another, and does whatever he pleases. Stark, Lannister, Targaryen, Tyrell... they're all pawns on a board game, and Rhaegar decided to play with Sansa.

'He is still a king's son with Targaryen and Stark blood.'

‘What about Aegon?’ Cat ignores his tries, ‘Who will he marry now that his bastard half-brother has stolen his bride?’

‘The girl from Highgarden.’ Ned says and she knows this will anger her even more.

‘Margaery Tyrell?’ Her voice is high and he can hear his own humiliation in her words when she says, ‘He takes Robb’s betrothed and gives her to Sansa’s?’ She shakes her head in utter disbelieve, ‘The nerve!’

‘He is the king, Cat!’ He says and it's the first time he raises his voice, ‘He is the king and does what he likes, he always has.’

Cat stares at him, her eyes fiercely try to kill him with her stare, ‘Of course.’ She says, ‘I think you should be the one to tell her.’ She makes a head gesture towards the door, ‘Tell our daughter she won’t marry the crown prince but her bastard cousin instead.’

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

‘Am I disturbing you?’ Sansa shakes her head as she looks at her father through the mirror.

She does that often lately, stare at her own face in her mirror. Not to admire herself, no, she is not as vain as Arya believes she is. She looks at her own face and wonders what other people may think when they see her. She wonders how it is possible that so many ideas, believes and dreams, all those desires, could hide behind that one face, in that small head, and she hopes it will shield them carefully. She stares at her own face and lets her daydreams take her to places where she cannot guide them.

Ned closes the door behind him and moves to peck the top of her head, ‘Awful news from the capital came some time ago... Jon Arryn is dead.’

Sansa knows who that is, ‘Aunt Lysa’s husband?’

Ned nods, ‘Yes, a fever took him.’

‘I am so sorry father.’ She knows her father was practically raised by the man, ‘How is aunt Lysa?’ Sansa tries hard to sound as if she cares but she knows she doesn’t. She has never met her mother’s sister in her life, ever.

‘She is well, she and her boy, they are both well.’ Sansa nods as if the news relieves her, ‘The king rides for Winterfell, with the queen, the princes, princesses and their households.’

Sansa can feel her heart flutter and she gasps, ‘Prince Aegon too?’

‘Yes, prince Aegon too.’

‘Why are they coming?’ He is avoiding her eyes and Sansa does not understand, ‘Should we not travel south?’

‘I will be traveling south with them when they leave again.’ Her father says, ‘I will serve as Hand of the king, take Jon Arryn’s place.’

‘Will I be going with you?’ Sansa asks, she cannot help it when she sees all her dreams come true in just mere seconds. Sansa has been dreaming for this moment to come for years, she knew it would one day, perhaps not so soon and she feels a disbelieve as much as utter joy.

‘No.’ Father says and Sansa frowns at the word, ‘You will stay here with your mother, Robb and Rickon, nobody but Arya and Bran will join me.’

‘Arya?’ Sansa does not understand, out of all her siblings, Arya will be the least likely one to be of any use in the capital, she will just embarrass herself and her family most of all. Sansa’s sister Arya is no proper lady.

‘Sansa,’ her father says and he kneels in front of her so their eyes meet, ‘The king has offered you his son’s hand in marriage and I have accepted. You will marry his second son, Jon, here at Winterfell, after your seventeenth nameday. The royal family is coming to the North to attend your wedding, it is a great honor for all of them to travel so far for the occasion only.’

‘My _cousin_?’ Sansa means to spit out the word but she can’t, she whispers it instead, barely able to pronounce it correctly.

‘Yes.’ Sansa can hardly believe it when her father continues, ‘You will get married in the godswood and stay here, at Winterfell, where Jon will assist Robb as lord of Winterfell while I am gone.’

Sansa realizes her mouth is opened in a silent gasp and she hurriedly closes it, ‘I do not understand.’ She says eventually, she has no idea what just happened, one moment everything she ever dreamed of seemed to come true, the next nothing makes any sense, ‘Is the king cross with you?’

‘No.’ Ned says, ‘He is not, he is naming me Hand of the King, it is a great honor.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘Then why would he make you marry me off to a bastard?’

‘Jon is his father's son, prince in all but name. I agreed to the match, I was not forced to do anything. I believe he will be a good husband to you-’

‘I don’t want to marry him!’ Sansa finally finds her voice back and she means to use it, ‘You can’t make me!’

Her father rises to his feet again, towering above her as she sits, still in front of the mirror, her eyes watering with spiteful tears, ‘We shall not argue about it.’ He says.

‘I don’t want to father, please, _please_! I am supposed to marry Aegon, become his queen and give him silver-haired children!’

Her father sighs, ‘My sweet girl, there are very few things meant to be in life.’

Sansa feels tears escape her eyes as she clenches her fists, she gets up from her stool, ‘Please father, don't make me!’

But her father all but looks at her, his eyes apologetic but his mouth firmly closed. He continues to just look and not say a thing for days as she begs, screams, yells and mostly, constantly cries, day and night it seems. She cries soundlessly, she weeps in her pillow and sobs like a child. At one point, she threatens to run away, far away to some place where they won’t be able to find her, some place where Jon Snow won’t ever marry her. She doesn’t mean it, her father knows it, everyone knows it.

It is all so unfair. All she ever wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they are in the songs. Sansa knows of not one song where a lady is rescued by a bastard.

Robb rubs her back when her tears give her hiccups and he holds her in his arms, ‘Hush little sister, not all is lost.’ He says, ‘You can stay home, here, at Winterfell, with me and mother and Rickon. It is far too hot anyway down south, you would never have liked it there!’ But Robb doesn’t understand, he never did, especially not when Jon Snow was concerned.

Her friend Jeyne is the only one who somewhat pities her. She holds Sansa’s hand and presses her lips firmly together, realizing this is a serious matter, a dark tunnel without bright lightening at the end, ‘I know of no one who was, or is, married to a bastard.’ She says, ‘I mean, I have met a few, as have you, but they were never married...’

Sansa glares at her, ‘They say bastards are dangerous, Jeyne!’ Her voice is desperate as she realizes her situation is hopeless, there is not going to be a happy ending, her life is over, all that remains for her is to wait and see it all crash down in ruins upon her, devour her, press her to the ground until she can no longer breathe, just cry, sob and accept her fate, thank the Gods for giving her what she never deserved, ‘They say you should stay away from bastards, they are born from lust, lies and weakness, there is no honor is bastards.’ Sansa wants to save her tears for her pillow but yet again she can’t, ‘They are wanton and treacherous by nature. Tell me Jeyne, how can they give me a lord husband who is all that? How can I marry him? _How_?’

Jeyne looks said, ‘I hear bastards smell of salt.’ She says and she combs through Sansa’s auburn hair with her fingers, ‘You will be finding out very soon, you must tell me when you know!’

That makes Sansa frown. She didn't even know salt has a scent. Her tears are salty, perhaps Jeyne misheard and do bastards not smell but taste of salt. How can he taste like anything? It would be quite a thing, for him to smell like the tears she spilled on him.

The response she hates most is that of her sister, ‘Jon is coming home!’

Sansa wants to wrap her hands around Arya’s throat and squeeze it as her sister happily jumps around when she's told of the news. Why can’t Arya be the one who'll wed Jon if she likes him so much? Arya always looked much like him, Sansa remembers, they looked so alike Sansa once asked her lady mother if Arya was mayhaps a bastard too. Her mother laughed then, and promised her that Arya was her one true sister.

Sansa's lady mother does not laugh now but looks away when Sansa makes the suggestion and simply informs her crying daughter that, ‘Arya is too young to be wedded.’

‘Will she marry Joffrey then?’ Sansa asks, ‘Or Tommen? _How_? Why do I get the bastard when Arya-‘

‘Sansa that is quite enough!’ Sansa cries some more when her mother scolds her, ‘Your father has put much effort and great care in finding you a proper husband, he has made his choice and you shall be grateful and you shall obey him, like a good dutiful daughter and true lady is ought to do. Don’t disappoint me, Sansa.’

Her mother either does not see or does not recognize her tears when Sansa begs one last time, ‘Please mother, I don’t want to.’

‘We hardly ever get what we want in life.’ Catelyn says and Sansa wants to curse her, because Catelyn Tully married a lord, she married the warden of the North. She is a southron lady who wedded a well-respected, honorable and highborn man. Catelyn Stark should not speak of duty nor disappointment.

Yet, as Sansa Stark watches her lady mother walk away, she does not curse her, she curses Jon Snow. If only he had never been born then she would not ever have to marry him, she could marry Joffrey or Tommen, mayhaps even Aegon still. Sansa curses Jon Snow and prays he may never reach Winterfell.


	2. Songs About Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s enough!’ The king firmly puts his cup down and glares at every single person sitting around the dining table. Jon always imagines how much his father must hate it to have this many children. Rhaegar Targaryen should not have been blessed with a big family, it gives him too many headaches and makes him irritated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters you don't want to write because you know you can never get it right but you need it for the plot so you still have to. Beforehand, my sincere apologies.

**Jon**

Jon watches in stunned disbelief as the king explains the whole matter succinctly to their family. Rhaegar makes it sound like an everyday affair, it means nothing, no big deal. The man manages to make it sound boring. Rhaegar had the same attitude when he told Jon that same afternoon. 

‘Do you understand what I am telling you boy?’ he asked eventually, his voice calm.

Jon had blinked and realized he was staring at the man in dismay, ‘Yes.’ He said and Rhaegar nodded. 

Jon then opened his mouth to ask _why_ , why in the name of all the gods? But his father didn’t give him time to gather enough breath to speak.

‘Good.’ Rhaegar simply said before standing up and turning on his heels to leave Jon there, in that dreadful throne room. Jon stared at one of the dragonskulls along the walls, wide-eyed, and then realized he had never been alone in that room before. 

When he thinks about it now, he is surprised his father even called for him in there, he usually sends his requests and informs by messenger. The person who had been told to get Jon Snow must’ve been utterly stunned.

Jon starts imagining how that conversation went and it nearly amuses him.

‘Where is he? Where is Jon Snow?’ 

‘Jon Snow, the bastard, your grace?’

‘Yes, that one, I need to speak to him in person.’

‘In person? Won't his grace prefer it if we send him a message instead?’ 

‘No, in person. As much as I hate it I will have to be alone with him when I tell him I’m making him marry Sansa Stark.’

‘Marry Sansa Stark? But she is a noblewoman, he’s not good enough, Jon Snow is a bastard! Why would you ever make him marry the daughter of the most powerful man in the North?’ 

Jon knows nobody has or ever will question his father's actions like that. As much as Rhaegar chooses his advisors wisely and listens to them carefully, Jon highly doubts this unexpected wedding thing that feels like it came from nowhere and for no obvious reason, is something people will dare to question, no matter how ridiculous it seems. If only someone questioned it because no matter how often Jon has turned it over, flipped it upside down and moved it around in his head, it won’t make sense, no sense whatsoever. He simply doesn’t understand.

‘I don’t understand.’ Jon says.

‘Well, you see, when a lord and a lady are wedded and bedded-‘

‘Aegon.’ Rhaegar does not look at his eldest son when he warns him, does not even turn his head in his way, ‘That is unnecessary.’

‘Isn’t it what you wanted?’ Cersei always manages to look down at him, even when he stands right in front of her, nearly a head taller, or, like now, when they're both seated at the same round table, ‘You have been whining about going back ever since you came here.’ She always pouts a bit too, when she looks at him, as if he is wasting her time by simply existing, ‘You should be grateful.’ Jon doesn’t recall whining, never mind in the queen’s presence, but he ignores the comment. He always ignores her comments. Cersei must have been extremely pleased with the news, she must be delighted to finally get rid of him.

‘Sansa Stark is a match you must be proud of.’ Jon's sister Rhaenys says, her voice is hoarse for a woman’s, many people believe it sounds nice and Jon agrees, except the things she says, are hardly ever nice. He looks at her, meets her blue eyes and feels almost hopefull, because sometimes she saves him, sometimes she says just the right thing to release him from torture, but today is not such a day, ‘Once she was promised to your crown prince brother, you should be grateful.’ 

‘I never meant to sound ungrateful.’ Jon says, glancing at his father, who refuses to look at him like he always does. Ungrateful is not the right word at all, but as much as he should be grateful, he feels he can’t be, because this is not a gift, or a token of his father’s care and favor. His father never grants him anything, not without specific reasons, and if king Rhaegar has decided to make his useless bastard son marry a lady far above him in status, blood and name, just to keep him in his control or use him as a pawn in his games, then Jon is not going to be grateful. 

‘Of course not.’ Cersei can mock him with just her eyebrows and, unlike her husband, she never avoids his eyes. Jon is no longer the little twelve-year-old boy who was once afraid of staring back. 

‘Your grace.’ He then says, he hopes it is evident in his voice he does not mean it when he adds, ‘I am truly grateful. If I ever-’

‘So you should be,’ Jon always prefers to forget Joffrey exists, yet it's excruciatingly difficult, ‘I hear she is reasonably looking, I’d say reasonably looking is far better than-’

Rhaenys finally decides to make an effort at lightening Jon's pain, she loudly sighs and rolls her eyes, 'Oh seven hells, nobody cares about what you've heard.'

'I heard it too.' Myrcella suddenly says, she looks at her father when she adds, 'Rosalind told me the Stark girl has the Tully auburn hair, red like shiny copper, she said northmen who travelled down the Kingsroad call her beautiful, willful and obedient... will be travel down the Kingsroad too, father?

Rhaegar nods, 'Yes, we shall, from the capital to Winterfell. Do you know where the Kingsroad ends?'

'Castle Black!' Myrcella says and Rhaegar has only half a moment to nod when Joffrey opens his mouth again.

'It's true! I heard it too. They say she has her mother's coloring, they say she looks nothing like a Stark, nothing like the bastard.'

'Is this your idea of reasonable? Well, Joffrey sweetling, I must say, that explains some behavior of yours that has given me reason to wonder.' Rhaenys never calls anyone sweetling, only when she means to mock, and she loves mocking Joffrey, she calls him her easiest target.

'Rhaenys,' Cersei warns her daughter-in-law with her green eyes narrowed, 'We wouldn't want you to wonder too much, it might cause you headaches.'

Rhaenys doesn't like many people, Jon often wonders if she only likes Aegon and their father, and sees the rest of the world as a waste of her precious time, but least of all, she likes Cersei, 'Your concern humbles me, dear mother, but I'm perfectly capable of using my wits without harming anyone, least of all myself.'

Calling Cersei _dear mother_ , is perhaps the worst thing Rhaenys could possibly ever say to the queen, and this is why she says it often and loud, with a proud, self-satisfied smile on her defiant, resillient and smug face.

Joffrey seems bored by the turn of conversation and brings it back to his original point, 'Reasonable seems better than what he deserves, usually bastards get nothing... bastards are not supposed to wed, least of all royal bastards, they always end up rebelling against the throne.'

Aegon laughs, 'Jon won't rebel, he's far too occupied with feeling sorry for himself.'

Rhaegar's warning eyes silence Aegon's laughing and Jon keeps his eyes on his food as he clenches his jaw.

'His offspring might! The Blackfyres rebelled until-'

'If anyone will rebel it shall be me.' Rhaenys decides, she grins at Joffrey, 'You'll be my first kill, are you afraid of me?'

'You're a woman.' Joffrey looks at Rhaenys with disgust in his eyes, 'Why should I fear you? Women are weak, no one follows them, they're of no value to any lord.'

The insult does not insult Rhaenys, it only makes her laugh and Jon looks up to fully enjoy her response when she asks, 'Not even the reasonable ones?'

'You're not reasonable.'

Rhaenys opens her mouth but Jon's too quick when he spits, 'You know nothing of reasonable, you wouldn't recognize it if it took of it's clothes and danced around in front of your face, naked and obvious.'

'I know bastards don't deserve reasonably looking wives, you don't even deserve any woman, you're only-'

‘Since I am listening to you right now, I can't say reasonable is-‘

‘That’s enough!’ The king puts his cup down firmly and glares at every single person sitting around the dining table. Jon always imagines how much his father must hate it to have so many children. Rhaegar Targaryen should not have been blessed with a big family, it gives him too many headaches and makes him irritated, ‘I want to eat my food in peace.’ 

‘My love, perhaps we should discuss-‘

‘There is nothing to discuss.’ Rhaegar picks up his cup again, ‘We told them everything they needs to know. We will all ride north, Jon weds the Stark girl, then everyone rides back south as he stays. Once Eddard Stark becomes my Hand and leaves his home, Jon can be of use to his family there.’ It is a summary, insensible and unfeeling, as callous as only summaries can be.

Jon looks around the table, at his father, dressed in black, as always, it makes him look even paler and his hair even whiter. His mother-in-law dresses in Lannister red today, her embroidered silk is a stark contrast to both her husband’s hair and clothing.

Aegon is looking extremely amused, if there is anything he enjoys in life it is Jon feeling awkward, and Jon has not felt this awkward in a long time. Rhaenys is sitting next to him, looking so much like her younger brother Jon can still hardly keep them apart. When Jon just knew them he had difficulty recognizing who was who, especially because of the hair. He will never let his own hair grow as long as the Targaryens usually do, why would he? Jon does not have the Targaryen hair anyway, why put in effort to pretend? His hair is the Stark’s darkbrown, the same color as Arya's, the same curls as Robb's.

Rhaenys' blue and lilac eyes find his and she raises an eyebrow at him as if she doesn't understand what his problem is, he's used to that, Rhaenys doesn't like it when people pity themselves. Jon's older half-sister is never mean to him, she has never been cruel, viscious or contemptuous either, not like Aegon or Cersei, but she is cold and arrogant, as arrogant as her father, possibly even more so and when Jon came to the capital, years ago, she showed Jon her sharp dissatisfaction with his existence by not speaking to him much. Jon sometimes wants to thank her for it, because her silence then came as a longed for diversification. Rhaenys doesn't love him like she loves Aegon, she definetely doesn't like him like she likes Aegon, but she doesn't seem to hate or dislike him either. She's a cold woman, cunning and clever with a determination that outwits even Rhaegar sometimes. Jon doesn't enjoy her company and she can irritate him to no end, but out of all his family members, she is the one he respects most. Everyone always seems to respect Rhaenys, though not everyone always listens to what she says.

She is 21 already and not too long ago her engagement to Quentyn Martell came to an end. Jon knows she never wanted to marry him. Jon saw Quentyn when he was in Dorne two years ago and he understands why Rhaenys didn't want him. He was short and plain and Daenerys told Jon that, in Dorne, they called him the frog prince. Daenerys is not here, she lives with her brother Viserys at Dragonstone. He likes Daenerys, far better than he likes Viserys, but then everybody likes Daenerys far better than they like Viserys.

Myrcella looks exactly like her mother and nothing like her at the same time, she is smarter and kinder than Joffrey, her wit is faster and she does not fear him, unlike the youngest of them all, Tommen, just a boy of seven. When Jon came to King’s Landing, Tommen was just a babe that reminded him a bit of Bran, but Tommen is nothing like Bran. Tommen is plump and has white blond hair. He has cheeks his father always used to squeeze and Jon kind of understands why, they look very squeezable. He is a good, decent thing and Jon does not recognize Cersei nor Rhaegar in him.

Tommen is watching Jon carefully now, he does that often, it sometimes makes Jon feel uneasy, he’d rather not have Cersei think he is having some sort of influence on her precious pumpkin. 

Myrcella is watching Rhaenys, who is watching Cersei, who is watching Rhaegar who carefully keeps his eyes on Aegon. Aegon stares at his plate while Joffrey keeps looking from one person to the other, waiting for someone to say something, to hopefully continue this conversation about the new developments concerning Jon’s marital status. 

Cersei is perhaps the only person in the world whose company Rhaegar does not prefer over Jon’s, it is because the king is forced to be around the queen at least once a day while he can pretend Jon does not exists for weeks. 

There is a certain pride in Cersei’s attitude that used to frighten him in the past but not anymore. There is no one in the seven kingdoms as convinced of Cersei Lannister’s brilliance as Cersei Lannister. Her choice of judgement never fails to amaze him and he has found her to be as fascinating as she is comical, funny in a sad way. He will never laugh at her in her face, for what it's worth he cares about his head a little too much to do so. He never shies away from laughing at Joff though. 

Once upon a time Jon and Joffrey enjoyed the same swordsmaster, but that situation was not meant to last. They would never share a teacher again, not after Cersei wanted to have Jon whipped for pushing his half-brother off the docks. Joff came to her, bawling his eyes out after he’d fallen down the wall, into the water, almost drowning in the salty sea, unable to swim. 

He didn’t think Cersei meant it until he saw the hound appear with a rope in hand. 

‘Boys who don’t want to listen will have to feel.’ Cersei said and Jon had already accepted his fate when Jaime Lannister, of all people, walked in, looking somewhat astonished at the sight in front of him, ‘His grace would like to speak to his son.’

‘Which one?’ Cersei asked.

‘The bastard.’ Ser Jaime answered.

‘His grace will have to wait.’

‘The king never has to wait.’

Jon has never seen Joff look that dissapointed again.

He cried himself to sleep that night, dreaming of winterfell, of the stone castle and the cold wind. He dreamed of kind faces, smiles, laughter and joy. He thought of Robb, Robb would have gladly dived in the water. If Robb were at King’s landing they would go swimming everyday. They would have swam to the bottom to collect peddles and shells that they would gift to lady Stark, like they had once gone into the woods to shoot birds from their trees and rabbits from their holes. Catelyn would always pretend to be angry with them for ruining their clothes but would still make them a bath every time and mend their shirts with precise and careful fingers. Robb would hate Kings Landing, he would hate the summer heat and he would hate Joffrey. 

When Jon was a little boy, Lady Stark used to wash his hair and lord Stark kissed the top of his head like they did with all of their children. Jon would wear his grey cotton night shirt to bed where he wouldn’t be able to sleep because old Nan told them a bedtime story about a massive green dragon below the castle, its fire warming walls and floors so the Starks would not freeze to death during winter.

Dragons frightened him then, the idea of them, the sight of their skulls in the throne room. He knows them all by name, knows who they belonged to, knows who rode them and knows who killed them, it was the first thing they taught him when he came to live with the royal family in the red keep.

Jon has never been beaten during his time at king’s landing, instead he got a swordsmaster of his own and only has to see Joffrey at family dinners, boring receptions and feasts. Sometimes he walks past him in the hallway, his smug face trying to look down on Jon like his mother always does. He is a little shit, Joffrey Targaryen, but he isn’t the brother Jon dislikes the most.

‘I still don’t understand.’ Jon usually knows better than to press matters in front of his father, but considering this is about getting married, he is willing to wake the dragon.

‘What do you want to to understand?’

‘Should I explain to you why men take wives?’ Joffrey hardly ever laughs at Aegon’s jokes, he only laughs when the particular joke is mocking Jon. 

‘She was supposed to marry Aegon.’ Jon says.

‘They were never officially betrothed.’ Cersei says and when she looks sideways at Rhaegar Jon realizes she is not as pleased with all this as he expected her to be, in fact, he is quite certain she’s pissed. Aegon is getting the Tyrell girl, Jon is marrying the eldest Stark daughter and Joffrey? Jon prays to the gods Joffrey will never marry, save the soul of the poor girl that ever has to become his wife. 

‘Maybe something's wrong with her.’ Joffrey says, ‘Maybe the Starks are glad they have found someone who wants her, even when it's a bastard. Maybe she has eleven fingers, maybe she misses a tongue or perhaps she is now bald. What if she actually looks like a wolf?’

‘I have not heard a thing about her looking reasonable but I can assure you she has ten fingers, a tongue and hair.’ Rhaegar says, ‘There is nothing wrong with Sansa Stark. I don’t want to hear one more word about Sansa Stark.’

Jon stares angrily at his plate and his stupid golden fork but keeps his mouth shut.

Afterwards, in these days before their departure, Jon never mentions Sansa Stark, not once, to no one, but from that day on he is thinking of her constantly. He remembers her well, how could he not? She was barely nine when he left, a tall girl with blue eyes and auburn Tully hair. She had ten fingers and he remembers she used her tongue to often scold him and Robb, how she scolded Arya even more. 

People called her pretty but he supposes he didn’t care about prettiness enough back then to notice. As far as he can remember he never noticed Sansa in general, nor did she notice him for that matter. She liked boring things, things his father likes, things Aegon is good at. Sansa liked poetry, she will love his father’s harp music for sure and he knows she always created her own clothes with care and dedication. Most of all, Sansa liked songs and there are no songs written about bastards.

He also remembers how she expressed disdain for outdoor activities, she was always making her mother proud with her talent in dancing, singing, sewing and all these things. He tries to think of things they can perhaps talk about, but he realizes he cannot remember one single proper conversation with her ever and it makes him anxious. How awful it must be to expect Aegon Targaryen but get Jon Snow. 

Jon remembers how Robb told him once, ‘Sansa is going to marry your brother.’ Jon had never met his brother back then, Robb was his brother. ‘Sansa wants to travel south and see King's Landing after dark.’ 

Jon never understood why she wanted to see the capital, Winterfell was such a nice place, bigger than the Red Keep, why would anyone want to leave it? He never wanted to leave, they made him. Now he has seen the capital and many other parts of Westeros too, he is certain no one should ever want to leave Winterfell to come here, people who did were absolute idiots.

He is finally returning home but there is no one he can share his thrill and jubilance with, nobody is exited to make the whole trip to the far North just to see their sullen and sulking half-brother marry a girl in front of a tree. 

They are all happy to see him go. Cersei most of all, but Aegon too. Jon has always annoyed him, reminds him of the woman who somehow caused his mother’s untimely death. It shall be a peaceful change to Aegon’s eyes once they will no longer have to roll at everything Jon says. 

The most irritating thing Jon could possibly ever do to Aegon is make him ride all the way North, just to be present at this wedding he can’t care less about. Aegon isn’t the man for travelling, he is attached to his comfort. It doesn't matter that Jon doesn't want Aegon to come, or that it is their father who made the decision to have half the court join them. Aegon always believes it's Jon's fault. 

'Just so you know, the only reason I am making this little trip is because I am comforted by the idea that we will leave your wortless bastard ass out there in no man's land with the northern savages where you can't embarrass any of us ever again, no matter how hard you try.' 

Aegon doesn't care about Jon marrying Sansa Stark, he doesn't care about marrying Margaery Tyrell either. Aegon does not care about politics or about the family. He thinks the dragon skulls are ugly and when his father gets angry with him he does not blink an eye. Aegon never cares. Everybody loves Aegon and he does not even care about that. He is inteligent, good at poetry and songs, charming, extremely handsome and the perfect Targaryen prince, an exact replica of his father to everyone who does not look beyond his deep indigo eyes.

He once cared about the last remaining Baratheon. Jon knows that, everyone knows that. Once the king knew about it too he made sure Aegon went straight back to not caring about anything. People do not pretend they have forgotten, sometimes they are still speaking of it. The last Baratheon has never been seen at court since and frankly Jon doesn’t even know what became of him. He is sure Aegon knows, and Rheanys too, because Rhaenys knows everything about everyone.

Since then Aegon likes wine more than he did before, and he likes being alone. As much as people enjoy his company, Aegon enjoys silence and loneliness. Or perhaps he just likes being alone better than being forced to spend his time with people he calls ‘a waste of worthless space’. To Aegon, Jon is the biggest waste of worthless space to ever walk around in the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon likes to hunt too, sometimes he forces Jon to join him. It isn’t the hunting Jon dislikes, it's having to listen to Aegon singing constantly, for hours. When they go on a ‘proper hunt’ it sometimes lasts for three days or more and Aegon always tries his best to make it feel like three years. 

When they return they present their father and his queen with a white deer or a boar and Jon has to act like their new experience was as exciting as Aegon's storytelling can make it seem. Jon used to dream of going on a real hunt back at Winterfell, the way men hunt in the North is exactly as exiting as they make it seem. But here in the south, with all the people, the wine, the laughter, the lack of horses, the music and the singing (damn Aegon’s singing), it is as dangerous as one of Rhaenys’ tea parties.

Jon remembers that one time he shot a swan from the sky. It was soaring in the wind, beautiful, graceful, white. You have to keep both your eyes open, they taught him that at Winterfell. In the south they close one eye so they can focus on the beast they want to kill, but in the North you aim with one eye looking at the target and the other watching your surroundings. He hit the beast with one try and it fell down looking as unrefined as Jon does in a ballroom, as unsophisticated as Aegon looks on a horse. Jon was so pleased with himself for shooting that swan.

Maybe he can go on a real hunt when he is back at Winterfell. He had never been able to because of his age but he is definitely old enough now. He’ll pay good money to see Aegon try and fail at looking like a dragon while riding a stallion. 

Jon hopes as little as possible has changed. How about the castle, the people, the food, the wind, the towers, the birds in the sky and snow falling in your hair? In the past six years he has feared he will never see any of it back again in his life. Now he is going and he thinks about writing his uncle, asking him if he can maybe get his old room back. It will be a stupid thing to ask, especially in a letter, he can easily wait to find out about that when he is actually back at Winterfell. 

He is afraid that maybe nobody is happy about him coming back. Maybe Ned Stark doesn’t trust him anymore, maybe he thinks that after all these years in the capital they have turned him in a southroner, maybe Ned hates the idea of a Targaryen bastard at Winterfell married to his daughter while he has to go south and pretend he cares all about the issues of lands below the Neck. 

What if Catelyn is as humiliated by this alliance as Joffrey says she has to be? What if Robb has stopped missing him sometime since he left? Maybe Arya can’t even remember what he looks like. Bran certainly can't remember what he looks like. He has never met Rickon, the youngest of them all, he imagines that Rickon looks a bit like Tommen, but then he realizes it must be practically impossible for Rickon Stark to look anything like Tommen Targaryen. 

And Sansa- He desperately tries to stop thinking about her after some time. He succeeds in it somehow, helped by not knowing who she is or who she was when he last saw her. It's hard to think of someone you don’t know and Jon doesn’t want to start fantasizing about her, no good can come of that.

He does wonder if she thinks of him too and he supposes she must, she has to. Maybe she is a little bit relieved that at least she won’t have to marry someone much older, or someone much younger. Maybe she is happy that she will be able to stay home, maybe she's looking forward to it... maybe having to marry him seems like the worst thing that could ever possibly happen to her.

Jon doesn’t remember knowing if Sansa ever looked forward to being married to Aegon, maybe she did, it's likely considering her love for King’s Landing. But Jon knows that, even though he himself is not any woman’s dream come true, it's much better that she isn't marrying Aegon. Aegon may be charming, good-looking and the crown prince, but eventually he will see any lady wife like his father sees Cersei Lannister; a burden. Aegon is incapable of loving women like women should be loved, he will not be able to do it even if he tries. 

Jon can’t know if he and Sansa will like each other, or if they'll have things to talk about. He can't know if she is disappointed, though he believes she must be. Despite all that he still promises to himself that no matter how much of a miserable combination they may be, no matter how much she may detest him, that he will never see her as a burden, even if he ends up disliking her. 

He will take care of her in every way he can, he will protect her from any harm, he will listen to her, talk to her, defend her at all times. He’ll make sure that she trusts him and swears that if Joffrey ever dares say something to her that is in any way insulting he will personally make him regret it. If Aegon ever tries to mock her he won’t accept it. If his father thinks that he can turn Sansa Stark in his bastard son’s trophy wife he better think again. 

She is going to be his responsibility and Jon plans on taking full responsibility, he has learned from his father’s mistakes, you don’t let down the people who count on you and she will be able to count on him always. Sansa Stark may be unhappy about his status, his bloodline, his lack of titles and any enheritance whatsoever but she won’t be disappointed in his treatment of her, he will never hurt her. Any brother of Jon’s may have been a better betrothed on paper, but Jon knows that paper does not count when it comes to honor, he will be an honourable husband, he swears it, to the old gods and even the new, if she'll want him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, got that out of the way. While I was crying over how much I hated writing this chapter I wrote the third, fourth and fifth chapter, kinda, on my phone. So I plan on making friday (maybe maybe sunday) my update day, so you can expect chapter three this friday (or maybe sunday). 
> 
> Also, thanks for reading!


	3. Reasonably Looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark is not reasonably looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me some six hours (no joke) to get this file into whatever it is they use at archiveofourown. It was horrible, truly. If there are errors (there always are) this is why, pardonne-moi.

**Jon**

It helps that they are all lined up when the royal family arrives. 

It helps to recognize them and add names to their faces. He recognizes Robb immediately, and Ned of course, Catelyn too. The rest of them seem to have changed into complete different human beings. Or maybe he has just forgotten and in his desire to go home he gave them imaginary faces. 

They all kneel when his father gets off his horse and walks over to stand in front of them. Rhaegar looks around, at the Winterfell courtyard, his attitude imperturbable, indifferent and perhaps a bit aloof.

‘Lord Stark.’ 

Ned raises at his name, ‘Your Grace- welcome to Winterfell.’ 

Catelyn stands up too as she greets the queen who looks like she just swallowed a rancid lemon. 

The King’s party, three-hundred strong, won't fit in the courtyard, so not all of them have entered through the South gate, it makes their whole party look shattered and as easy as it is for Jon to spot everyone it must be difficult for them to understand what name belongs to what face. Will they recognize him as easily as he recognizes them? 

‘You stay here.’ Aegon told him, ‘On your horse. Don’t run to them like a madman, you’ll be embarrassing.’ 

Jon never planned on running to them like a madman but he can see them scan their eyes over the king’s traveling companions, overwhelmed by the numbers and the heavily painted armor, and he knows they are looking for him. They are expecting him. 

Rhaegar looks as regal as he always does while behind him his youngest children debark from the wheelhouse. Jon watches while they are formally introduced along with Rhaenys and Aegon. 

_Stay on your horse Jon, don’t pretend like you are important enough to move your way to the front. Remain where you are, wait until we tell you what to do. don't move because if you do people may feel offended. You should stay there, don’t say anything, don’t embarrass us. Allow us the chance to pretend you are not here, you do not exist. You are a nobody and no one cares about you._

His horse tenses his nervosity and has trouble standing still. His hands are sweaty and he can hear his blood pump to his head while he vaguely notices how Aegon kisses Catelyn’s hand.

‘Jon.’ 

He closes his eyes when he hears his father call for him, then he lets himself glide of his horse, the watchful eyes of Aegon piercing through his back. He gives the reins to Sir Malckom and slowly walks towards his father, his brother, his family. Horrible images of him stumbling over something and falling down poison his mind. He can only look at Ned, if he looks at Robb, Aegon, his father, he may lose this control over himself that has kept him standing upright for many years now. 

Eddard Stark, his uncle, his mother’s brother, the man who taught him all about honor, all about duty and family, he is right there and it seems surreal. He bows his head the way he knows he should, ‘Lord Stark.’ 

Ned’s hair has greyed, he has gained some weight and there is no youthful glimmer in his eyes anymore, but apart from that his features are still the same and looking at his smile makes Jon feel as at home as the towers of the castle had when they first appeared on the horizon. ‘Uncle.’ Ned said, ‘I am your uncle.’ 

‘I am glad to be back.’ He should not have said that, he knows he shouldn’t, if people were not watching him Aegon would almost certainly roll his eyes. Jon said it anyway, because somehow, he feels like here, at Winterfell, he can say things he should not say. 

‘We are glad to have you back.’ The way Ned studies him inquiringly, a bit inquisitively, makes Jon wonder what he tries to see. 

‘You look so well.’ Catelyn says and if she was an emotional woman there would be tears in her eyes, ‘Just a little boy when you left and look at you now.’ Lady Stark’s hair has not greyed, instead it turned a shade darker. Her face shows some wrinkles but her skin is as fair as he remembers. In that moment, Jon still feels like a little boy, a child who would very much like it to be told that everything will all be well very soon. 

Jon looks at Robb and he sees excitement on his face covered up with uncertainty and then when Jon nods at him he smirks and it is a wide, happy smile. 

‘Cousin.’ He wants to hug him, hug him fiercely, but he can see his father in the corner of his eye. How can Jon hug his cousin like a brother when his actual brother, just a few feet away, is watching him with repugnance? 

‘Jon,’ his father says, ‘You ought to greet your bride.’ 

_Bride._ What an awful word. He had almost forgotten she would be here too, with her family, standing next to Robb, expecting the king, the queen, the crown prince and all the rest of them. Almost. 

She steps forward at his father’s words, as if she'd been standing in the shadows, hiding behind her brother’s back. Jon hopes he is concealing his own anxiety and nervousness better than she is because she can't stop looking at the ground beneath her feet, she avoids all eye-contact as her hands play with the skirts of her dress and she seems to be clenching her teeth. 

Sansa Stark is not reasonably looking. 

There are many words that he comes up with when he tries to describe her to himself but reasonable is not among them. If any man ever would call her reasonable she should take it as a vile insult. 

He has never seen a girl with more beautiful hair. The color is what Rhaenys will call intriguing and so very rich. It frames her small face, emphasizes her high cheekbones and makes her eyes pop. Her lips are full and round, her nose is straight and small, her forehead is perhaps a bit high and she still has these full cheeks of a blooming teenage girl. If she used to be tall she definitely is now, almost as tall as he is, skinny too and pale, very pale, even for a northern girl, because he can still see it when her face is this flushed. Her neck is long and slim and she has tiny hands that clutch each other as if her life depends on it, making her knuckles white.

He feels like a fool, a major, extreme idiot. His voice gets caught in his throat, he forgets how to breathe for a moment and the hairs in his neck stand up when she looks at him, straight at him, boldly almost, as if she is challenging him. Her eyes are red, bloodshot and big. Really very big, and blue and pretty. The prettiest eyes he has ever seen. Their color reminds him of the sky at King’s landing in the morning, when the sun just raises and shines brightly after heavy rainfall during the night. 

He feels like everyone is expectantly waiting for him to say something charming but he can’t come up with anything and he didn’t think he would have had to prepare for this. Aegon would have prepared for this, he would know exactly what to say. 

‘M-m’lady.’ 

She doesn’t speak and turns her head sideways to her father as if she is asking him to confirm that this really is the idiot she is going to be stuck with for the rest of her life. Ned says nothing and then Jon’s father speaks, ‘Lord Stark, take me to your crypts, I want to pay my respects.’ 

Cersei objects but she is completely disregarded, which is to her, Jon suspects, possibly the worst beginning imaginable for this visit. 

Catelyn chooses this moment to escort the Queen and her brood inside, to the guest tower, where they no doubt will be staying. He catches their eyes, Rhaenys frowns at him, probably because his face is red, or maybe because he stares and she thinks he is behaving extremely indecent. Tommen waves at him, excitement in his green eyes, and Jon wishes he could find the energy to wave back. 

It’s just Aegon and his father now, they look so impressing, so powerful and mighty. So much alike and yet complete opposites. 

Jon tries to pull his eyes away from Sansa Stark but he can’t and he barely notices their fathers leaving them there. Aegon does not stay either, he retreats to the horses and men, to be the proper prince and watch their household settle. It means that Jon can think again. 

Sansa must believe that this is a consent to leave too because she walks away from him and everyone else without having spoken a single word. He is about to stare after her but manages to stop himself just in time. When he turns and catches Aegon looking he knows that if Aegon could kill him right there, with just his eyes, he would. Jon feels goosebumps tickle all over his body and a sudden strike of fear. 

He is lost for a moment when Robb walks over to him and they hug each other fervidly. He can forget it now, all of them, the way they look at him, the way they speak to him, the way they hated him from the moment he came into their lives. 

‘Welcome home, cousin.’ Robb says and Jon nods, this is his home, it still is and he suddenly doesn't understand how he ever could've doubted that. 

**Ned**

The underground crypts are long and narrow and it's cold in there, the hot springs don’t do their work as well as in the great keep and Ned shivers. All the dead Starks have a statue with a sword in their lap and a wolf at their feet. It looks as daunting as it is impressive, much like the king, really. 

‘Jon looks good.’ He says. he wants to say it before they arrive at the last three graves. 'Is he pleased? About coming back here? About the wedding?’

‘I have not spoken to him about it.’ 

That seems unlikely and the answer catches Ned off guard, ‘I know he had little to do with all the arrangements and I don't want him to feel forced.’ He knows how awful it is to say that, how he dares to say it when he is forcing his own daughter is beyond himself. 

‘Jon doesn't let anyone force him to do anything, least of all me.’ Ned smiles to himself at that comment because it sounds like Lyanna. Jon looks like Lyanna too, as much as Ned remembers, that has nog changed. The mere sight of him in the courtyard of the castle where he was born and raised brought tears to Ned’s eyes. Lyanna’s boy has returned to his family, he is home again, where he belongs. 

‘We have all missed him.’ Ned says but the king does not respond. 

Rhaegar does not speak until they reach the grave of Jon’s mother, it's the last grave, a woman next to the statue of her father and her brother, ‘I never gave you permission to bury her here.’ Rhaegar says and the comment infuriates Ned far more then he lets on. 

‘She was my sister.’ Ned says, ‘She was a Stark born and lost at Winterfell, it was her wish to be buried here.’ 

Rhaegar, again, does not respond and Ned remembers how Jon was never a hero with words. He now knows where that comes from. Rhaegar places his hand on the statue’s cheek and Ned feels entirely out of place, like he should not witness this, he feels like an invader. Rhaegar managed to make him feel like an invader in his own castle.

‘How was your journey, your grace?’

‘Long,’ Rhaegar says, ‘The North is wide and seems endless.’

It's the first thing that Rhaegar says that does not make Ned’s blood boil. He wonders for a second if the bodies of his father and brother, burned by the mad king, brutally killed by Aerys II, make Rhaegar feel uncomfortable. He hopes it does, it was his father who killed them, killed them because they demanded the return of their daughter and sister, the girl Rhaegar himself stole from them. But as much as he wants it he knows it likely doesn’t. If anything, Rhaegar seems in another world, in a different place, he seems unaware of Ned’s presence never mind the presence of corpses with the exception of one. 

‘How can there be snow in the middle of winter? No wonder it is so scarcely populated.’ 

_'Is this why you took her with you all the way to Dorne?'_ Ned wants to ask, _'Because you don’t like snow? Is this why I had to go to the other side of the realm to get her back and safe, why it took me so long to bring her home?'_

‘It has not snowed at Winterfell for some moons.’ Ned says. 

‘When shall they be married?’

‘Her nameday.’ Ned answers, ‘My wife insists.’ 

Rhaegar nods and Ned is glad he does not question Cat’s insistence, Sansa is young and Cat has been a witness to the consequences of young brides far too often, once Ned was too and the memory of his sister dying in a pool of her own blood frightened Ned more than any battle ever could, ‘When is this?’

‘Only a week from now, your Grace.’

‘We shall leave the next morning.’ He finally looks at Ned, ‘She seems in good health, if the gods are good they may grant them a fruitful and happy union.’ 

‘Yes.’ Ned breathes, Rhaegar has no idea how badly he hopes so, ‘I am glad that you agreed for them to stay in Winterfell.’ 

‘It was your only request, and I expected it.’ Rhaegar says simply. 

‘I did not believe you would accept.’ Ned admits. 

‘I'm glad.’ Rhaegar says, ‘I always prefer to be unpredictable.’ It sounds like something Jon could say and that makes him smile more than the comment itself. He wants to ask why he agreed, but somehow, he knows that no matter what, Rhaegar won't tell him the truth anyway. 

‘What about Jon Arryn?’ Ned asks instead, ‘What happened?’ 

‘I have never seen a man die so quickly.’ Rhaegar tells him, ‘From healthy to dead within a fortnight.’ 

‘Lady Stark was upset, she fears for her sister. How is she bearing her grief?’

‘Lysa Arryn is no ordinary woman.’ Rhaegar does not mean it as a compliment, ‘She has taken her son with her, back to the Eyrie, I wanted to have him fostered by Tywin Lannister but she refused, left in the dead of the night.’

‘Perhaps I could foster the boy, your grace? He is my nephew.’ 

‘It would be an insult to Tywin.’ Rhaegar says, ‘He has already agreed.’ 

And, just like that, the subject is closed. Ned wonders how a man can do so little and still manage to radiate this much power, it is as terrifying as it is impressive. Ned knows it is a typical Targaryen quality, one Jon did not inherit, not really, it didn't seem like it when he was twelve and Ned doubts that changed. 

‘We ought to leave, the queen is waiting for me.’

Rhaegar turns to walk away but then Ned remembers, ‘We should discuss the Night’s Watch your grace,’ He says, ‘The numbers of desertions have increased dramatically, five brothers have lost their heads this summer only.’ It won’t be long till Ned will have to send his own men to the wall to defend it from wildling invasions, the rumors about the size of Mance Raiders army are threatening. 

Rhaegar nods, ‘We shall speak about it, lord Stark.’ He promises. 

‘One more thing, your grace,’ Ned says, he means to make the most of this time with the King, alone, without his queen sitting next to him, he does not trust Cersei Lannister, ‘There was a dead direwolf found south of the wall, attacked by a stag.’

‘How peculiar.’ Rhaegar says and Ned knows what he means by it, it stings as much as it angers him.

‘The direwolf died but six pups were found with the body.’ 

‘Pups?’ 

‘I gave five of them to my children, I would like to give the sixth to your son.’ 

‘I was not aware direwolves are kept as pets.’

Ned wants to ask him what he knows of them exactly, but he doesn’t, instead he says, ‘Its an albino, so very beautiful. I am sure Jon will be able to look after it very well. He was always a responsible boy.’ 

Rhaegar looks at him for a moment, Ned can’t read his face and then he simply says, ‘It won’t bother me either way.’ Before walking away, making Ned follow him like a servant, down in the crypts of his own family in his own castle.

**Sansa**

‘He’s so handsome.’

Sansa looks at her fork when Jeyne coos over someone, ‘Yes.’ She says. She can’t look up, when she looks up she may see him and she doesn’t want to see him, seeing him makes this all far too real. 

She did not want to go to this feast, she did not want to get dressed and look pretty. She wanted to stay in bed and hide her head under her furs. She is not hungry and she does not want to smile. 

‘You’re so lucky.’

‘What?’ Sansa looks up at her in confusion, finds that Jeyne is not looking at her but at someone else and she follows her gaze right towards the thing she did not want to look at. 

‘Don’t you think so?’ Sansa immediately looks down at her fork again, she does not want to think about him, least of all she wants to talk about him, why is everyone forcing her to? 

‘Maybe.’ She whispers. 

Her cousin Jon Snow is handsome, undeniably so, yet he looks nothing like the husband she always dreamed of, the one she expected her whole life to marry. His hair is dark not silver gold, his eyes are grey not purple, his face has an evident jawline but no high cheekbones. Worst of all he does not look like a prince, and by that Sansa means he does not impress her, he lacks the royal posture in every way. He looks nice, kind and friendly. He makes people laugh but no one watches and listens in awe when he speaks. Everyone seems in awe of Aegon. 

Sansa can’t look at Aegon either, the humiliation and disappointment stings too much still, the wound is too deep and she can’t afford to cry, not in front of everyone. The king, the queen... The queen is so beautiful, she looks graceful and took Sansa's breath away when she first saw her. Her hair is so wonderfully pretty and Sansa is sure her dress is made of the purest silks Winterfell has ever seen. 

Sansa is wearing a dress she made herself, she used to love it, she was so proud of it, but compared to all the ladies of the court, compared to Rhaenys’ dress, the Queen’s dress and Myrcella... She feels like a peasant girl. 

‘Did he smell like salt?’ Jeyne asks. 

‘I don’t know,’ Sansa says, ‘I’ve not been close enough.’ She doesn’t want to find out, who cares what he smells like, it does not matter. What does salt even smell like? Maybe it is just a story made up in the hope to keep girls away from bastards, for their own goodwill. If all bastards look like Jon Snow she can understand why they have to make up such stories. Her betrothed attracts the eyes of girls like honey attracts bees and she wonders if he pretends not to notice, like Robb always does, or if he really doesn't. Maybe he is used to it, maybe girls from the capital are much prettier, maybe he doesn't care, maybe he thinks Sansa's ugly too, in her stupid dress.

Sansa's face turns bright red and she looks away in the hope Jeyne won't see, ‘What does salt even smell like?’ 

Jeyne giggles, ‘Like bastards, I suppose.’ 

‘Don’t say that word.’ Sansa hisses, she doesn’t know why it annoys her. 

‘He’s looking at you.’ Sansa wants to run away, as fast as she can as soon as she can, as far away as possible, and never ever come back too. ‘Don’t blush,’ Jeyne giggles some more, ‘Maybe he can see.’ 

‘I don’t care about what he can or cannot see.’ Sansa hisses through her clenched teeth, throwing her fork down on the table in an unladylike manner, ‘I don’t care what he looks like and I don’t care where he looks at.’ 

‘I would if I were you.’ Jeyne seems a little stunned at her small outbreak. 

Sansa quickly tries to change the subject, ‘Isn’t Rhaenys beautiful?’ 

‘Yes,’ Jeyne sighs, allowing the change of subject, ‘She is so beautiful, she is radiant.’ 

Radiant is not the word Sansa would pick to describe Princess Rhaenys but she is gorgeous. Her hair is darker than the crown-prince's, it's golden, long and perfect and Sansa loves the way it's braided at the top of her head, keeping a tiny tiara in place. Her eyes are wide and blue of color with an evident strike of lilac. Despite the fierce look on her face, Sansa thinks she looks frail, like she could break if someone would only dare touch her, she’s not tall at all and rather skinny, with few curves. Sansa can imagine that if Rhaenys sleeps, she looks like a corpse. It doesn't matter, she radiates a pride that matches Cersei's. She looks confident, arrogant and haughty. There really is something in her eyes, and the way she scans the room and the way the king looks at her makes Sansa wonder who really is the queen. 

Sansa does not look at Rhaenys very long, her eyes drift off and she finds them looking at Robb, who bursts out laughing and slams Theon on his back with a flat hand. Sansa hopes it's because he was choking on his drink. Theon is disgusting. Robb is probably laughing at something disgusting Theon said. 

Jon Snow is not laughing, he doesn't even seem to listen. Her eyes meet his and he smiles at her. Jon Snow has a sweet smile, they match his sweet eyes. His smile is uncertain and unassured, he looks precarious. 

Sansa takes a shaky breath and her hands clasp the fork she just threw down. She wants to smile back but she can’t and she doesn’t know why. He deserves to be smiled at, especially when his own looks so sweet. 

‘Sansa?’

She looks up in terror, as if she is caught in an act that is extremely improper. 

‘Your mother is asking for you.’ Septa Mordane tells her.

Sansa walks over to where her mother, Rhaenys Targaryen and Cersei Lannisters are seated. She bows her head, ‘Your Grace.’

‘Hello little dove.’ The queen says and she smiles at Sansa, ‘But you are a beauty. Such a shame you won’t come to the capital, you would do so well at court, beauties shouldn’t stay hidden.’ 

Sansa can feel her mother’s eyes burn, ‘Thank you, your grace.’

‘How old are you again?’

‘Sixteen your grace.’ Sansa answers. 

‘Ah yes,’ Rhaenys says immediately, her voice is a peculiar one for a lady, it croaks but it sounds rather pleasant and it's extremely smart, ‘That’s why we are staying for so long, she has to turn ten and seven years first, remember?’ Sansa for a moment believes she sees something close to suspicion in the princess’s eyes and it makes her feel uncomfortable, ‘You’re very pretty,’ Rhaenys tells her, she does not sound like she means it, ‘My brother is a very lucky boy.’ 

‘Thank you, my princess.’ 

‘You’re tall.’ Cersei says, ‘Have you stopped growing?’ 

‘I think so, your grace.’ 

‘And your dress, did you make it?’ 

Sansa feels her face heat up and she looks at her mother, begging for help but Catelyn says nothing and Sansa nods her head, ‘Yes, your grace.’ 

‘Such a talent,’ The Queen says and she smiles, it seems so very well-meant and gives Sansa some self-assurance. 

‘You must make something for me sometime.’ Rhaenys adds before giving Sansa a short but assuring smile. 

When Sansa walks back to her seat she feels like she can conquer the world and ride dragons if they still lived to fly up and bring her to places far from here, far away from Jon Snow. She realizes she fantasizes of the Queen urging the King to marry Aegon to her still. 

_You must, king husband, honestly, she is terribly lovely and she makes the prettiest dresses. Lady Sansa behaves like a proper lady and she really ought to be at court, what a waste it would be._

Sansa knows it won’t happen. In the weeks waiting for the royal arrival she has come to terms with her fate, but that does not mean she stopped dreaming, Sansa doubts she ever will, since it's all she has ever done, and all she will ever have.

The rest of the night goes by before she knows it. She is introduced to the king too, by her father, who seems proud of her when he does and that makes her happy. The king says very little to her, nothing but ‘You look like a lovely lady, my son is fortunate.’ She meets Myrcella and Tommen, they say even less. 

Tommen is soon brought to his room, he falls asleep with his head on the table. Myrcella tells her she is pleased that Sansa will marry her brother, ‘Nobody has been married yet! I’ve been waiting for a wedding for so long.’

She meets everyone but Joffrey, who looks at her a lot but seems to avoid her and Aegon, who never looks at her, just walks around a bit, whispers in Rhaenys’ ear, nudges Jon in his side (who seems relatively annoyed with the gesture), introduces himself gallantly to Sansa’s mother for the second time that day and mostly does not leave his father’s side. He looks arrogant but in a good way. He is so very attractive and his eyes carefully observe the whole room. He is a dream. 

Aegon leaves early, kissing Rhaenys on her cheek before he excuses himself. 

Sansa feels a little giddy when she walks up to her room when her mother tells her it's bedtime. Catelyn escorts her upstairs and helps her get undressed and brushes her hair, like she does so often, all in silence. Then she tells Sansa to sit down on her bed, which Sansa does dutifully. 

‘How are you my sweet girl?’ 

‘Good, mother, thank you.’ 

‘What do you make of him?’ Sansa thinks she asks after the king for a moment until she realizes she must mean Jon Snow. 

‘He looks...’ Sansa struggles to find the right word, ‘Nice.’ 

‘He does, doesn’t he?’ Catelyn sighs and looks at her hands, clasped together, ‘You must be nice to him too, for your own sake. He is your cousin and your father cares a great deal about him, perhaps you will care for him too, one day, as I have come to care for your father.’ 

Sansa looks up at her mother, she wants to promise that she will be nice to Jon Snow, but she doesn't because all she wants to do is ignore him and she is not yet ready to give up on that plan no matter how much she knows that she must and will. 

‘I think he is a good man, he will be a good husband.’ 

‘I’m sure.’ Sansa says and she knows her mother can hear the obvious disbelieve in her voice. 

Catelyn sighs again and moves to sit down next to Sansa on her bed, 'I have decided that the time has come for me to prepare you for your marriage bed.' 

Sansa does not quite understand what that means, she knows of the term, she knows how people giggle and joke about it, but she always assumed women do not have to prepare for it, the man probably knows all about it. 

‘You see, when a man and woman are married,’ Catelyn stops to find the right phrase, ‘They will have to try their best to make children, it is their duty. The man and the woman both, equally.’ 

Sansa nods, she knows that. 

‘The man must touch the woman to do so.’ 

Sansa knows that too. 

‘It will hurt, you won’t like it.’ Catelyn says and she takes a string of Sansa’s hair between her fingers, ‘He won’t notice and you must not be angry with him for it. It is simply the way of things, you see?’ 

Sansa nods again even though she did not know that, ‘How much will it hurt?’ 

Catelyn presses her lips together firmly before she says, ‘You must try not to cry. Maybe very soon you shall give your husband a son and it will all be worth it.’ 

Sansa begins to greatly dislike this conversation, ‘Will it be messy?’ She asks, ‘Like when my moonblood comes?’ 

‘Maybe. But not as messy, not like that.’ Sansa doesn’t want to go to her marriage bed, it sounds awful, like something she should have been warned about much sooner. Catelyn pulls her fingers through Sansa’s hair, ‘You will be alright, I promise.’ 

‘What..’ Sansa wants to ask what exactly will happen, what will be so messy, what will hurt exactly? And where? But she knows her mother won’t tell her, 'I don't think I understand.' 

‘He’ll know what to do, don’t you worry about that.’ Catelyn says, maybe she guesses what Sansa wants to ask, ‘Perhaps he has done it before.’

What has he done before? Sansa wants to know and she really doesn’t at the same time. 

Catelyn kisses the top of Sansa’s head, ‘I am so very proud of you, my lovely girl, you looked beautiful today.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Sansa says, her voice shaky and as hoarse as the voice of princess Rhaenys. 

Catelyn stands up and moves to the door, ‘Don’t think about it too much, it will all be fine eventually.’ She smiles reassuringly and Sansa tries to return it. 

Eventually? When will that be?

‘Good night.’ Catelyn says before she turns and leaves Sansa alone with all her fear and agony. 

Sansa brings her knees up to her chin and closes her eyes. She can feel a headache creep in as she rocks herself back and forth, hugging her legs. 

How is this happening to her? What has she ever done to deserve this? It is all so awfully unfair. She never asked for any of this. She has always been a good daughter, has never given her parents any reason for worry, not like Arya, or Bran with his climbing. She can feel the tears well up in her eyes once again, the feeling has become far too familiar lately. She does not want to get married, she does not want to go to her marriage bed, she does not want to feel pain and forgive him for doing that to her. 

She is not sure if she'll ever be able to forgive him for all the rest he is doing to her either. she hates it that he looks at her as if he feels sorry for her, like he knows. He doesn't know, he can't possibly understand and she doesn't want him to pity her. She wants to hate him, curse him like she has been doing for weeks now, but as she lays her head down on her pillow and feels sleep take over she knows she can't. Not anymore. 

It was easy to hate Jon Snow when he was a ten and two years old boy from her vague memories who seemed to be the sole reason for all her dreams to come crushing down on her. 

It is impossible to hate a nine and ten years old grown-up Jon Snow, especially when he looks at her with his kind eyes, a shy and timid smile on his handsome face looking at her apologetically because he _knows_. 

He knows she does not want him, he knows that marrying him feels like the greatest disappointment of her life. She knows that he knows and somehow that makes her feel a little bit guilty. 

**Jon**

Jon wants to pretend he never left and at this feast it feels like he can. 

Arya throws herself in his arms and while doing so she asks him, in his ear so no one else can hear her, ‘Jon, where is the imp?’ He just laughs and ruffles her hair. 

Bran introduces him to Rickon, ‘This is our cousin, Jon, he used to live with us before you came, and now he is back. Father says you are going to stay forever, is it true?’ 

‘I don’t know about forever,’ Jon says, ‘but for the time being, I suppose.’ 

He can’t stop beaming, his jaw will be sore at the end of the day if this will last much longer, he knows that Cersei is carefully keeping an eye on him, Rhaenys too, but it doesn't bother him, they can't bother him, not now, not here. 

‘How long have you been riding actually?’ Robb asks. 

‘Since sunrise, we wanted to make sure we would arrive in the afternoon.’ He says, ‘We left King’s Landing a moon's turn ago.’ 

‘You’ve been riding for a moon's turn?’ Arya looks up at him, she has grown since he last saw her, naturally, but she is not tall, her face is long and her eyes are grey, just like his. She is clearly not a natural beauty, but Jon finds her pretty, and her character seems to not have changed one bit. She always used to be so bubbly and bold, he remembers how lady Stark once said that you should never deny Arya anything because it will immediately become her heart’s desire. 

‘Yes.’ He says, ‘It was not that bad really, could’ve been much worse, we reached the Neck sooner than they expected.’ Jon drinks more wine than he usually allows himself while Robb keeps talking and the combination gives Jon no opportunity to think, which is exactly what he wants. 

Robb tells him about things they can do, things they are going to do, things that have happened. Arya keeps asking him questions. Where is Ser Jaime? Where is Rhaenys? Is that the hound? Did it hurt to ride for a moon's turn? Where did you sleep? In taverns or just outside? He tries to answer them all. 

When Arya, Bran and Rickon are forced to go to bed Theon starts telling them a story that ends with a woman he claims came from the Westerlands. Jon knows what they say about the Ironborn, in King’s landing they say they lay with children before bedtime. He never actually believed that story but it suddenly became a lot more likely to him now, no matter how much of an idiot Theon seems. 

He remembers never liking him. Theon has been raised among the Starks as Jon was, despite not being their family. He ate with them, played with them and fought with them. When the time came for Jon to leave, Theon was allowed to stay. Jon was their cousin, half a Stark, yet still had to go. Even after all these years it still makes Jon feel jealous. 

Jon’s glad Theon waited with the story until after the children left for their beds, especially with Arya asking so many questions. Robb laughs and Jon shakes his head when he can see a girl with mousy brown hair stare at him. 

He doesn't realize in what direction he’s looking when two blue eyes find his. He loses track of Theon’s story and decides that he should definitely smile at her, because why not. 

She doesn't smile back, he probably would not have either if he'd been her, but the freezing cold on her face has melted and now she looks a little uncertain instead. 

Seven hells she’s really pretty. How can she be so pretty? He’s not used to getting pretty things, it is not exactly the way of things, good things are never meant for him. A mistake must've been made, maybe a miscommunication or a misunderstanding. His father never makes a mistake and if anyone knows that it's Jon. 

She is prettier than Myrcella, more beautiful than Rhaenys too, he’s confident that with the right demeanor she’ll make Cersei look ordinary. He thanks their seven gods and his own that she won't have to marry Aegon, it would have definitely been a waste. Aegon would’ve made her miserable, as miserable as he is himself, he would’ve preferred her that way. 

She gets up from her chair and Jon can't see where she goes to because he freezes when someone slaps him on his shoulder. 

‘Uncle Benjen!’ Robb hugs the man in black and Jon follows his example. 

‘What happened to you? Where is my little nephew? I want him back he was much prettier.’ 

Jon grins as his uncle joins them at their table, ‘They did not tell me you’d be here!’ 

‘Of course!’ Benjen ruffles Robb’s hair as if he is still a child, ‘I wouldn't want to miss my nephew and niece tying the knot. I looked forward to Robb's wedding for so long, you can’t imagine my disappointment when I found out it got cancelled.’ 

Robb shrugs, ‘I am in no rush, Jon is older than me.’ 

‘Aye, but cousin Jon is a bastard and they usually don't get married, so it’s not a very good comparison to make.’ 

‘I'll leave it to Sansa to make up for my failures.’ Robb laughs. 

Ben Stark slams Jon on his shoulder for the second time, ‘I have new disappointments now.’ He says, ‘The Night's Watch could have used a man like you.’ 

‘What?’ Robb looks at Jon in confusion. 

Jon stares at his plate, his dream of joining the knights in black was never allowed to become anything more than one of his hopes to leave King’s Landing. ‘I'm afraid that won't happen now.’ 

Uncle Benjen just laughs, gets up again and walks over to Ned, 'Don't get drunk!'

‘The Night’s Watch?’ Robb asks him when their uncle can no longer hear them. 

Jon shrugs, ‘It's like he said, bastards usually don't get married.’ 

‘You could have had a few bastards of your own.’ 

‘I'll never father bastards.’ Jon says and he clenches his teeth when he tries to keep his voice down, ‘Never.’ 

‘I think I will.’ Theon suddenly says and Robb grins in amusement, ‘Why wouldn't you join the King's Guard? You have the connections.’ 

‘Do I?’ Jon stops himself from rolling his eyes. 

‘The princess Myrcella seems to be quite smitten with you.’ Theon tells Robb, ‘Perhaps you can marry her.’ 

‘Marry her yourself.’ Robb shakes his head, ‘I think the Targaryens will have seen enough of the Starks for a long time after this week.’ 

‘Let’s hope so.’ Jon says and Robb laughs again before he remembers to inform him of his sleeping conditions. 

‘You are in your old room, did you know that?’ 

Jon nods. 

‘We thought about giving you one of the rooms in the guesthouse like the rest of your family but mother thought it made no sense, you are not a guest and you’re only going to sleep there for a week anyway.’ 

‘A week?’ 

Robb and Theon both laugh this time, ‘Sansa’s not going to sleep in there, she’s accustomed to her accommodations as they are right now,’ Robb takes a sip from his wine, ‘More space, that is.’ 

‘It’s fine.’ Jon says, suddenly no longer capable of looking at him, ‘It’s perfect, I don’t need another room.’

He doesn't notice Theon leaving until he is already gone. Robb leans behind in his chair with his arms crossed, ‘Are you happy to be back?’ 

‘Look at them. My brothers, the queen.’ Robb doesn’t look, ‘I can't wait until I'll never have to see them again.’ 

Robb doesn’t ask more questions, he looks like he may understand, like he gets what Jon is trying to tell him. Neither of them ever used to be good at talking, they are still comfortable in their silence, not everything needs to be said aloud. When they were boys they could communicate without opening their mouths and it seems like some things never change. 

Then Robb smirks, ‘When father leaves I’ll be lord of Winterfell, he told me you are going to help me. When you marry Sansa, you’ll be my brother-in-law, you’ll be my kin.’

Jon nods, ‘I’ll be your brother-in-law.’ 

Just like that their silent bubble bursts and Robb continues his rambling, ‘Father says we can go on a hunt, before the wedding, I mean. It has already been arranged. We can spar together like we used to, in the courtyard. We are teaching Bran to work with a bow and arrow, me and Theon, he’s not much good now but he’s only twelve so he may get better. The weather has been good to us, father says winter is coming but it has been a while since we saw snow. It's perfect for the hunt, you will love the hunt! I saw your horse, he’ll do well. Or maybe you are tired? You must be tired, you said you’ve been riding since the sun came up.’ 

‘No,’ Jon says, ‘I’m not tired.’ His back hurts though, his hands too, thanks to the steers, but the pain is worth it. He wouldn’t have wanted to be on the road with Aegon at one side and Joffrey at the other for one more single day. 

‘You’ll get married on Sansa’s nameday because mother insisted.’ Robb suddenly says, ‘She thinks Sansa’s too young, she wanted to wait ‘til she was eighteen.’ 

Jon doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t want to talk about Sansa, not with Robb, not when she is sitting just at the other side of the hall. Except she isn't, not anymore. He can't find her in the hall, she left, and so did her mother. ‘Where is she now?’ he doesn't really know why he asks.

‘Sansa?’ Robb shrugs, ‘I don’t know, probably in her room, brushing her hair.’ 

‘Brushing her hair?’

‘Well, you know what girls are like.’ 

Jon doesn’t really know what girls are like. In King’s Landing, they used to stay away from him, or really, they used to drool too much over Aegon to ever notice his presence. 

‘Sansa thinks her life is like the songs.’ 

Jon looks away from Robb’s face to his hands in his lap. He remembers Sansa’s songs, he remembers she knew them all by heart, she was good at singing them, they were about knights, princes, princesses and noble ladies in castles. He reminds himself, again, that there are no songs written about bastards. The way she looked at him this afternoon, in the courtyard, when she raised, will haunt him tonight because he knows that her eyes had been bloodshot for a reason. 

‘Sansa is she-‘ He doesn’t know what he is going to ask when he opens his mouth and he doesn’t finish his sentence. 

Robb looks at him expectantly but there is some nervousness in his features as well as if he doesn’t actually want to know. 

‘How is she?’ 

‘You mean what is she like?’

‘She’s not happy about this at all, is she?’ 

Robb looks at him apologetically but says nothing. 

‘It’s fine.’ Jon says, ‘I don't know why this is happening either. It’s fine, I don’t mind, I’m used to it.’ 

‘Used to what?’ Robb asks. 

‘I don’t know.’ Jon gets up, ‘I think I'll go to bed.’ 

‘What are you used to?’ Robb insists. 

Jon wants to say _being unwanted_ but he doesn’t because it will sound sad and he doesn’t want to make it seem like he pities himself, so instead he says, ‘Not being exactly what people want me to be.’ 

Robb gets up too, ‘Well that is a good thing because I don't think Sansa ever wants what is best for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched the arrival of King Robert season 1 episode 1 on yt while writing this chapter and one comment said Cersei always looks like she swallowed a lemon, I kinda stole the comment.


	4. The White Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned was right when he said Jon will be an excellent husband. He might be a bastard but somehow there is more honour and duty in him than in all his other siblings combined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reviewing and everything, it really means a lot!

**Sansa**

She can hardly remember what Jon Snow once looked like. It is like a twelve-year-old child left and a complete stranger returned and took his place. She knows he looks just like his mother now because everyone makes comments about it. 

Sansa never knew Jon’s mother, just her statue in the crypt, but Lyanna Stark must’ve looked a lot like her brother because Jon can easily pass by as one of Ned Stark’s own. 

Jon never knew his mother either. Lady Lyanna died of childbed fever, not long after giving birth to him. Everybody knows that. They say Sansa's aunt died in a pool of blood. 

It is a sad story, the story of Prince Rhaegar and his lady Lyanna, sad and tragically romantic. Sansa knows there are songs about them, sometimes she hears one, but her father never allows any of these during feasts. 

Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell, she loved him dearly and he cared for her deeply, but his heart belonged to another. 

Lyanna’s family was furious when she ran off with the prince, all the way to Dorne. Her eldest brother, Brandon, went south, to King’s Landing, to demand her back, but he was thrown in one of the black cells by the mad king's demand. 

When Lyanna’s father asked for his son to be released, both of them were burned, by prince Rhaegar’s father, in the throne room of the red keep, while all the court did nothing but watch. 

Lyanna’s betrothed, Robert Baratheon, declared war on the Targaryens and marched to the Crownlands, expecting the support of the Starks. 

But instead of joining his friend and childhood companion in battle, Eddard Stark, Sansa’s own father, the new lord of Winterfell, travelled south, where he found Lyanna, pregnant with prince Rhaegar’s child.

Ned brought his sister home to Winterfell where, the same day Rhaegar Targaryen killed Robert Baratheon, a son was born.

The mad king wanted to set the capital on fire but he was stabbed and killed by the kingslayer. When Rhaegar was crowned and his Martell wife died during the night, killed by Baratheon rebels, he did not punish the Lannister family for their murder but married a lion instead to secure their loyalty, one so fair every knight dedicated poems to her. 

But Rhaegar never forgot his lady Lyanna and now, bound by blood, there is peace between the North and the crown once more.

When Rhaegar asked what should become of his bastard son lord Stark told him:

_His name is Jon, and he will be a Snow, a son of the North, born at Winterfell. My blood runs through his veins, he is my sister’s boy and I will raise him as my own._

Lord Stark kept his word, and raised him as his own and among his own. A dragon among wolves who became a wolf among lions when his king father, years later, demanded to have his son returned to him. 

Jon Snow is a bastard and made no claim to the throne, but he is the only son of the king who was ever born from a true and tragic love and as Sansa watches him from a distance, she wonders if this is why he seems so sad.

Septa Mordane helps her embroider her wedding dress. The Queen gifts her silks from the south as a wedding gift and they are the most beautiful silks Sansa has ever seen. 

Septa Mordane suggests they might embroider it with the Targaryen house sigil but Sansa refuses. ‘Snow,’ She says, ‘He is not a Targaryen, he is a Snow. I shall embroider it with snowflakes.’ 

She does not mean it as an insult, somehow, she knows her future husband won’t take it as one. She likes the snowflakes and she knows they are far more beautiful than embroidered dragons could ever be and they will look so very lovely in combination with her Stark cloak.

The silks are a soft blue, light grey and white, they slid through her hands and they remind her of Lady’s coat. Lady is grey and white and so sweet and gentle, she knows Lady will protect her everywhere and always, no matter from whom, Lady will protect her from Jon Snow too, if need be. 

Her mother told her not to worry, but it is all she does in the days leading up to her wedding, so much her fingers sometimes tremble too much to embroider anything decent at all. She tries her very best to avoid all contact with her future husband, but sometimes she fails terribly. 

If there is one thing she learns about Jon Snow it is that he broods a lot, and he rarely ever smiles. Sansa thinks that when he smiles, the look of it is a treat. He has smiled at her multiple times now, and it makes her belly do funny things, it makes her nervous most of all. 

She catches his eye or he catches hers and he smiles, sometimes she even smiles back. He never comes to her to speak and she never goes to him either, but she sees him every day.

She catches pieces of conversations he has with his father, one of his brothers, Rhaenys, his uncle and Robb. His voice has changed drastically in six years’ time, but that is normal of course, so has Robb’s. Jon Snow’s voice is as pleasant as his sister’s, very hoarse and soft at the same time, husky, like their father’s. 

When she sees her lord father ruffle Jon’s hair she wonders how someone’s hair can look so messy and so suitable at the same time. 

Her mother has been kind to him, unsurprisingly so. She wasn’t happy at first, Sansa knows that, but now she seems to have accepted and embraced the situation. She looks warmly at Jon, squeezes his shoulder when he greets her.

Sansa and Jon exchange words, just simple and polite necessities. Only once they have an actual conversation when no one else can hear them, in the morning, in the great hall. Before she goes to break her fast, Sansa looks for Lady and finds the albino wolf that is his. 

‘He is beautiful.’ Sansa says, she is just taken with the wolf, he is perfectly white and his eyes are astonishing. 

‘I know.’ Jon answers, ‘He is growing so fast.’

‘You did not see them when they came here,’ Sansa tells him, ‘They were very small. I could lift them up and hold them.’ 

She looks up from the wolf and finds him watching her intently, immediately she turns her eyes down, hoping her face will not heat up. He has looked at her that way before and she does not know if she likes it or dislikes it, it is all terribly confusing. 

‘Have you given him a name?’ Sansa asks, still avoiding his gaze, bowing down to stroke the white fur.

‘Ghost.’ Jon says, ‘Because he is white and he never makes a sound.’ 

Sansa smiles a little at that, it is a lovely name, a good name, for a lovely wolf. She leaves immediately when Robb walks in and she tries her best not to look back.

That same day she watches Jon and Robb sparring in the training yield from the covered bridge, overlooking the courtyard. 

The master at arms keeps his eye on a heavily-padded Bran fighting Prince Tommen and it makes Jon laugh. Jon helps Tommen up when he falls flat on his face and wipes the dirt from his cheek and somehow it looks endearing to Sansa. When Tommen falls again Jon pulls him up once more and this time ruffles his hair like Ned ruffled his and Tommen says something that makes him laugh again. She understands why it all makes him laugh, it looks rather ridiculous. 

Jon Snow does not look ridiculous when he fights Sansa’s brother. She has held her father's longsword once, they are terribly heavy, she does not understand how he manages to lift it up so easily. 

Then Sansa wonders how he can even be down in the yard. Septa Mordane taught her a bastard is not allowed to damage princes, only trueborn swords can do that. Of course, Robb is not a prince and if either of the two might be one it would be Jon, his father is the king.

‘Jon said Joffrey looks like a girl.’ Arya tells her and Sansa rolls her eyes, ‘He also said I could never fight properly because I can’t lift a longsword.’

‘Well, he is right.’ 

‘If you could just talk to him as much as you stare at him you might actually like him.’

Sansa reddens at the comment, ‘Shut up Arya, you don’t know a thing about it!’

Arya doesn't have to marry Jon Snow, Arya doesn't have to marry anyone, she has no right to tell Sansa what to do, she can’t possibly understand. 

Arya starts to wonder what sigil Jon may use adding how it will be Sansa’s sigil too, ‘He said ladies get all the sigils and no fighting while bastards get all the fighting and no sigils.’ this time Sansa reddens out of anger, ‘Joffrey wears both the lion and the three-headed-dragon.’ Arya points out, ‘Why would he?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t care, what does it matter? Could you shut up about sigils?’

‘I’m glad we don’t wear both out sigils,’ Arya goes on, ‘A wolf with a trout in his mouth will look ridiculous.’

‘You look ridiculous.’ Sansa declares, ‘Did you even attempt to brush your hair this morning?’

Arya looks hurt at the comment, ‘Yes!’ She says, she wants to clearly say something else but she doesn’t, instead just angrily storms off and her direwolf follows her. 

Down below Bran knocks down Prince Tommen and Sir Rodrick calls Joffrey and Robb for a fight.

Joffrey is acting as if it is beneath his dignity to fight Starks with practice swords. 

Jon laughs at him, says something rude and it surprises Sansa, how he does it so easily. 

Jon may be some years older and taller and a son of the king too, but compared to his other siblings he tends to tell Joffrey the truth a bit too often, she fears.

Joffrey is angered now and makes a few condescending remarks but when Ser Rodrick Cassel says there won’t be any more real sword fighting he feigns a yawn and leaves with Tommen.

It turns out this is exactly what Jon intended to happen when he happily declares he’s glad to be ‘finally rid of that little shit.’ 

Sansa frowns at his choice of words and realizes he probably does not know she’s watching them because she has never heard him use words like these before, they surely must teach him at court how to behave in front of ladies. 

She can’t make herself walk away while she watches Jon and Robb, they look like they have so much fun, like they enjoy each other’s company, as if they have never been apart. She remembers them looking just the same, in this exact yard, six years ago. 

Not exactly the same though. Rob’s hair used to be less auburn back then, they were not this tall, they did not swear and their swords were smaller, less heavy and made of wood, like Bran’s is now. Jon had Bran's age when he left.

He looks like such a Northerner, Sansa realizes. He looks strong and healthy, not arrogant at all, not like his brothers. His cheeks are red and when he is with Robb in the yard, as he is now, he grins a lot. But really, he often looks unhappy, very often. Especially when he is around his father, or his brothers, Sansa knows he doesn’t like Joffrey because he is vocal about that, but he doesn’t seem fond of Aegon either. 

She remembers how she cried and begged when they told her she had to marry him. It makes her feel bad when she remembers. She has not screamed or begged ever since the royal family arrived. It seems so awful now, the way she behaved, as if her whole life was ending. As if she was marrying the butcher’s son.

She is not marrying the butcher’s son. Jon Snow may be a bastard, but he is the king’s bastard. He does not have the perfect posture and supercilious elegance of his two older siblings, but he has the attitude of a king’s son nonetheless. 

He may be nice to her now, but Sansa does wonder if he’ll still be, when he finds out what she is like. He obviously enjoys Arya’s company. Sansa is nothing like Arya, not in a thousand years she will be. What if he’ll find her boring? She can't have her husband, of all people, like Arya more than he likes her. That seems like the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

The things her mother said go through her head constantly during the last day and night of her sixteenth year. 

Her mother spoke of pain, much pain, like when her moonblood comes but different- worse. It frightens her even though her mother said it shouldn’t. 

Her mother said he will hurt her without noticing and she doesn’t understand. How can you hurt someone and not notice? 

That sounds cruel. Jon Snow doesn’t seem cruel. She doesn’t want him to hurt her, she knows her mother told her to forgive him but that does not take away her fear, least of all it does not help her dread. 

She can't sleep a wink the night before, no matter how hard she tries and her eyes are wide open as she stares at the canopy. In the corner of her eyes she can see the white silk of her wedding dress, it looks amazing lying there, bathed in moonlight. 

She lets her hand rest on her belly.

_A man has to touch a woman to put a child in her belly._

Touch her how? Her mother said Jon will know what to do, she said he has maybe done it before.

Done what before? Put a child in a woman’s belly? She cannot believe it. She hardly knows him but somehow she cannot imagine that he would do that.

She has wanted to touch his hair, maybe his hand too, the other day, but no man has ever put a child in a woman by letting her touch his hair, she is certain of that.

She wishes she asked some more questions, she knows her mother would have eventually answered them if she pressed on. 

Maybe she should have asked Septa Mordane, but she does not think it's very ladylike to do so and she doesn’t want the Septa to tell her father. It is too late for all that now, anyway. 

It’s too late for anything at all when she can see the sun come up and there is a knock on her door.

They have prepared a scented bath for her. She knows they will rub her skin so hard it may peel off and they will brush her hair aggressively, making her feel like they want her bald. They will help her get in her wedding dress and they will braid her hair. 

When she pulls herself out of her bed to face the unavoidable she flexes all her sore muscles, rubs through her sleepy eyes, swings her long braid over her shoulder, puts her feet on the cold floor and peeks through the window. 

It’s snowing. 

**Catelyn**

Catelyn cries a little, when she helps prepare her daughter. She makes sure Sansa can't see but she can’t help herself.

She is so beautiful and makes Catelyn very proud. Especially the last couple of days have proven to her that her eldest girl is stronger than she lets people believe. 

After crying for a month Sansa strengthened her back, put on her best dress and faced reality with the bravery of a woman grown. Catelyn has seen the king’s please, has heard the queen’s praises and is aware of the way those southroners look at Sansa with admiration. 

It is indeed a shame that Sansa will stay hidden in the North for the time being because she would do well in the capital. 

Catelyn quickly came to terms with the arrangement, much sooner than Sansa, mostly because she is glad about Sansa staying. Ned has allowed her to keep Rickon at Winterfell, because of his age, and Robb will stay too, of course, but Bran and Arya will both follow their father south.

When Ned told her about the king’s request to become his hand, she believed it to be a good idea. Ned intended to refuse but she feared it would insult Rhaegar and bring them all in danger. 

After the letter from her sister Lysa arrived only a day ago she was certain he has to go. She read it apprehensively and immediately burned it after. It was written in their secret language, telling her Jon Arryn was killed by Queen Cersei and her family.

Ned has to become hand of the King, find the truth of these accusations. 

The idea of Ned leaving makes her feel lonely already so she is glad Rickon and Robb can stay, thankful Sansa will too, especially since she does not wholeheartedly agree with Bran going. 

Catelyn loves her children all equally even though some are easier on her than others.

She hoped they may have one more but she knows she has to start giving up on that dream, especially now that Sansa is getting married, and suddenly she feels so old. Perhaps she will even become a grandmother soon.

Sansa seems to have taken their short talk rather well, she has not asked any more questions nor has she seemed afraid. It was Ned who suggested she’d do it after the feast, Catelyn initially wanted to wait until the evening before but Ned pushed her to do it sooner so Sansa could maybe have some time to adjust to the idea.

Catelyn is certain she told her enough, too much may have scared her. She prepared her better than Catelyn herself was ever prepared. She may have purposely made it seem worse than it will be, but Catelyn prefers Sansa to have the absolute lowest of expectations, it is for the best.

When Catelyn woke up the morning of her daughter’s wedding and saw her husband, the first thing that came to her mind was how he has not changed a thing since they themselves were married. 

Jon looks a lot like his mother, he is a little Ned-replica and that used to sting a bit before, when he was little, because all the trueborn children Catelyn gave him look after her. Sansa the most, everybody always comments on it. Seeing Jon and Sansa together is like a step back in time and it makes her long for her youth again. 

She has not seen them together often, however, she is certain they are, at this moment at least, pleased with the look of each other.

Jon can’t stop staring at Sansa while Sansa tries her best to pretend she does not notice but she fails when she believes no one is watching. It is not much but it is a start. 

If the gods are good their characters will match too. Catelyn has been praying to the seven, the mother especially, to give her daughter a happy, secure and faithful marriage. 

Ned was right when he said Jon will be an excellent husband. He might be a bastard but somehow there is more honor and duty in him than in all his other siblings combined. 

She watched Aegon carefully, when he speaks to his family, his father, stepmother and Jon. He is the crown prince and everything Sansa ever wanted, but Sansa never wants what is best for her. 

Sansa seems nervous when she wakes, and tired most of all. She has clearly not slept a moment and Catelyn urges her to press a cold wet cloth to her puffy and red eyes. 

‘My sweet girl have you cried?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Sansa says, and Catelyn believes her, Sansa will never lie to her, ‘I had trouble finding sleep.’

Sansa will find trouble sleeping tonight as well, Catelyn fears and she feels almost sad when she watches everyone ready the bride for her wedding, it reminds her of her own. 

Catelyn too expected her whole life to marry someone else. Catelyn was also disappointed in her eventual husband who turned out to be so different from what she always dreamed of. But Catelyn could not have hoped for any better man and if Ned left anything of himself in the boy during the long time he spend with their family, which he seems to have done, Catelyn has good faith in her daughter’s wellbeing. 

**Jon**

‘Don’t drink during the feast.’ Theon tells Jon, ‘I promise, you’ll regret it. You don’t want her to start crying again, nobody does.’ 

Robb kicks Theon against his shins, ‘If you ever say something like that again with me near I will squeeze your eyes from your skull.’ 

Theon just laughs, ‘Someone has to tell him.’ 

Robb glares while he gets his beard shaven and Jon tries to casually disappear through the wall. It’s the first good advice he receives about this whole thing ever. Except it's not really good, just well-meant. 

‘Crying?’

Jon sees the way Robb warningly glares at Theon who has a look on his face that makes Jon uncomfortable. 

‘Oh well, you know what girls are like.’

Jon wishes people would stop saying that, especially regarding Sansa. He does not know what girls are like and even if he did it wouldn’t help him because they all seem different to him, Sansa is nothing like Arya and she’s nothing like Rhaenys or Myrcella either. 

‘Why was she crying?’ He presses on and when Theon answers he wishes he hadn’t. 

‘Because all Sansa ever wanted was to leave Winterfell, and after today, that won’t happen.’

He already knows that, he knows she loves the south and the queen’s hairstyle and the king’s harp music. Jon isn't his father's fool and he has eyes and ears. He sees the way she looks at Aegon. He hears her speak to everyone else in the world except him.

He knows but it still stings. It would've been nice to live under the impression that he is not a complete disappointment to her. 

In the week since arriving at Winterfell he has been slowly distancing himself from his father and the royal family. He ignores Aegon, is as rude as ever to Joffrey, avoids the queen and lets his father and Rhaenys avoid him. 

It is all on purpose. He doesn’t want to be part of them, he doesn’t need them or anyone else to think he is dreading their leave. Really, in all honesty, he prays he will never have to see any of them again. It is a false hope but he hopes it all the same. 

When he got plucked out of bed this morning by Robb, telling him they were getting a shave and haircut by demand of the Lady Stark, for a moment he did not understand what he was talking about.

‘Why?’ He’d asked. 

Rob and Theon laughed at him, ‘Because it’s Sansa’s nameday, that’s why.’

Jon ignored their laughs while getting dresses and then he saw the sun that had already risen and he could instantly see why it did not wake him up. It had been snowing all night, covering his window, blocking all light.

‘It’s a good sign.’ Robb said when he caught Jon staring, ‘In the North we believe snow brings us good fortune.’ 

Jon just stares at it whenever he can. The snow is beautiful, covers the courtyard and the towers and the queen’s wheelhouse. Everything is white and it looks peaceful. He wonders what Myrcella and Tommen may think, he knows they have both never seen snow before in their whole life.

‘She wants us to look pretty for the King, with his presence, this is the closest thing to a royal wedding in a weirdwood since the King who knelt.’ Robb explains, as if Jon would not know that, as if Rhaenys has not complained about how improper it is for over a month.

‘Maybe she wants us to look pretty for the queen.’ Theon suggests, ‘I have heard stories.’ 

‘Those stories are lies.’ Jon says, not knowing why he would ever defend queen Cersei. 

He’s afraid this man is going to cut his hair and make him look ridiculous. 

Aegon will love that, he always used to say Jon has never met a girl he likes better than his own hair. It was hypocritical of him to say that and it still angers him and makes him frown when the man who has just shaven Robb’s face starts pulling and cutting his hair.

Robb puts his shirt back on and looks outside the door, ‘I think Sansa’s awake, they’re probably drowning her in a bath that smells like Highgarden right now, poor girl.’ 

‘Poor you, you’ll never drown in a bath that smells like Highgarden.’ Theon jokes and despite his nerves and fear, Jon still manages to laugh. 

He succeeds in avoiding all his brothers and sisters for the rest of the day without much effort. The queen and the princesses are helping Sansa lift herself in her dress, or so Robb tells him, and as for his brothers- they are either still in bed or moping in their rooms. Jon never has much trouble avoiding his father, he expected no difference on his wedding day. 

The second and last advice Jon gets comes from his uncle Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister is as much Jon’s uncle as he is tall but he has always truly been Jon’s favorite family member in King’s Landing. Tyrion always insists Jon calls him uncle, ‘You know how much I love my family.’ 

Everyone knows how much Tyrion loves his family, as much as his family loves him, naturally. Not at all, that is. 

They have always both been the outsiders in their own way. Tyrion is the imp, Jon the bastard. They are complete opposites in every way possible and yet very much the same.

Jon will never forget what Tyrion told him at their first meeting. 

_Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you._

Back then Jon thought Tyrion was a drunken idiot, but he isn't, he really isn't. 

The advice he gives Jon this early morning, is nothing like that first advice he gave him six years ago and everything like all the advices he has given since, ‘Whatever you do boy, don’t fall asleep before she does.’ He says and with a major grin he winks. 

Jon has a terrible headache all day and he knows it's because he drank too much wine the night before. Why did he do that? Did he try to drink his anxiety away? He can't even remember. 

His nerves are taking over his entire body now. He can't seem to hear people who talk to him, everything they say, every conversation he has passes by, except for one, when Ned comes to his room, just before the ceremony, and hugs him.

‘Son,’ he says, he always used to call him that and has continued doing so, ‘Take good care of her.’

‘I will.’ Jon breathes and he wants to swear it to him. 

Ned nods, opens his mouth, closes it again, looks down at the floor before he says, ‘Your mother would be proud.’ 

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He doesn't know what to think either, or how he is supposed to respond. No one has mentioned his mother to him in over six years, not someone who knew her, ‘Is this what she would have wanted for me?’ He asks, not because he thinks he should but because he wants to know, ‘To be here?’

Ned places both his hands-on Jon’s shoulders, like he did that time in the courtyard, when they said their goodbyes, ‘You are a Stark.’ He says, ‘You may not have my name but you have my blood and you are a son of the North. You were born here, she wanted you to be raised here and it is only fitting that you shall marry here.’

Jon is not a Stark but his mother was one and now his wife will be too. Winterfell is his home, there is no place he’d rather be.

‘I wish she could see you now.’ Ned goes on and the conversations makes Jon dizzy, ‘I wish she’d lived to know you.’

‘I'm glad I look like her. I'm glad I look nothing like my father.’ Jon admits. 

Ned watches him for a second, as if he wants to object, but instead he says, ‘We should talk about your mother. I’ll tell you about her, I promise.’

Jon nods, ‘I would like that, my lord.’

‘Uncle. I am your uncle.’ 

Rhaenys asked who the septon would be that was going to marry them. But the old gods know no septons or septas. 

There are no priests, no holy texts, no songs of worship. It is passed on from father to son, mother to daughter. There are no houses of prayer and no rituals. None but the voices of the sacred trees when the old gods speak back to worshippers with a sigh of the wind and the rustle of leaves.

Rhaenys cannot understand, she comes from the south, there are no sacred trees in the south and there the old gods have lost all their power long ago. This alone should be reason enough for a Stark never to travel down the neck. 

The sacred trees in the weirwood have faces carved into them and they are often known as heart trees. Those faces were carved in there by the children of the forest and no human ever quite understood their meaning. weirdwoods live forever if they are left undisturbed. 

Jon marries Sansa in front of the heart tree in the godswood at Winterfell. 

The smooth barks on the wide trunks of the trees blend in with the snow and the red, five-pointed leaves of the tree are the color of blood, just like its tears. 

The snow blinds him and he has never before seen such a breathtaking scene as her when she stands there, in the snow, the weirwood bathing in sunlight with the leaves of those trees the same color as her hair. 

The old gods can hear his prayers here, they can speak to him and he can ask them for forgiveness. 

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath when she places her hand in his. It's small, soft, cold and trembling. 

He clasps his fingers around her palm and he tries to warm her skin with his own. He wishes his hand could speak to hers, tell her that it will be alright, that he swears to never hurt her. 

But he can't speak to her, he can do nothing but stand there and watch her. She looks terrified and apprehensive as she avoids to meet his eyes. 

She looks like she is cold too, or perhaps she is simply shaking with anxiety. He wants them to wrap fur around her shoulders, large, warm and protective, but nobody does. 

They let her stand there is her silk gown, white and the lightest shade of blue with some greyish Stark tones. She looks like a princess, he wishes he could make her one. He can't, and the reason for it is on her dress. Silver snowflakes ornament her gown, they are embroidered there, skillfully, as they fall from her shoulders to her waist and become smaller but grow in numbers at her skirts. It seems to fit well, those snowflakes, with the wolves on her cloak. 

Real snow falls in her hair, it emphasizes the auburn color and in the light of the sun that reflects the ice the auburn shines like copper. 

At one point she squeezes his hand, it is only for a short moment, he barely notices, but he knows that he’ll remember her doing that for the rest of his life. 

Her pupils are wide and when he sits next to her, at their wedding feast, he can see the dark circles under her eyes.

She does not speak to him, she does not eat and she refuses every proposal for a dance to the point where Jon knows she is offending people. He thinks of urging her but decides against it. Why force her to dance if she doesn't want to, he sees no point in it and frankly he doesn't think he cares about her offending anyone.

What she does do is drink wine, more than he does, and she does not sip like usually but gulps down one glass after another. He wants to pull them out of her hands because maybe she’ll get sick, but he knows doing that might end up being a mistake. 

He doesn't dance himself either while he successfully pretends to listen to Catelyn, to Robb, Rhaenys, Cersei… their words go by and he can catch them if he wants to but chooses not to. Sansa does not even pretend to listen, she does not nod her head in their direction and the only words that come from her mouth are polite words of gratitude. 

Her voice is hoarse and so very soft, he knows she says ‘thank you, my lord,’ because it is what she is supposed to say, not because he can hear her say it.

Four times a lord stands in front of him and asks, 'Would you allow me to dance with your bride, my lord?'

Four times he frowns and tells the man, 'I do think you ought to ask her, not me.'

Four times Sansa looks up and politely smiles as she says, 'Forgive me, my lord, I wish to finish my baked apples first.'

He really doesn't think she's ever going to finish her baked apples. 

The music is loud and it makes his headache worse, at one point it's all he can think about. People laugh and talk and amuse themselves while he sits there, next to his wife, who has not spoken a single word to him all day despite being no more but a few feet away from the moment he took her hand in his. 

She doesn't smile, she doesn't radiate happiness and she’s not beaming either. She is not gloriously happy and he doesn't mind, because nor is he and he won't have to pretend if she’s not.

He wants to talk to her, he can actually think of things to say to her, he has tried to come up with them these past couple of days, he's confident he came up with some good ones, all on his own, but he keeps his mouth shut. It's because she doesn't seem to want him to speak to her, she clearly prefers him silent and he agrees. He doesn't want to talk, he wants this to be over. 

She eats a small piece of her pie before she shoves it away. He thinks of asking her if she’d like some deer, but he decides against it, she knows where the deer is, she doesn't need him to tell her what's in front of her nose. 

Maybe she thinks he's super dumb, maybe that's why she says nothing, maybe this is what it's going to be like for the rest of their lives together. Polite words and silence. Him feeling miserable and her looking miserable. Him eating just because no one expects him to say anything when he's chewing and her gulping down wine because... he's not sure why she's gulping down wine. Maybe because it makes her lightheaded and keeps her from constantly realizing she just married a landless bastard. 

He doesn't want the rest of his life to be like that, he wants her to like him at least, trust him even, maybe, because he feels he'll have failed her if she won’t and he does not, he cannot fail her. If he fails her he'll betray not only his uncle, but his mother too. For her to like him he should be likable and he truly has no idea how to manage that. He has never cared about people liking him before, he simply accepted that they never would and decided he doesn't give a shit, because it was much easier that way. Now he really gives a shit and that makes him feel vulnerable, and also a little desperate, because how is he going to manage? Is he going to be super nice? He's definitely going to be super nice. Should he try being funny? Rhaenys always says that the least funny people are those who try the hardest. He agrees. She doesn't really look as if she wants to laugh, so maybe he's not going to try to be funny. People always seem to laugh most at what he says when he's being super serious anyway. He doesn't want her to think he's a fool. Maybe she already thinks that, better not make it worse.

He keeps looking at her sideways and he feels rather worried, she looks nothing like her usual self. Her shoulders are hanging forward and her eyes are glossy and somehow seem less blue. She blinks a lot and her eyelids are too heavy for her. She looks as if her head can drop in her food any moment now and he thinks he has never seen a creature look so utterly exhausted. Maybe that's why she doesn't want to dance, because she'll definitely fall asleep halfway across the dance floor. Who would want to fall asleep on the dance floor at their own wedding feast? Certainly not Sansa Stark. He fears that if she does not get up to go to bed now, someone will have to drag her upstairs and he knows that this person might be him and he can't imagine she'll like that very much. 

There is no way there will ever be a bedding ceremony. He’ll strangle the person who dares suggest it. Perhaps he can avoid anything of the sort if he just casually proposes for her to go to her room.

He coughs to waken his voice when he turns around and looks at her. She sits in her chair, huddled and with her cup pressed to her lips.

‘My lady,’ he says and when she lifts her head it is the first time she looks at his face since they spoke their vows, she does not look scared, or angry, just a bit surprised, ‘I think that- perhaps you should retreat to your rooms?’ 

The goblet of wine slips from her fingers and some of the content splashes on the table, in her food. In fear of spilling wine on her white dress she drops the goblet to the table and pulls a cloth to her mouth, covering half her face.

He wants to help her and tries to grab the goblet away from her but it almost seems like he is about to attack her with a knife, the way she ducks away from his hand. 

‘I-I'm sorry, it was-‘ 

‘I dropped it.’ She says, the tablecloth still covering her mouth, ‘leave it- please.’ 

He nods, ‘I did not mean... if you prefer to stay you can- you should stay as long as you like.’ 

He swears that her eyes soften for a second but then she hurriedly looks anywhere but at him again and picks up the empty goblet. 

‘It is just that… You seem rather tired.’ Rather tired is an understatement if there ever was one.

She looks at him like she suspects him guilty of plain murder, ‘Thank you for your concern, my lord.’

‘Jon.’ He says, before he can stop himself. He can't stand the idea of her calling him lord, he is not a lord, ‘I'm Jon.’

She looks at him again and he sees that look she gave him when they first saw each other a week ago, as if she wants to challenge him, ‘I know what your name is, my lord.’ She says and then she stands up from her seat.

Everyone in the great hall seems to look at them when she not only gets up but walks away, leaves the hall and exits her own wedding feast. She does not seem to notice their stares, or she simply ignores them, he’s impressed either way.

Jon feels like he is nailed to his chair and his head heats up when around him he hears the disappointed mutters of those who expected or hoped for that freaking bedding ceremony. 

He catches Robb’s eye, who seems embarrassed. He avoids Joffrey’s because he knows that if he looks at that grinning face for too long the need to break teeth will start to urge. 

It is Rhaenys, of all people, who whispers in his ear, ‘Jon, I think you should retreat as well.’ 

He looks at her and it shocks him to see something close to encouragement in her smile. She hardly ever smiles, never mind at him.

It's her smile that somehow gives him the strength to push his chair back and face something that scares him more than any battle ever could. Not that he has so much experience with battles, but still. 

After freshening up in his own room (the wine Sansa spilled completely ruined part of his breeches) he paces in front of her door for so long he feels like the sun may come up soon. When he places his hand on the door, he prays she didn’t lock it (that would be some terrible start to this new relationship) and fear grips his throat as he takes a first peak in her bedchamber.

There are quite some candles on top of the fireplace that are lit but it's not enough to lighten the whole room. He understands now what Robb meant when he used the word ‘space’.

Jon’s room has one small bed cramped in a corner and that is about it, not much else. This room is five times as big, with a very pretty window that covers almost all of one wall. The room is perfectly square, with the door in one corner. On his right is a large wardrobe, on his left the impressive fireplace and below the window, facing the door, a dressing table with a glass mirror that could challenge the pretty one Myrcella got for her tenth nameday. Through that mirror he can see her.

The bed has a lovely ornamented headboard and is twice as big as his own at Winterfell but half the size of Rhaegar’s bed in the Red Keep. It stands against the wall with one side in the corner and it ends next to the entrance, where Jon is still standing. 

She lays on her back on the perfectly white cotton blankets that are covered with fur almost as white, like it comes from a polar bear, dressed in a likewise colored nightdress. It's the prettiest nightdress he has ever seen, all lacy and everything, though, admittedly, he has not seen so many nightdresses, for all he knows peasant women go to sleep in a dress like this. It moved up a little and one leg is very much uncovered and exposed to his bulging eyes. 

One hand rests on her belly as it moves up and down in the slow, peaceful rhythm of her breathing, indicating that she has been asleep for some time. 

The other hand lays flat under her face which shows no sign of distress, just a peaceful imperturbability. 

Jon hurriedly closes the door behind him because he doesn't want anyone to find him standing like looking like a loon and when it falls shut he can't help but just stand at her footboard, and stare.

Her hair is all loose and spread over her white pillow, surrounding her pretty head like a crown. Her golden eyelashes lay on her rosy cheeks, her lips are parted slightly and every muscle in her body seems to relax as she finally found the sleep she so desperately needed. The sight of her leg makes his heart jump, the clear view of the shape of her upper legs, her hips, her breasts and her skinny arms in the thin, even slightly see-through dress makes him forget how to breath for a second. 

She can't be his wife, the realization has still not sunken in because it is simply impossible. She is too perfect. Far too good for him. 

As he looks at her like that, watching her for what feels like a very inappropriate amount of time he feels his fear grow stronger, and it's a new kind of fear, not one for this day or this night, but for all the days and nights to come. He has never felt responsible for something other than himself in his entire life and frankly he never cared much about that either. What if he is going to be the biggest failure husband in the history of husbands? 

He stands there, patronized, his heart beating in his throat, when she stirs in her sleep. Her eyelashes flutter but she doesn't wake up, she’s as fast asleep as humanly possible and in that moment Jon can't think of anything crueler than waking her up. 

He walks further into the room, trying his best to remain silent. There is a sofa in front of the fireplace he could sleep on. It would definitely be the polite thing to do.

But it's snowing outside and the fire has already gone out and it's pretty damn cold in there even with the hot springs. She’s laying on top of all the sheets and it will be impossible to take one from the bed without waking her. He can only move the top fur but claiming it would mean he’d have to let her sleep there without anything to cover her up with from the cold and he can't do that.

He curses himself and his life and then turns over to her sleeping figure and gently manages to pull the top fur over her thinly clad body, carefully making sure not to touch her. She doesn't stir, not a finger moves. 

Who thought it was a good idea to place this bed in the corner? She lays on the outer side, so he’ll have to practically climb over her to lay down. 

He pulls all his clothes off, makes sure to keep on enough, before he decides to climb over the relatively high footboard instead. He curses himself and his life again, as well as the maker of this bed. 

She’s still in a dreamy place when he lays down, anxiously trying not to move or make the bed creak but he knows it won't matter anyway. She is so deep in her sleep he wouldn't be able to wake her if he started smashing pans close to her head or threw ice water in her face. 

He lays there staring at the canopy and then realizes that this is going to be the first time he spends a whole night laying in the same bed as a woman. Somehow, he thinks he always expected it to be a bit different. 

She is so close he can feel the warmth of her body, if he stretches his hand out he can touch the skin of her arm, stroke it with the tops of his fingers. 

He doesn't do that, he just lays there, his muscles in a freeze, his eyes wide open and his heart desperately trying to break his rib case.

Then he turns his back to her, facing the wall and he decides that this will be alright. He is an early riser. Among the things he found out about Sansa Stark in the last few days is that she is not. He’ll wake up before she does, it seems safe to assume because she looks like she can sleep for days. He’ll wake up, leave this room and face her when they’re properly dressed, well-rested and not under the influence of Dornish wine and unwanted pressures. 

He pulls the fur up to his chin and is relieved to find his eyes grow heavy. He needs this day to be over, and the only way to do that is by falling asleep and when he finally does, the sleep is as soothing and comforting as the sound of her breathing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert- their wedding night is not over yet.


	5. Soap and Grass and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa says nothing but it’s almost as if she’s smiling when she presses her lips together, then she bats her eyelashes and whispers, 'Are you making fun of me?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I actually posted this accidentally last night (on time) but that was kinda the wrong version so whoops. I'm gonna explain why this was late at the end!

**Jon**

When Jon wakes up he thinks it's morning. He sits up and realizes there is no light in the room for his eyes to get used to, only pleasant darkness. The candles on the mantelpiece have gone out and he can hardly see the window on his left, but he hears the storm of a snow wind battle with the glass that separates this room from the icy air. 

He can easily see her, however. Her figure is the darkest thing in the room but as her eyes stare at him he can see their twinkle in the moonlight. 

She is standing next to the bed and when she got out she pulled nearly all the blankets with her, and off him, he suspects it is what woke him up, the sudden cold, and a loud thud on the floor too. 

‘Did you fall out of the bed?’ he doesn't mean to mock her, but it seems like an obvious question.

She pulls the sheets that are clutched in her hands up higher, to her chin, to hide her thin-clad body from his view, he suspects, ‘No.’ she says and her voice is tense and soft, he wonders if her voice is always soft. 

‘Why are you on the floor?’ he feels amused somehow, the way she stands there, with the blankets in her fists, it's a bit endearing. She looks like she wants to pull them over her head and hide.

‘Something dropped.’

He can barely contain a grin, ‘Aye, _you_ did.’

‘ _No_.’ She climbs back in the bed and while she reinstalls the blankets and herself she turns away from him, as far away as she possibly can. Maybe she dropped to the floor because she wanted to get away from him.

‘Did I push you out?’ It seems like a possibility. An awful, extremely embarrassing possibility that might haunt him for the rest of his life.

‘No, I- it was my own fault.’

‘I'm sorry, are you hurt?’

‘I'm fine.’

‘Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?’

‘It's allright.’

He really wants to sleep on the sofa now, ‘I don't mind.’

She shamelessly ignores him.

‘Were you- Were you having a bad dream? Is that why you fell off the bed?’

‘I didn't fall.’

‘What? You just said so.’

‘No, I didn't.’

‘You told me it was your own fault.’ He is getting confused now and it makes him wonder if he's still drunk.

‘No.’

‘Yes you did, you-'

She turns around suddenly, to her back, and faces him, ‘Do you have any proof?’ There is her challenging look again, he can see it clearly now, his eyes have gotten used to the lack of light. 

He grins, why is she funny? He never expected her to be funny, ‘It’s fine, I sometimes fall out of my bed too, you know.’

She doesn’t respond for a second and then she asks, her voice in disbelieve, ‘You do?’

‘No,' He smirks though he doubts she can see that, 'My bed in King's Landing is two times bigger than this one.’

She turns away from him again, perhaps not as amused as he is, and makes him face her back once more.

‘I won't tell anyone, I promise.’

She doesn't say anything and he goes to lie on his back, facing the ceiling while he tries to not listen to her breathing. He ends up doing exactly that, it's rhythmic and soothing. Even in the darkness, without seeing her, he still knows she's there, and somehow that is soothing.

‘Are you hungry? Do you want me to get you some food?’ They have been silent for a while but he knows she's still awake, it's as if he can hear her brain think, he doesn't want to begin to imagine what it is she must be thinking. 

‘No, I'm fine.’

‘Water?’ He urges on, ‘You should drink some water or your head will hurt in the morning, because you drank so much wine.’

‘I did not drink too much wine.’ He rolls his eyes at that, she can't see it anyway. 

'Drinking some water won't hurt.'

'I don't want to drink some water.

This is usually the point where he tells the person he is talking to that –whatever, he doesn't care anyway- but considering he is not talking to someone but to his wife he waits a few seconds and then asks, 'If you don't want me to get you anything, I suppose that means I'll have to starve.’

‘What?’

‘I'm hungry.’

‘You stuffed yourself at the feast.’

‘No I didn't.’

‘Yes you did.’

‘Where is your proof?’

She turns around again and looks at him, her eyes are no longer puffy but they are big and large and beautiful in the moonlight that shines right through the peaks of the snow-covered window of her room.

Sansa says nothing but it’s almost as if she’s smiling when she presses her lips together. Then she bats her eyelashes and whispers, 'Are you making fun of me?'

'No,' He says, and he hopes he doesn’t say it too quickly, 'No I'm… I'm trying to make you laugh.' He is fully aware of how much that sounds like a tragic excuse. 

She doesn't laugh, she doesn't even smile anymore as they end up staring at each other through the darkness. 

'I'm sorry if I was eating too much tonight, I tried to contain myself.’

She smiles again and he feels his heartbeat speed up, ‘Don't apologize. I-I shouldn't have said that, you can eat as much as you like.'

'That is technically true but I won't mind if you could stop me from looking greedy or starving every once in a while. Don't let me humiliate myself.'

She is still smiling and he knows he wants to do everything he can to keep it that way, 'Alright,' she breathes, 'I could stop you from humiliating yourself.' she promises, he can see her eyes flash over his face, 'Are you really hungry?'

'I can wait till morning, don't worry.'

I wasn't.' She says, 'Worried, I mean.'

'Good.' He clears his throat, 'Unless you want me to get you something, of course.'

She giggles and it sounds like a twitter, but much lovelier, it sounds so terribly innocent and it makes him wonder how innocent she is exactly. He suddenly feels the urge to know if she's ever been kissed, 'No.' She says, 'I'm not hungry at all.'

He nods and looks away, at the ceiling again, before closing his eyes. 

He lays like that for a few seconds, in which he can feel and hear her move. It shocks him a little when she suddenly whispers, 'Are you not going to do anything?'

His eyes flash open and he looks sideways, straight into her eyes. When he felt her move he expected her to turn her back on him again, but the opposite is true. Though there is still at least an arm's length of distance between them she has turned towards him, on her side, her eyes watching him in confusion. 

'I'm sorry I fell asleep.' She adds before he can respond.

'D-don't apologize, you seemed really tired.' She looked like she had not slept for three days or more but he can't tell her that, he doesn't want her to know he thinks that, she may find it insulting or something.

She doesn't say anything for a while but looks at him expectantly, then she tells him, 'Mother said you'd know what to do.' It takes too long for him to realize what she means and when he finally does it feels like she slapped him in the face, he’s not very used to people being so verbally straightforward. He wants to turn away, lay down on the sofa, or, preferably, run out of this room and go hide in his own, much smaller, empty and cold bed.

But he can see something else in her eyes, there is fear, loads of it, and he realizes why she turned bright red and scared when he told her she should head to bed, during dinner when her head nearly dropped in her food, her neck barely capable of keeping it upright.

'D-did she?'

Sansa just nods.

He pulls himself upright and sits up straight, 'What else did she tell you?' He's not sure if he wants to know but he feels he needs to know. 

She follows his example quickly, as if the idea of lying down while he sits is utterly wrong, 'Nothing.' She says and that is probably a lie.

'Oh.'

He's not sure what to think when she suddenly says, 'She said you'd know what to do, s-she s-said you may have done it before.'

'It?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'I didn't- she didn't tell me.' Sansa admits and he can see her looking down at her hands, 'I didn't ask.'

'Oh.' He should really stop saying oh.

'She said...' Jon can feel his heart beating in his throat, way too fast, like it wants to escape from his chest and get far away from this hopelessly embarrassing conversation.

'What did she say?'

'I don't think you want to know.' Sansa admits.

That is probably very true. He tries to smile at her, reassuringly but he fears he's only scaring her instead, ‘You don't have to tell me.’

She starts investigating his face with her eyes again and he tries to keep looking at hers, nowhere else, just her face, not down, don't look down.

Sansa decides to tell him anyway, 'She said it will hurt and you won't notice.'

He really does not know how to respond to that, he is desperately trying to think of something when she makes it worse.

'She said I should not be angry with you, because it won't be your fault.'

He wishes there was wine so he could gulp it down, perhaps choke on it. She continues to stare at him and he needs her to stop. He has no idea what else Catelyn told her daughter but it can't be much worse.

'That's erm- Thats not true.' He says.

She doesn't respond and he knows she doesn't believe him, why would she? She looks a little bit upset and he realizes that, to her, he just called her mother a liar.

'Why would she say that if it’s not true?' She asks and Jon remembers what Ned once told him.

_A mad man sees what he sees._

He highly doubts Catelyn is mad but he also knows she would never tell Sansa that if she doesn't think it is the truth.

'I don't know.' He says and she still clearly does not believe him.

Her hair falls over her shoulders, framing her face, it's so red and bright, even in the dark.

His eyes have gotten used to the lack of burning candles and he can clearly see her features now. Even though she carefully keeps her distance he doesn't think he has ever been this close to her; he can see the freckles on her nose.

'Sansa...'

When he looks her in the eye he knows that this is it, it's the first time he will have to prove to the Gods and himself and her most of all that he is not his father, he will do everything he can to wipe that look of fear and distrust from her face.

If only he left to get food.

'Sansa I am never going to hurt you.' 

He's not sure if he prepared his little speech long before, perhaps he has without noticing. 

'I need you to know that because you are my wife, you are my responsibility now. I know that I am not what you hoped for but I promise that you can always count on me and I hope that you will trust me because I'll be a good husband to you, I will. I... I will protect you and I will take care of you.'

He breathes in again and he feels the urge to stroke her cheek with his fingertips. She’s so scared, poor girl. 

'If I or anyone else hurts you, you must tell me and I'll do whatever I can to stop it, I promise.'

She doesn't respond at first but the look of distrust has disappeared at one point and he feels the urge to kiss her face.

'Do you understand?' He presses on.

She looks away, at her hands and though he can't really tell because of the light, he thinks her cheeks may have reddened. Then she nods. 

**Sansa**

When Sansa wakes up she’s lying on her stomach and as she stirs, she doesn't instantly know where she is, even though it's the room she has slept in since as long as she can remember. She turns on her back and stares at the ceiling for a second and then rubs her eyes. There is a sore feeling between her legs and when she touches it, it doesn't help, it only stings some more. Sansa's alone, and it's dead silent. The sun is already up but her windows are covered with snow, blocking all sunlight. 

She stretches her arm out and the rest of the bed is cold, meaning he has been gone for quite some time. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and wonders how she is ever going to contemplate what happened to her the night before. Her whole bed still smells of him, the nightgown she’s wearing too, she’s confident her hair probably smells of him too and she is not so sure how she feels about that.

Sansa rubs her legs together.

He has already broken his promise not to hurt her. It did hurt, but her mother was wrong too, because he noticed. He noticed and he apologized and he told her it was going to be alright. He was trembling from beginning to end.

'Have you ever been kissed before, Sansa?' He asked and she didn’t know what to say. He kissed her then, and it was nice. Nicer than nice, it felt like a promise and it was sweet, warm, wet and soft. Somehow, it was the way she thought it would be, it made her feel the way the songs always told her she would. After that he carefully made her lay down in the bed, all the while telling her he was going to take care of her.

'You looked really pretty today.' He said.

She wanted to say _thank you_ , she wanted to tell him she embroidered her dress with snowflakes, ask him if he minded but her throat seemed swollen and she had trouble breathing never mind speaking.

'You are very beautiful. Everybody tells you, don't they? It's true.'

She had never touched a man's uncovered arms, she liked the feeling of his muscles under her hands, flexing. They felt strong and oddly, they made her feel safe.

'Y-you must tell me when I hurt you or if you want me to stop or- just tell me.'

Yes it hurt, but not as bad as her mother made it seem. It stung but when she gasped he stroked her hair and whispered in her ear. He told her to 'breathe', to 'relax', he told her he was 'so sorry'.

She did not even bleed. Her mother said it was worse than the pain in her belly when her moonblood comes but that was untrue as well. She expected to bleed like when her moonblood comes but there was not one drop of blood. It was incomparable in every way. Every moonturn there is so much blood and it lasts for days. Now there was no blood and it was over much sooner, really soon. 

Sansa remembers how she placed her hands on his shoulders while he pressed his forehead to hers, moving inside her, and the memory makes her feel warm and weird. She did not like it but neither was it as bad as she instantly expected. Oddly, he didn’t seem to like it either, it was as if he was focused and he frowned as if he was in pain himself, though he made no single sound, not apart from the soothing. Sansa whimpered and he rubbed her forehead with his thumb, ‘Sssshhh… I’m s-sorry.’ he said, and though the pain didn’t go away, it still made her feel better. 

Now that she knows she tries to remember what she used to think it is like between a man and a woman when they make children. She realizes she did not expect it to be so _intimate_. She doesn't remember what she expected, not much probably, just more pain and more blood.

She's not sure if she wants to leave this room, ever. She doesn't want to face her mother, Septa Mordane, or Jeyne. She doesn't want to answer their questions. 

He does not smell like salt, he smells of soap and grass and wine, a bit like leather too, though not of horses, thankfully, and his body is warm, just like his breath on her face and in her neck.

His hair is soft too, and perfectly curly. She wants to wrap a curl around her finger, pull on it and find out if it jumps back again when you let go.

When Septa Mordane opens the door Sansa pulls the fur over her head to block the light that flashes in her room. Her head hurts. She should drink some water, she should've done that the night before, like he said.

'It's time to break your fast.' The Septa tells her, 'Look at the sun, you can't keep hiding in here.'

She wasn't hiding, she was dreading. Sansa drags her body out of the bed and allows the woman to help her get dressed. She's much too old for a septa now, she thinks, she is ten and seven years old, she is married, she is a woman. 

Sansa decides to tell her father but remembers that perhaps she should tell Jon.

_You are my responsibility now._

The septa does not ask her how she feels, she does not ask if she slept well or if he was good to her. Maybe she doesn't care, maybe it's not proper to ask. Sansa doesn't know because no one ever told her what this is supposed to be like, what is proper and what is not.

'Are you going to King's Landing?' Sansa asks, 'With Arya?'

The septa only shortly stops tying her in her dress and then answers that, 'Yes, I am coming with your father, brother and sister to the capital.'

In that case she won't have to say anything to either her father or Jon, just wait it out until the woman leaves, 'You must look forward to seeing the Sept of Bailor.'

The comment excites the septa, 'Yes, very much!'

Sansa has to try her best not to roll her eyes. How unfair, Sansa thinks, she is stuck at Winterfell while septa Mordane, of all people, is allowed to go.

When she walks down some stairs the pain between her legs stings and she wonders if it will always be this way. How can women walk stairs without wincing constantly? Sansa hopes that perhaps, it won't hurt as much next time, or maybe she will get used to it.

He is not in the great hall, he probably broke his fast hours ago, maybe he always likes to wake up early? Sansa never wakes up early, she always has trouble getting out of her warm, soft featherbed. 

Maybe he thinks she's lazy? Maybe she should wake up early too, like her husband, be a good lady wife. Maybe he doesn't care and is that why he let her sleep. 

The Queen clearly thinks she's lazy. 

'He tired you out, little dove? To stay in bed so long.'

Sansa turns bright red and Prince Aegon looks at her in a certain way she cannot name but makes her feel extremely uncomfortable all the same. Her father doesn't seem to appreciate the comment much neither, he presses his lips firmly together and shares a look with her mother who hides whatever it is she thinks. 

Robb eyes her weirdly, as if she has something on her face, Arya too and Bran and Rickon both don't really seem to understand what the big deal is all about. Her father is the only one who just smiles at her, squeezes her shoulder and tells her she looks pretty. She wonders how happy he really is about all this, he seems so uncomfortable in the king's presence, but he loves having Jon back, Sansa knows that. Ned has always been so fond of Jon, there was a certain special bond there that she never quite understood. Perhaps it has to do with Jon's mother. Her father never speaks of her but Sansa remembers finding him in front of her statue often, down in the crypts, lightening a candle. 

Sansa avoids her mother’s worried face all day but she can't escape it in the evening.

'Did he hurt you?'

Sansa is not sure what to say, why is she asking when she seemed so convinced? 

She decides to shake her head, if only because her mother worried her and made her afraid of something that was not that bad after all. 

Catelyn looks at her and Sansa spots some disbelieve, 'Did he not touch you? Are you still a maid?'

Sansa blushes, 'H-he did. I'm not a maid he touched- he did.’

Cat watches her and her face softens, 'He was good to you?'

Sansa just nods, and then so does Catelyn, who presses a kiss to the top of her daughter's head and moves to leave.

‘Will it…’ Sansa is not sure if she should ask but she knows that if she wants to ask anyone, it will have to be her mother, and she really needs to know this time, ‘Will it always be sore?’

‘No.’ Catelyn says immediately, ‘It won't.’

‘There was no blood.’ Sansa says and she does not mean to make it sound like she feels betrayed, but she does and she can't help it.

‘That is- that happens sometimes, I think.’

‘Is it wrong?’

‘To not bleed? No, my sweet girl.’ Catelyn says and she pushes Sansa’s hair behind her ear, ‘No it means he was good to you.’

She wants to tell her mother that he noticed, she wants to tell her that he stroked her hair, called her pretty and apologized. 

‘He is very kind.’

‘I’m glad.’

Sansa looks at her own face through the mirror, ‘He said…’

‘What did he say?’

Sansa shakes her head, maybe she does not want her mother to know after all, ‘Nothing much.’

‘They hardly ever do.’

That was not true either. He said so much, he used words but mostly his eyes and his touch to tell her things and the things he told her were lovely and scary at the same time.

Perhaps her mother is the one who does not understand.

When Catelyn leaves Sansa tries her best not to fall asleep again because that would be terribly rude.

He doesn't touch her that night, he gives her some bread with spiced butter instead.

He asks her how her day was, if her head hurt this morning (she lies), asks if she likes the snow, what her favorite thing to eat is, what she likes to read, if she made the dress she is wearing herself (she doesn't tell him it’s not a dress but a robe and nightgown, her answer is simply yes), he tells her it’s pretty and he tells her the royal family is staying for some extra while, because they can’t travel through the snow with the wheelhouse. Then he enthusiastically tells her they can finally go on a hunt in two days, because his father eventually decided to agree, which seems to be a pleasant surprise to him and she tries to be exited for him, at least pretend she is, but Sansa’s not interested in hunting. 

She lets the butter melt on her tongue. She likes it but not as much as she likes lemon cakes, these are sugary and sweet and the queen brought so much of it with her.

He seems nervous, she thinks, because he’s rambling sometimes and he keeps moving his hands. He’s not very smooth-tongued and he only manages to look her in the eye for not much longer than mayhaps ten seconds. Sansa wonders if she should say something, ask him questions, but she can't come up with anything.

When he runs out of telling her how much he looks forward to finally having the opportunity to go hunting on a horse they watch each other in silence. Sansa thinks about asking him if he is 'going to do something' again, but she doesn't, somehow, she fears he’ll think she’s being childish. She doesn't want to call what they did last night 'something'. 

He is so terribly nice to her and it makes her feel like the worst person in the world that she protested so loudly and rudely about having to marry him. She hopes he doesn't know that. The image of a sad look in his eyes makes her feel both nervous and guilty. 

_I know that I'm not what you hoped for._

'Maybe we should sleep.' He says and she is not sure if she is relieved or surprised. 

As she lays on her side of the bed, listening to his moves and his breathing, she wonders how often a man and a woman 'try to make a child'. She never knew that. Her mother had children once every two or three years, with the exception of Rickon, who came quite unexpectedly three years ago… Will they only have to do it that often? Once every other year?

Mayhaps they will only try when the maester says she can have a child, she knows measters do that.

To her father's disappointment the king's departure gets postponed again and again but Sansa is rather pleased with the royal party staying, it means there remains more time for her to enjoy the southron food, music and people.

'Snow!' She hears the king complain to her father, 'Snow in the middle of summer, how?'

Sansa thinks the king knows very little of his own kingdoms when it surprises him that it snows in the North, though he always looks so wise. Rhaegar, first of his name is imposing, stately and grand, the epitome of a king, nothing like his bastard son. 

She and Jon visit the godswood, it's beautiful there when it has been snowing. 

'You look pretty here,' he says, 'With your hair. Just like the leaves, I mean.'

She just smiles and hopes the cold prevails her from blushing. 

He tell her he always kept the faith of the old gods, _the faith of my mother_ , and she decides not to tell him she always used to linger to her own mother’s faith much more because he probably already knows that anyway.

She wants to take his hand when he takes her with him on a walk through the snow and even though she knows he will let her she can't find the courage. At some point that doesn't matter because he grabs hers to help her up a small hill as she struggles with her skirts and he doesn't let go. 

Sansa thinks that maybe she'll get used to not sleeping all alone. There is nothing really scary about it, he just sleeps, like she does. She stares at him when he sleeps, she can look at his face without anyone else noticing, without him looking back at her. He really is handsome, she never expected to think that, not when she first saw him, not when she still wanted that silver-haired prince husband. She won't admit it to anyone, but she'll never have to be embarrassed about his appearance and that makes her feel strangely good. 

He doesn't have to sleep in her room, he has one of his own, apparently, it's very small, but it is his. He continues coming to her though, and because he doesn't touch her, she thinks that maybe he does that to spend time with her, since that is really what it is. They play cards or chess and she eats drapes. She embroiders a bit while he pretends to be impressed. He makes her laugh and she makes him smile. It takes her four days of marriage to fall in love with his smile. He narrows his eyes when he smiles, sometimes he forces it on his face, but Sansa can see it now when he's sincerely smiling. Sometimes he smiles and looks down, or away from her and she wonders why he does that.

During dinner, when she she's seated next to him, and at night when they're sitting on her bed, he tells her stories about King’s Landing. He tells her about all the other places he has been to. Sunspear and the Water Gardens, Oldtown, Casterly Rock and Lannisport, Harrenhall, Riverrun, the Frey Towers, Highgarden and Storm’s End, ‘Everywhere but the Iron Islands, the Eyrie and Winterfell... though we have been to White Harbor.’ He says, his back against the headboard of her bed, ‘Rhaegar always drags us through the Seven Kingdoms because he believes a king needs to be seen to be loved, and a loved king has fewer enemies.’ 

Sansa still needs to get used to her lord husband calling the king ‘Rhaegar’ and she wonders why he never calls him _father_ , but she never finds the nerve to ask, ‘Why didn’t you visit the Eyrie and the Iron Islands?’

He shrugs, ‘Well, Jon Arryn was hand so he lived in the Red Keep and Rhaegar doesn’t like the Ironborn very much. Pyke isn't very suitable for a royal visit.’ He waits a moment and then asks, ‘Did you know the Rock is higher than the wall and the High Tower both? I’ve never seen the wall but Oldtown is amazing, I think you’ll like it better than King’s Landing. The Hightowers are awful though, Rhaenys is friends with lady Hightower, I don't know how or why, they’re the worst.' 

'Do they live _in_ the High Tower?' Sansa asks and she moves a little closer to him on the bed, pulling the blanket higher up to her chin. 

Jon nods and explains with the usual enthusiasm that, 'High Tower is a castle and lighthouse both, and it’s built atop Battle Island, where the Honeywine widens into Whispering Sound. Did you know it was built by Bran the Builder too? It is one of the nine Wonders Made by Man according to Lomas Longstrider. Maybe I’ll bring you there sometime, you’ll love it, I think.’

He's always telling her 'but you probably already know that', or 'You must've heard that before' halfway through his story, and she never denies it, though often, she doesn't already know that. It's like he's holding a map of the world in front of her nose and he's showing her how she never properly looked before. She never believed she'd ever visit these places so she never paid them any attention. Sansa's education was meant to make her a lady, she learned how to dance and sew and play the bells. She speaks no word of Old Valyrian and though she can name all the Targaryen Kings there have ever been, she hasn't memorized the years of their rule and she has no idea who fought what battle exactly and when, where and why. Jon's education sometimes makes her wonder, however, for as far as she can tell, if they tried to shape a king.

Sansa soon finds out that he is a good storyteller. He can tell astounding things as if they are simple and ordinary and her shock or disbelieve amuses him.

’Rhaegar absolutely hates the High Septon, but I suppose all Targaryens hate high septons.' He tells her when they're lying in the bed and she has turned towards him on her side, her head leaning in her hand to hold it up so she can look at him.

Sansa doesn't know why all Targaryens would hate the high septon, she supposes it has something to do with the Faith Militant uprising, but she thought that was about incest, and Rhaegar’s not married to his sister.

'Everyone knows he's corrupt, smallfolk and the highest lords both and everything in between. I don’t even know his name, though I wonder who does, that’s why the records of whoever became High Septon are so awful, they give up their name, but you already know that, of course.'

'No, I don't.' She admits before she can stop herself.

He looks sideways and either hides his surprise or doesn't think she's stupid when he turns to his side as well so he can face her when he explains, 'When they choose a new High Septon it's common practice of septons to give up their family names by renouncing any kind of individual name. They do that because individuals becoming High Septon aren't... they're no longer a man but an avatar of the gods.'

'I thought... I thought they were just... That it was simply their title.'

’It is, and their title becomes their name, they don't even write it down in the history books.' Jon smiles at her and moves his hand to wipe a strand of hair from her face, 'I suppose my sister Rhaenys knows his name, I might ask her one day. My sister Rhaenys knows everything. She’s ridiculously smart, and ridiculously awful too.’

He moves hair behind her ear and the touch of his hand tickles her skin even after he removes it, 'You should ask her.'

'We always just called the High Septon ‘the fat one’, because he is grossly fat, it’s a bit scary. He has been High Septon for many years. We call the one before him ‘the one before the fat one’ and the one before that the ‘stonemeaster’s son one.’

Sansa can't help but giggle, that is rather ridiculous, 'Really?'

He grins, ‘He wears the most ridiculous crown, made of crystal and gold.’

‘Is there anything you haven’t seen that you want to go to?’ She asks him, that question has the longest answer and she loves it.

‘I’ve never been to the free cities, I always wanted to go there. I’ve met a Dothraki Khal when I was in Dorne, that’s a horse lord, like a warrior of sorts. You've heard of the Dothraki, haven't you?' Sansa nods, she has heard of them, yes, but that would be it, 'Tradesmen always visit the capital, they tell the most amazing stories. I’ve seen pictures of the Long Bridge of Volantis, the longest bridge in the world, you can buy everything on that bridge, monkeys and spices, jewelry… even slaves- Rhaegar hates slavery, he’s always banishing men who have illegally committed the crime and he never grands them mercy. Did you know slaves in Volantis have tattoos decorating their faces, depending on what sort of slave they are? It’s monstrous… Oh, and I really want to see the Titan of Braavos, and the triple walls of Qarth. the Five Forts is a massive fortress along the northeastern boundaries of the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, I’ll show you all the pictures one day, I promise. Rhaegar actually visited the Palace with a Thousand Rooms in Sarnath, but it’s now in ruins after the city was destroyed by the Dothraki- I don’t think the king minds ruins much, he still visits Summerhall all the time. I hate Summerhall, everyone died there, except for Rhaegar of course, he was _born_ that night. I don’t understand why he doesn’t rebuilt it when he loves it so much, I suppose he doesn’t want to waste the money. Some say Aerys set it on fire, everyone knows how obsessed he was with flames, but it’s not true- they were trying to hatch eggs. The Gods know why anyone would want to hatch freaking dragon eggs.’ 

He tells her about ser Barristan Selmy, about feasts in the great keep, about the dragon skulls in the throne room, tourneys with knights from all over Westeros, the bodies of his ancestors in the Sept of Bailor, Cobbler's Square, Guildhall of the Alchemists, Maegor's Holdfast and the Tower of the Hand and the seven gates of the capital.

Sansa watches him talk, as he sits on her bed, his doublet loose, and his hair a little messy, and though she loves listening to him, she notices how she sometimes drifts off and she’ll end up staring at him, at his enthusiasm and his dark grey eyes and his sweet smile. He has such a sweet smile. He has been to all these places, and though he keeps telling her he’ll bring her there someday, she wonders if she’ll ever see any of it. Sansa has never been more than a mile from Winterfell, and Jon can’t stop talking about how much he’d love to see the Isles of the Gods in Braavos, he can’t stop chattering about things she’s never heard of before. Temple of the Moonsingers? the Sealord's Palace? Ragman's Harbor? Sansa hasn’t even been to White Harbor, she doesn’t even know all the names of the free cities of Essos by heart, she never fantasized of going there ever, all she ever wanted to see was King’s Landing, and if any place doesn’t excite Jon, it’s King’s Landing. He must think she’s so naïve, unschooled and unworldly. 

One time during supper, when he sits next to her at the high table, she asks, 'Have you ever been to Dragonstone?'

'No,' he shakes his head, 'My aunt and uncle live there, my father doesn't want prince Viserys to live in King's Landing.'

'Why not?'

He bites his lip and moves over to her so only she can hear him when he says, 'I suppose it's because he doesn't like him very much.'

'He doesn't?'

'Nobody does, really.' He says with a grin on his handsome face and then adds, serious now, 'My sister Rhaenys says Viserys reminds the king of his father.'

'Isn't your brother Aegon supposed to live at Dragonstone?'

He takes a sip from his wine and clearly needs to take a moment to think before he answers, 'Well, I think my father likes to keep an eye on Aegon.'

'Does he?'

He smiles, looking at her through his eyelashes, her many questions don't seem to annoy him but it does take him some time to respond, as if he believes he needs to think carefully before saying anything, 'It's a long story.'

'You can tell me.' She says and he nods. 

'I know. I will, one day.'

'One day?'

'When he is not here.' He decides and he nods in Aegon's direction. Then she bites her lip and looks away, right into the watchful eyes of the queen.

Sansa smiles politely at her but she does not return it. Sansa looks at Jon but he doesn't seem to notice and his focus has already returned to his food.

After nine days of being married, Sansa has long forgotten the odd look on the queen’s face when she finds out that husbands and wives try to make a child more often than just when the maester tells them to.

He is just as careful but it's different now, it doesn't hurt as much, just a little bit in the beginning but after that not anymore. She closes her eyes as she feels him move inside her and she decides that this is somehow not so bad.

When they have been married two weeks and six days she decides that maybe, she even likes it. She likes the weight of him on top of her and to move her hands over his arms- she just really likes his arms, and his hands. She likes the way he says her name, she likes how he keeps himself upright with his lower arm above her head so he can gently stroke her hair with his hand, his thumb on her forehead. She also likes how his other hand moves over her side, where it clutches the fabric of her nightgown. She likes the anticipation she feels when he carefully pushes her legs apart. She tries to lay still, even when she feels the urge to arch her back or move her legs, lift them up maybe. Sometimes she clutches the sheets beneath her in her hands or she bites her lip.

What she likes most is the way he kisses her, because it's everything she hoped kissing would be like. She kisses him back and the way he moans in her mouth makes her fingers in his hair tremble, she pulls on his hair the way she daydreamed of doing and he doesn't seem to mind.

He is very good at kissing her. She can't imagine that every man can kiss like that. His lips are both bruising and soft and they taste of wine. He tucks on her lips and dips his tongue in her mouth and it’s warm and makes her hold his face between her hands and she likes the way his cheeks feel with the stubble, not at all like her own skin. She presses her own lips to his and he sucks on them and Sansa thinks that no song could ever describe what kissing him makes her feel. Her heart won’t stop beating against her chest, she constantly feels it.

He grins at her, rubs his nose against hers and she smiles, giggles too because he makes her laugh, he tries his best to.

Apart from that day after their wedding, he hardly ever spends time with her during the day, he never has the time and it's weird to catch glimpses of him and know he is the same person as the one who is with her when they are alone. He doesn't ignore her, nothing like that, and she doesn't believe he would ever avoid her, but sometimes it feels like he slightly does and she wishes she knew why because when they are alone he makes her feel like he enjoys her company. 

Sansa would never admit it but she likes the attention, she likes the way he looks at her, the way he listens, the way he is interested, she likes how much he cares, nobody has ever cared enough to ask for her opinion, to ask her so many questions. 

He cares about her wellbeing, opens the window of her bedroom when she tells him to, he cares about hurting her, even though she keeps assuring him he doesn't anymore, he cares about stealing her sheets, he does that a lot while he sleeps, and he cares about her day, he always asks. He cares about her feelings too, he doesn't say that but she knows. Sometimes he even asks her what she thinks, he wonders about her opinion on small and meaningless things. But it's not meaningless to her. No one has ever done that before.

During the day she can't get much of his time, he's always doing things, talking to people, to her father or Robb or anyone. Most of the time she doesn't even know where he is. But at night he is all hers and she likes it. At one point she starts looking forward to it.

She likes talking to him because he seems to listen to her and she is not very used to that. He tells her things she never expected her husband to share with her. Things she is sure her father might not want her to know. After they finish and he pulls her against him and she asks him questions he'll always try to answer. She listens to him talking. He wraps those arms of his around her and she can feel his heartbeat as she lays against him, and she likes it. It's like cuddling but different, it's better. She listens to his voice until she falls asleep, fingers entangled with his, her back to his chest. 

He hardly speaks of his family and never about his father in particular. When she eventually bottles up the nerve to ask him he explains that he does not really know his father very well. It seems hard to believe. How can someone not know their own father?

'I don't think he likes me very much.'

She wants to ask why he believes that but he looks sad when he says it, so she decides not to, she doesn't like to see him sad.

He does tell her to stay away from the queen, he says it’s better that way, but he doesn't really explain why. She doesn't understand. Yes, Cersei is arrogant and her Lord father doesn't like her much either, but except that one time, when looks could have killed Sansa, she is always kind to her. Maybe she misinterpreted that look entirely. 

Sansa knows he hates Joffrey and she tries to see why. She knows Joffrey is very rude to him but she also knows that Jon isn't nice to Joffrey either. Brothers fight, that’s what they do, Bran and Rickon too.

Joffrey smiled at her and she thinks he is handsome, he walks around like a prince far more than Jon does.

When she asks him why he dislikes them all so much he can't really seem to be capable of explaining it properly to her, so she feels like maybe he is exaggerating a little bit.

Sansa realizes that being married has changed very little to her daily life routine and she somehow feels a little disappointed in that. She feels like a woman now that she is no longer a maid, she is married, she is as much an adult as any woman can be, but no one treats her differently. Her father still kisses the top of her head, her mother still calls her ‘my beautiful girl’, Robb still treats her like a child and worst of all Arya will still pull her hair when she’s angry with her. 

She still embroiders all day, reads the same books, wears the same dresses, listens to the same songs and stories. The only thing she does now that she used to not do before is mend his shirts, like her mother does with her father's. They often need mending and it’s her job to do so now. He tells her she doesn't have to, but she wants to. Her nights have changed so drastically, she can't stand it that her days haven't.

Nothing has changed except everything has. She goes to the sept and her prayers have changed, she daydreams about other things now. She feels different, like a whole new person that people seem to not see nor notice.

Jon is disappointed when his hunt thingy gets postponed again and again because of the weather (her father keeps reminding them that, really, winter is coming), she wants to think of something they can do together, during the day preferably, but they don't have any similar interests at all. When she asks him he just waves his hand at her and tells her he doesn't want to be a bother to her, he doesn't really seem to understand and she has no idea how to properly explain.

It takes her some convincing and the realization that they do have a similar interest; each other, to get him to spend an entire afternoon listening to her while she reads the story of Aegon the dragonknight to him. He pretends to like it, which she somehow finds so very sweet. Then he starts kissing her and she feels lightheaded. All in the middle of the day, which is as wonderful as it is terrible because she knows that if her mother finds out she'll be in trouble, she doesn't want her parents to think badly of her.

She looks at him and it makes her feel strangely exited. She watches him while he talks to her father, while he fights Robb in the training yard and when he goes out riding. She watches him through the window of her bedroom after waking up because Bran and Rickon are outside her window screaming while having a snowball fight with him. She watches him when he makes love to her too, he looks concentrated, as if he needs all the focus he can find.

She knows he watches her too, he does it all the time, she pretends not to see but she always notices. His eyes are warm on her skin and the brush of his fingers when he hands her a cup during supper makes her heartbeat speed up.

Jeyne Poole demands answers to questions that make Sansa giggle. She feels strangely mature now that she knows. She knows what the whispers are about, she understands the jokes, most of them at least. 

Jeyne is not the only one who thinks her lord husband is handsome, Sansa knows what the kitchen maids say about him, it makes her feel weird things, almost jealous, there is something that feels like fear too.

Sansa knows for a fact that she is jealous when he spends time with Arya. He spends too much time with Arya. She knows that he is not purposely trying to embarrass her but it stings to know that he prefers Arya's company over hers, it feels a little like a nightmare come true. She doesn't tell him, perhaps she should but not yet, not now.

It is so silly of her, to be too scared to tell him certain things when he never gets angry, upset or annoyed. He is always patient, maybe too patient every now and then. Sometimes when she looks at Jon and Arya or at Jon and Robb, she thinks about what he does to her at night, she remembers how he looks at her, how glossy and big his eyes are, how gentle his touch is, it makes her feel better and worse.

She should not be jealous of Arya, how can she be? He is her lord husband! Hers only, by oath. She gets to have him at night, where she'll fall asleep feeling his warm chest to her back. He'll take her hand in his and rub her palm with his thumb.

But she knows how different they are, she knows that he doesn't know what to do with her old dreams and her old expectations. They both know he cannot make those dreams come true, no matter how badly he might want to and it stands like a wall between them and she is too terrified to knock it down. She still feels like he does not tell her everything, maybe he does not trust her as much as he wants her to trust him. Maybe he does tell Arya, maybe Arya is a better listener or maybe he thinks Sansa won't understand.

Maybe she won't, maybe it's better if he does not tell her. She doesn't tell him about her dreams either, about how she always hoped to marry his older trueborn brother one day. She does not ever want to tell him that, she can't bear the idea of telling him how she threatened to run away when they told her of their betrothal. He does not need to know that, there is no point. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid.

What Sansa dislikes most about her husband is that he never dances with her. There are so many feasts lately, and every lord and knight is eager to dance with her but her husband, who is arguably the only one she wishes to dance with.

'Look at Theon.' Jon says, 'He looks ridiculous.'

For some reason, Sansa likes it how much he dislikes Theon. Though he has never said it aloud, he doesn't manage to be subtle about it either. Often, he mutters _ass_ , whenever Theon does something, anything, that he finds offending. He does it low enough that only she can hear it. Criticizing dance skills is among his unsubtle ways of mocking her father's ward.

' _Please_ ,' Sansa says, 'You're just jealous. He dances much better than you do.'

They're standing along the wall, both with their back against it, their shoulders touching and every now and then his fingers caress hers, though he manages to do it in such a way that she wonders if he does it accidentally, 'Excuse me, I am an excellent dancer.' He says and he turns to his side to look at her.

'Oh really,' she grins though keeps her eyes on the dancers, 'Why else would you never dance?'

'Because I don't enjoy it' He simply says, 'Doesn't at all mean that I _can't_ , I dance when I'm forced.'

The look on his face makes Sansa giggle, 'Why should I believe that? I have seen you walk, you stumble over your own feet when you've had barely one glass of wine.'

'Just so you know, I received an outstanding education at court. I can dance, I can dance Theon off the dancefloor if that is something I ever choose to do.' 

Sansa giggles again, 'I really don't believe you, I'm terribly sorry, do forgive me.'

He presses his lips together, looks from her to the dancefloor to his father at the high table and back at her again and she can almost see him make the hard and cruel decision, 'Come,' he says and he grabs her hand, 'We're going to dance.' 

She hides her blushing face behind her free hand as he pulls her along, which causes her to knock against the back of Sandor Clegane who turns and angrily glares at her but she can't find the time to feel frightened at his awfully scarred face nor can the Hound say what it is that his already opened mouth is about to tell her because Jon moves to stand in front of her and pushes her away, further towards the dance floor, instructing Sandor Clegane carefully with his eyes to be nice.

'You're so easy.' She tells him, the moment the Hound is gone and she cannot contain her grin. He's so cute, and nice and handsome and she can't stop looking at him.

'What?' He honestly seems to not know what she means but then he realizes and he lets go of her hand, 'You're one manipulative little thing.' He says, his voice steady but he smiles his sweet and handsome smile at her, his eyes narrowed the way she likes.

The music ends and another song starts, 'You promised me a dance.'

He shakes his head, 'I am never ever dancing with you, you spoiled your chance.'

'You promised!' She gasps, 'Please Jon, dance with me.' He turns away from her but she grabs his upper arm with both her hands, her mouth close to his ear, 'I'll pretend to not notice when you stand on my toes. I have never danced with my lord husband, that is utterly wrong.' 

'Aye, utterly wrong, I'm sure. But... You have so many lords eager to have a dance from you, why would you want me?' He laughs then, he hardly ever laughs and the sound exites her, 'And truly, I really am an awful dancer.'

'I won't mind.' she insists. 

'Yes you will.' He sighs and turns around again, lets his eyes linger over all the people, 'Seven hells, I wish I could go to bed.'

'You don't like the feast?'

'Hm?' He looks down at her face, then smiles and moves his face closer to hers, his nose lingers on her cheekbone, 'I like going to bed more.' He gives her his most beautiful smile, then pecks her lips real softly, and it feels like a promise, for all to see. Before she can either push him away in shock or kiss back enthusiastically he turns around and leaves her standing there, to walk over to Robb.

Sansa knees shake suddenly and when she turns she sees both prince Tommen and Rickon watch her, a look of equal disgust on both their faces. She blushes and quickly walks away. If only they knew how Jon kisses her when they're alone. Maybe Sansa wants this feast to be over too.

Her head spins after that. Why would he say such a thing to her? Is he mad? Maybe she has gone mad. Everyone is mad. The whole world has gone mad. _Seven hells_ indeed.

Sansa drags herself up the stairs to her bedchamber later than night. She feels so nervous again, in a way she hasn't felt in some time. Why does he make her feel so nervous? She never expected to feel so weird, like birds flying around in her tummy.

When she opens the door to her bedchamber he is already laying in the bed, so deep in his sleep it's as if he has been laying there for hours.

Sansa leans with her back against the door after closing it, just to stare at him for a while, at the way his head rests on the pillow, and the way the muscles of his back look as he lays on his front. Then she feels an urge to get in there and wriggle really close to him so Sansa can't help herself when she undresses quickly, as soundlessly as possible, climbs in the bed and pushes herself close, to let his body heat warm her up, looking forward to the feeling of naked skin pressed to naked skin.

Sansa lays her head between his shoulder blades and moves her arm around his bare torso when he wakes up quite suddenly and she can't find her breath to tell him she's sorry for waking him because he grins and turns to pull her to his chest.

He doesn't need to gently push her legs apart this time, she spreads them herself and she feels embarrassed because she does it so eagerly, almost longingly, though he doesn't seem to mind. He just smiles and looks at her as if she's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. No one has ever looked at her like that. No one has ever kissed her like he does either.

When he rolls off her she feels a little empty, somehow, until he wraps his arms around her again and kisses her hair.

'Good night.' she whispers to him in the dark, as she lays her hand over his on her bare belly.

'You too.' he says, his voice all hoarse and sleep drunk.

_I know that I am not what you hoped for but I promise that you can always count on me and I hope that you will trust me because I'll be a good husband to you, I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first this chapter was all about Sansa finding out that Catelyn is really bad at the talk but I was really unstatified with it. I think it's more important that she finds out Jon is a pretty great guy and I want their relationship to develop carefully and for them to grow into it, getting to know each other and learning to trust each other, be completely comfortable in each other's company. I decided that that's way more important than smut. For now. So I removed big parts added others things, changed a lot... and then I missed the deadline, sorry! I'll have a week-long break next week so yay, hope I can maybe update twice that week, we'll see.


	6. Handkerchiefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Why else would he give her to him? She was supposed to marry Aegon! She marries Jon Snow instead? Why would the Starks ever agree to it? she's too precious to give away to some meaningless bastard, unless he is a meaningless bastard no more.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this was a pretty bad day for my Jonsa shipping heart (while the wall falls, really?) I'm glad I actually made it to my deadline, yaay.

**Sansa**

They are married for nine weeks and six days when the snow finally melts. The King decides to stay for two more days to join the hunt (thank the gods they can finally go on that hunt) and then plans to leave at last. 

When Sansa’s father told her of the nearing leave, she felt only a little disappointed. Sansa knows how pleased and relieved Jon is because of it and she wants to be glad, for him, because she doesn't like it when he’s sad and they always make him sad, if not angry. She doesn't understand why they do that. Are they treating him the way they are because he’s a bastard? If they are then why doesn't her own father care? Ned treats Jon almost the same he treats his own sons, he seems to genuinely enjoy his presence at Winterfell and he continually calls it Jon’s home.

Marrying Sansa made Jon as much Ned’s son as he could ever be and sometimes Sansa wonders if this is why her father never put up a fight for her. Did he allow them to marry her off to a bastard, with no name, no title, nothing to inherit, so… he could get his nephew back? She knows he never wanted Jon to leave, and perhaps Sansa’s pride, her name, future and honor was sacrificed. Perhaps that all was not as important to him, not as important as Jon.

Sansa rubs her cheek to the cotton of his tunic as she tries not to shiver when he softly tucks on her hair and wraps a strand around his finger. She can hear his steady heartbeat and her head moves up, only a little, every time he breathes in. The sound of his in-and-exhaling is comforting and it both calms and soothes her. When Jon moves his hand up, to lay it below his head, she watches the muscles in his upper-arms flex. They look strong and she likes to touch them with her fingertips, trace the lines of the veins she can see.

Sansa enjoys the silence sometimes, when they’re just lying in her bed, saying nothing. They can be comfortable like that, when it’s just the two of them, half dressed, as he holds her and leans his cheek to the top of her head. She draws circles on his chest with her forefinger, watches the movement herself as if it’s an interesting activity that fascinates her. His chest is so hard, like a rock, yet as warm as his breath in her neck. His whole body is so warm, she’s never cold at night anymore, because when she is she only needs to turn around, stretch her arm out and curl herself around him. Like a little hearth in her bed. And when it’s too warm… she need only ask and he’ll open the window for her and she sometimes does that, secretly, mostly because she likes to watch him stand in the middle of her bedchamber, dressed in so little… that still makes her blush sometimes, but it no longer embarrasses her.

Sansa flexes her fingers, they’re a little soar because of her needlework and it’s as if he knows that when he grabs her hand and warms it in his own.

'Maybe, tomorrow, we could stay in bed all day.' He suggests. 

'But you wanted to go on this hunt ever since you came here.' She says and when she turns her face a little she smells the soap they used to wash his shirt.

'True,' He presses his nose in her hair and his lips brush her forehead. There is nothing she likes more than kissing except maybe this, Sansa decides, laying here in his arms makes her feel very safe and all sorts of other things, 'But I like being here with you more.'

She feels her face heat up, 'We can't,' she decides. She looks up and her hand strokes his hair from his eyes and she can feel his fingers drawing circles on her back through the silky fabric of her nightgown, 'We couldn't explain that to anyone.' 

'I can pretend to be sick.' He says, 'I'll tell them I'm sick of Joffrey, I'll get better when he leaves, until then I’ must stay in bed.'

'That won't explain why I am here, will it?'

He shrugs, 'You can take care of me in my hour of need.'

She snorts and then tries to hide her smile in the crook of his neck, 'You can take perfect care of yourself.' She tells him.

The next day it's not very true anymore. She doesn't wake up to see them off on the hunt, Jon never wakes her so she sleeps through most of it, but when they come back she is up and with her mother, practicing her skills on the bells, when a stable boy comes to get her, and tells her he's hurt. 

‘Did he ask for me?’

‘He did m’lady.’ The boy reddens when he says it as if it’s such a shameful thing.

Sansa feels oddly furious when she makes her way up the steps and it's only when she slams the door open that she realizes why. 

It is extremely awkward to find the king in her bedchamber, but she doesn't linger on that for too long, there's no time for such wastes of time.

'It was decided to bring him here because his own room has enough space for one single person only.’ Robb explains. Robb doesn’t understand, she’s not flushed because of that, as if she cares about that, why would she care about that? She wants him in this room.

Sansa only frowns at her brother, fidgets with her skirt and turns her gaze down to avoid the glare of all these men. It’s as if they’re all angry with her, as if she’s disturbing them, as if they are not standing in _her_ bedchamber, but in some place official and important.

'Why wasn't I told?' Her voice is too soft when she asks, she doesn't sound nearly as angry as she feels. She doesn't mean to look at Rhaegar Targaryen directly when she finally looks up, but she does so anyway. He raises his eyebrows at her as if she’s an interesting object, one that surprised him, amazed him a little, as if he’s taken aback. It is strange, for despite her reverence for the man, in that moment, she is not afraid of him.

The king’s maester stammers a bit about how women and blood are an improper combination but she ignores him and moves to the bed where she sits and she shrugs of all her shame when she lifts her shaky hand and places it to his sweaty forehead, where his hair is plastered to his skin, 'How’re you feeling?' She whispers softly, as if she hopes only he can hear her when she keeps her voice down.

'Awful.' He says but he smiles. She has seen this smile before, he chooses to use it when he wants to reassure her, or comfort her, 'This must undoubtedly be the end.' 

He very clearly has a fever, for his teeth chatter as if he’s freezing, yet his skin is piping hot and his forehead’s covered in sweat. He’s been bleeding, somewhere on his upper chest, and she gently touches it with her fingertips, 'What happened?' 

'Joffrey tried to get rid of me.' He jokes again and it is as annoying as it is reassuring. 

'Stop that.' She breathes, her voice so hoarse and soft she wonders if even he can hear her.

Sansa looks up to finally take all the men in the room in. She finds that Joffrey is not here but her father is, and Robb and Jaime Lannister too. They can hear all she says and see all she does as well as the look on her face.

'When I told you to not aim at your bothers I meant I needed you to aim at the boar, not at yourself.' She doesn't know why she says that with all these people present, not one of them is hiding the efforts it costs them to listen and see as much as they can.

He may have laughed if moving didn’t make him wince. It's his shoulder that's hurt. They tell her it dislocated when he fell from his horse and they have already pushed, or pulled, she’s not sure, it back. There is some nasty cut just above his collarbone, near his neck, that they have tied for the time being but it needs stitching, the wound drenched his whole tunic in blood.

'We shall clean it, my lady… no need for worry.’ The measter promises.

Jon closes his eyes when a new wave of fever takes over, ‘Don’t fall asleep.’ she whispers and then pulls the cold cloth from his squire’s hand, to press it gently to his cheek.

Robb lays his hand to her shoulder, ‘He’ll be fine, sister. Why don’t you come with me, so the measter can do his job?’

Robb’s suggestion annoys her somehow and she shakes his hand off, ‘I will not leave him now, I am his lady wife. I must stay.’ Sansa says it with a certainty, she knows her place.

Sansa doesn’t miss the look her brother shares with her father, but she’s chooses not to respond to it. It would be a childish thing to do, and she cannot be childish now.

'We will clean it with.. with firemilk. To burn the wound.’ The measter says.

Sansa nods, ‘Give it to me.’

'M-m'lady, no, not without milk of the poppy!’

Sansa takes her eyes off Jon for a small moment when she raises her eyebrows at the man, ‘He has a cut, he did not lose his _hand_ , if we give him milk of the poppy he’ll sleep for three sunturns.’

’Sansa…’ Her father moves over to her, ‘Perhaps it would be better to leave the king’s measter to do what he is best at.’

Sansa moves her eyes back to Jon, who has his eyes opened but is obviously too much in pain to speak, never mind joke, ‘Give me the firemilk.’ Sansa says.

The measter says nothing, only purses his lips in disapproval when he hands her the bottle. Sansa shakes it and turns it around in her hands, before she wipes Jon’s sticky curls from his eyes, ‘It’s going to burn, do you want to chew on some willow bark?’

Jon regains enough of his consciousness to shake his head convincingly and when Sansa burns his wound with the substance, he doesn’t scream, he does not even whimper, though he trembles all over, winches and his hands are shaky fists.

Sansa tries to sooth him as she whispers to him, strokes through his hair with her fingers and when she looks up she finds a group of men, the most important men of Westeros, watch her with either fear, annoyance or interest, 'Perhaps someone could get my lord husband some wine?' She suggests, 'For the pain.'

'We usually prefer milk of the poppy, my lady.' The measter tries again.

'I prefer wine.' She says, 'He needs stitching and I plan on doing it myself.' 

'But my lady-'

'Wine please and if you all could leave I would very much appreciate it, ladies do not enjoy their bedchamber filled with men.' 

Someone dares to laugh but stops when the king turns his gaze to him. 

As soon as they leave Sansa wants to crawl into his side on the bed but she’s not sure if he would like that, 'Does it hurt? Did I hurt you?' She asks, hoping that her worry doesn't irritate him.

Jon smiles again, his eyes still closed, ‘It seems all… worse t-than it seems.' He says and she wonders if he knows how little sense his words make.

'What happened?’ Sansa realizes she probably should have asked the men she just all send away, but she doesn’t regret it, she’s glad their piercing eyes stopped burning her back.

’Nothing.’

What do you mean nothing? You don't remember?'

He tries to shrug, 'I hit my h-head… I think? I know I d-did. T-then I fell and I woke up… I woke up in t-this room with all t-these lovely people.'

‘Shhh… You don’t have to… they should have cleaned the wound sooner. You have a fever.’ Sansa feels angry again, 'They should have told me sooner, how long have you been here?'

'Southron people are n-not used to w-worried wives.' He explains, 'I can't remember the last time my mother-in-law p-pretended t-to care.'

'I don't care about southron people.’ The moment she says it it’s true, ‘Does your head hurt?' She moves her hand up to touch his temple with the back of her fingers.

’M-my shoulder’s w-worse. Everything I ate before we left came b-back out in the woods.' 

'That's disgusting.'

He laughs a weak laugh, 'That was b-before I passed out, I can pretend I d-don't remember.'

'Stop joking,' she touches his shirt with her fingers where the color of blood is darkest, 'This isn't funny.'

He tries to shrug again but of course he still can't, ‘It happens, it's just a shame that it h-had to be today.'

'What do you mean today?' 

He smiles and without any warning he moves up as far as he can, to place a kiss to her cheek, 'I don't know, I would've liked it t-to present you a boar.' 

'I don't want a boar.' She says, her cheeks burn, 'I don't care about all that, not when it gets you hurt.' 

'That wasn't the boar's fault.' He says, laughing huskily and the laughing makes him wince too, 'Just my own.'

'How can you just fall from your horse?' She asks, 'You're being reckless.' She should stop the nagging, soon he’ll roll his eyes at her and he needs to rest.

'No!' He says, 'No I wasn't b-being reckless I was just thinking about you and about how I really should've stayed in bed with you and… and t-then I hit m-my head.' He gives her a shameless smile, 'It was probably a branch or s-something.'

'You hit your head against a branch and fell off your horse?' She doesn't mean to make her voice sound so unconvinced. 

'Aye,' he says, 'But when they pushed it back it was already m-much better, I don't need the wine.'

'The wine is not for you.' She says, 'It's for me, to keep my fingers from trembling.' 

'Are you t-telling me you can't actually stitch?'

She smirks and wants to kiss the corner of his mouth, 'I'm telling you I can't stitch when my fingers are trembling.' 

She can see him much it hurts when she stitches but he makes no sound and the wound is not very deep, she doubts it will leave an ugly scar. She tries to be careful and rub the skin around his wound with her thumb to soothe the pain. 

She keeps apologizing when she thinks she’s hurting him until he leans his head back and tells her to, ‘Shut up, Sansa.’

It makes her smile, she never thought being told to shut up would make her smile. 

When she's done she cleans him up as best as she can and he gives her his sweetest smile, the sincerest and the most insecure. He kisses her lips, carefully, quickly, but it warms her limbs all the same. He falls asleep in her arms, with his head in her lap as she moves her hands through his hair. She wraps a curl around her fingers and gently caresses his cheek and holds a cold cloth to his forehead. 

She knows her mother will come and look for her, that she’ll maybe scold her for not being useful, but Sansa’s doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to be useful, it’s not paramount, Jon is. She’s his lady wife first now, a Stark lady second. Her mother cannot scold her, not tell her what to do and she will not leave him, not when he is like this, so warm, weak and in pain. She won’t let him be alone when he wakes up, nor when he sleeps.

The door creaks and to Sansa’s surprise the blonde head of Jon’s sister Rhaenys peeks in the room, ‘My princess…’ Sansa attempts to get up but the woman lifts her hand to tell her not to move, ‘He’s dying?’ she asks. 

Sansa can only shake her head, because it seems such a cold and heartless question, even though it appeared so kind and worried, to come and check on your younger, wounded brother.

’The way father was speaking… I thought we’d seen the last of him.’ Rhaenys says and she sounds almost amused, she looks at her own hand in which she still holds the door handle, ‘Did he say what happened? Why he fell off his horse?’

’He said he.. He mentioned a branch. He was very weak. He has a fever.’

’ _A branch_ …’ Rhaenys says the word as if she doesn’t believe it for a second and it makes Sansa feel uncomfortable.

’It’s what he said.’

Rhaenys opens her mouth to say something but then Sansa’s father appears behind her and the way she glances up at Ned gives the impression that she feels almost caught, ‘Lord Stark.’

Ned nods at her and then takes a step into the bedchamber, ‘How is he?’

Rhaenys doesn’t allow Sansa to answer when she says, ‘He hit his head... it was a branch. A healthy, strong nineteen-year-old with years of riding experience… hit his head against a _branch_ and fell of his horse.’

Ned frowns at her and nods again, ‘The measter confirms he’ll regain his full health.’

’Let’s thank the Gods.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Obviously they chose to protect him... from a _branch_.’ With these words she turns around and leaves them again, she’s gone as soon as she appeared. 

‘I don’t think she likes me very much.’ Sansa says after a short moment of silence.

A small smile appears on Ned’s face and he turns to leave her again as well, ‘There are very few people the princess Rhaenys does not dislike, it’s the shield she chooses to wear.’

‘Father…’ Ned looks up again when she calls for him, ‘Please don’t tell mother I am still here?’

Ned smiles again, and there’s something in his eyes that makes him appear almost proud, ‘I shan’t.’ he promises.

**Bran**

Bran watches all the men depart on their second hunt. The first one was a major failure so everyone seems more exited now, getting a second chance to do it right. Bran wishes he could come too, it would be a dream come true to get to hunt with a royal party. Jon told him hunting in the south is the most boring thing he has ever done but Bran can't believe it, not with these horses and those armors. It is like one of old Nan’s stories come to life. 

Bran has, up till now, been a bit disappointed with the king’s visit. They made him sword fight with the prince Tommen, who he finds pretty dumb and fat and his mother always forces him to depart feasts before the actual fun starts. The king plays the harp and looks stately, majestic and cold. Nothing like the warrior prince Rhaegar people tell stories about. He’s always dressed in black and he never smiles. He’s so different from Jon, apart from the not smiling part they look nothing alike. He wonders how Jon could ever be the King’s son because he is not stately or majestic and he is far from cold. Bran thinks it’s maybe because he is a bastard. 

The queen seems very fond of herself and not fond of Winterfell, much like her stepson, Jon’s crown-prince brother, who complains and carefully offends whenever he sees opportunity. Bran knows most girls think prince Aegon is handsome but Bran thinks he looks like a woman, with the long hair and his fancy clothes. Robb said he spends more time and gold on it than any lady of the court. The princess Rhaenys seems like the most vague and distant person he has ever seen, she hardly ever speaks but when she does she always says something he doesn't really understand, something vague too, or complicated. She seems as displeased as her brother, but not with Winterfell, she seems to just be displeased with everything else, the world and everyone in it though there's something in her eyes that reminds Bran of the king.

Joffrey is the worst person he has ever met. Mean, haughty and viscous and once he kicked Bran’s direwolf, who still has no named. He tried many names but they never seemed to fit. When Bran told his father about Joffrey’s kicking he didn't even do anything about it.

Then there’s Myrcella, who never speaks neither and blushes a lot. Bran decided to stay away from her as far as he possibly could after Theon jokingly suggested Bran might have to marry her one day, like Jon had to marry Sansa. 

Sansa’s wedding especially was a disappointment. She didn't look happy and Bran felt a little sorry for her, she seemed so overwhelmed. Bran thought maybe, because it was Jon’s wedding, it would not be more of the same and it wasn't- it was worse. Everyone seemed so tense. His father especially and his mother too, even though she was better at hiding it. Robb was awkward about all of it, Arya couldn't stop frowning and everything horrible about the royal family seemed to be worse that day. 

Bran expected things to change but nothing really has. Sansa still does the same things all day, she still scolds him, complains about Theon, mocks Arya and chooses Rickon’s side over Bran’s no matter what happened, just because he’s the baby. Bran never sees her with Jon, maybe that is because he is busy or maybe she still dislikes him. She cried so much when they told her she had to marry him, he wouldn't be surprised if she is being absolutely awful to him. Poor Jon. 

Bran has seen them talk a handful of times, and it looks awkward and extremely uncomfortable. Sansa doesn’t even seem to be able to look at him, she stares down at her fidgeting hands and turns all red and everything and when Jon moves closer to her to tell her something she seems to tense. He hopes it’ll change because he likes Jon. He can't really remember what Jon used to be like before he left but he really likes the nineteen-year-old Jon Snow. He tells Bran all about the southron knights he knows and what they look like, the way they fight and swing their swords. 

Jon doesn't seem to fit in with his family, he looks and behaves like an outsider, as if he disapproves, though Bran doesn't really understand what he disapproves of exactly. 

With the majority of the men gone hunting boar with the king, Bran is left behind with Jon, Rickon, his mother, old Nan and the girls. Jon can't go because of the shoulder wound that Sansa stitched up for him. Bran knows that because Robb joked about it. He said she probably embroidered him with ‘flowers and stars and other things like that’, Bran hopes she didn't because that sounds nasty. 

Bran can't find Jon now when he goes looking for him, he’s not in his room and he figures that maybe Jon went to lay down in Sansa’s room because his shoulder hurt. Sansa is nowhere to be seen either but he doesn't really try to find her, she’ll probably make him do something boring. He wants to avoid Arya too because he knows she’s is upset after a scolding from their mother. Sansa told everyone she made a fool out of herself in front of the princess Myrcella. Though Bran heard Jon telling Arya that, 'Really, it doesn't matter.' Catelyn didn't agree so much.

At first Bran was excited about leaving Winterfell and going to King's Landing on a real horse, not a pony. He swooned about the stories Jon told about ghosts, terrible dungeons, and dragon skulls on the walls. Jon is a good storyteller and Jon can never hear too much. 

Bran told him he dreams of becoming a member of the Kingsguard someday and about how anxious he is to meet the greatest living knight, Ser Barristan the Bold. 

Against his build up expectations Jon shook his head and told Bran to change his mind now he still can. Bran didn't really get why he would say that but shook off the comment, deciding Jon probably hates the capital because his family is the worst. 

Bran has become a little apprehensive about leaving the only home he has ever known. He will miss all those he is leaving behind, even his pony.

When he’s done looking for someone Bran goes to the godswood, his direwolf following him.

After a while he gets tired of trying to teach his wolf to fetch and decides to go climbing. His wolf howls when he climbs away up a tree and onto the armory roof but Bran ignores him.

Bran is always climbing, he spends so much time climbing his mother claims that he could climb before he could walk. Bran can’t remember learning to climb or learning to walks so therefore he assumes it must be true. His mother is also terrified that one day he might fall and kill himself. Once Bran kept a promise not to climb for almost a fortnight and was miserable the entire time. Finally he gave in, but confessed his crime the next day. When his father ordered him to the godswood to cleanse himself, they found him sleeping in the tallest tree in the grove the next morning. His father, angry and laughing, told him that from now on he was free to climb, so long as his mother didn’t catch him.

Bran decides to climb towards the Broken Tower, where he has always liked to feed the crows, when he is startled by voices from the First Keep.

He’s not sure at first whose voices he hears, they are vaguely recognizable, too distant to tell, but not distant enough not to understand what they’re saying.

‘If Aegon marries-‘

‘Aegon will never get married. He may be engaged to that bitch from Highgarden but he won't tie the knot.’

It’s the female voice Bran recognizes first.

‘He doesn't respect my husband enough to get married.’

‘He got Jon snow married.’

‘Yes, _Jon Snow_.’ The woman snorts and laughs humorlessly, ‘No one knows how that filth is all that stands between my son and his throne. Except Aegon. Aegon knows it- and that crazy mad sister of his too.’

‘Jon snow is a bastard Cersei, he's not in line for the succession, Rhaegar has always been very clear about that.’

Queen Cersei. Bran correctly recognized her voice, he heard her name and he knows it’s her. She’s talking about Jon, she called him filth and talks about a throne. 

‘Yes, he used to be, but things change.’

The male voice is one of frustration, as if this is a conversation they have had a million times prior and he can't listen to it anymore, ‘Why would he? There is no reason to doubt-‘

‘Once Jon Snow puts his bastard seed in that foul child and gets her pregnant he may ruin everything.’

_Foul child? What foul child?_

‘We can't risk it Jaime, they have to go.’

Jaime. The male voice belongs to Ser Jaime Lannister, that man Robb always calls Kingslayer, ‘Do you think Rhaegar will ever consider it?’

‘He already does. Why else would he give her to him? She was supposed to marry Aegon! She marries Jon Snow instead? Why would the Starks ever agree to it? she's too precious to give away to some _meaningless_ bastard… Unless he’s a meaningless bastard no more.’

‘Why would Rhaegar choose him over his trueborn sons? He always hated the boy.’

’Hated? He never hated him. It’s fear, the king is terrified of his own past staring back at him every time he sees that whining, sulking bastard. It’s the ghost of Lyanna Stark he fears and the only thing he hates is his past with his own mistakes.’

‘That doesn't explain why he would ever consider legitimizing him.’

‘Because it’s lyanna’s son! Everyone knows he would rather have died on the trident than live on without her.’

‘He hates the boy.’ Jaime Lannister insists.

‘Does he? All I know is that I will set that throne on fire before that rude little worthless piece of Stark scum will snatch it away from my son.’

‘Have you spoken to Rhaegar about this? Has he ever said anything about a possible-‘

‘We need to get rid of him as soon as possible.’

Bran grows more frightened by every word they speak. His hands start to tremble and he hears a buzzing in his ears. He climbs over the window, then drops down. He can see the man and woman inside, naked, but getting dressed, as they are fondling and kissing.

‘You really thought killing him during a hunt at his beloved childhood castle was the ultimate solution?’

‘People get hurt during these savage hunts all the time.’

‘Jon Snow doesn't, he hardly has a scratch.’

‘For all we know she may be pregnant already. This could ruin everything.’

‘ _Hello there_.’

Bran doesn't realize Jaime’s talking to him until he looks into the man’s green eyes. 

Cersei turns her head and sees him too. Bran loses his grip and he knows this was a mistake, he knows that if he doesn't leave, they’ll make him stay. He tries to escape and nearly falls but he catches himself on the window ledge. 

Jaime extends a hand to pull him up onto the ledge.

As Bran begins to relax he hears Cersei’s yells but her words hardly reach him.

‘How old are you, boy?’ 

‘Twelve.’

Ser Jaime Lannister loathingly looks at him, then says, ‘The things I do for love.’ Before he shoves Bran backwards out the window into the empty air.

**Sansa**

Everyone is on the hunt Jon ruined last week and since he can't join because of his shoulder he decided to complain about it to Sansa while keeping her company. She doesn't even mind, if she blocks out his whining she can simply enjoy the feeling of his hands warming her cold feet. Getting him to herself during the day is rare so she’ll take as much of it as she can get. She prefers him inside so she can make sure he doesn't do anything with his shoulder that he shouldn't. 

Sansa sits on her bed, her back against the headboard and her feet in Jon’s lap, who sits at the other side against the footboard. She has a work of embroidery in her hands while she pretends to listen to his ongoing complaining about being forced to stay inside. She purposely doesn't remind him how, just last week, he suggested staying in bed instead of joining the hunt, which is basically what he’s doing right now.

‘What are you making?’ He asks. 

‘I'm not making anything, I'm embroidering.’ 

‘What are you embroidering?’ 

She looks up and smiles at him, ‘Handkerchiefs.’ 

‘Why would you embroider handkerchiefs?’

‘To make them look nice.’ Sansa says and she looks back at her work.

‘I never noticed your handkerchiefs are embroidered.’

'That doesn't surprise me.’

‘Why would you embroider them if no one notices?’

‘Maybe I like to embroider them because I like embroidering and because I like embroidered handkerchiefs.’ 

‘Maybe.’ He says and he smiles, ‘I wasn't judging.’ 

‘I didn't think you were.’ That’s a lie.

He moves to sit next to her, ‘What are you trying to ma- embroider?’

‘I'm creating birds.’ 

He wraps his good arm around her shoulder, ‘You never embroider wolves.’

‘That would be just as ugly as dragons.’

He smirks, ‘Are there handkerchiefs with dragons?’

She smiles as she pulls the needle up, ‘There are mostly handkerchiefs with lions.’

He watches her for some time while Sansa pretends to be fully capable of keeping her focus, ‘I spoke to my father today.’ He suddenly tells her and she looks up with a frown when he takes her braid in his hand, rolls it between his fingers.

‘You did?’ she was not aware he ever speaks to his father at all, and if he does he has never shared it with her before.

‘Yeah.’

‘About what?’

‘Us.’ He says. Sansa pushes her handkerchief away and turns towards him.

He doesn't look happy and she has no idea what they discussed precisely but it can't be good. Maybe the king is unhappy about their marriage, maybe he doesn't like her.

‘Well, not us. Not you.’ 

She can’t hide her confusion now, ‘He did not say anything about me?’

‘No. I mean, we didn't discuss you, it was not about you.’ 

‘But you talked about us-‘

‘Not really, not us, we talked about our marriage.’

‘Does it not please him?’

‘I don't know, I don't care.’ Jon looks away as she tries to read his face, ‘I erm- I asked him something.’

‘Something?’ 

‘You must promise not to get angry.’

‘What did you do?’ She eyes him and he looks tremendously uncertain. 

‘Nothing, not really, I don't know why I'm telling you.’ 

‘I think you should.’

‘Aye.’ He fumbles a little with his hands, ‘They have been here for over two moonturns now, they’ll leave once the wheelhouse is save to go. I didn't plan on asking him, not for some time, some _years_ , but I thought perhaps I could-‘

‘What did you ask him?’ 

Jon gulps, stares at her for a second and then admits, ‘I thought maybe he could give me some land, above the neck, there are so many empty castles in the North, we could still be close to your family-’

‘You asked for land?’

‘Not really.’ He says, though he just told her he did, ‘I don't really want the land, I just… I don't want to live of my family-in-law’s generosity for the rest of my life Sansa, it feels wrong.’

‘But you love Winterfell.’ She knows it’s true. 

‘I do, I- I really do. But I just don't think it will work to live here for the rest of our lives.’ 

‘You want to live somewhere else?’

‘With you.’ 

She smiles at that and the way he looks at her warms her heart, she takes his hand in hers and squeezes it.

‘You’re not angry?’

‘Why would I be angry?’ 

‘Because I didn't tell you. I wanted to tell you, I just thought… maybe I should tell you if I could-‘

‘I’d like to live somewhere with you.’ She says and she wonders why the idea never came to her mind before. Away from Winterfell, from the people who treat and scold her like a child and think they can always tell her what to do, who watch her every move, who ask uncomfortable questions all the time. Live somewhere else and have her own household like a proper lady in her proper own castle with her proper lord husband. She could do that. She could be happy.

He doesn't look as happy at that as she expected he would, it actually seems to make him feel worse, ‘I don't know why I'm telling you.’ He says and he removes the arm he had wrapped around her, ‘I thought I shouldn't in case he refused, so you wouldn't have to know and now I'm telling you anyway.’

‘He refused?’ She cannot believe it when he nods, ‘Why?’

Jon shrugs, ‘I don't know, he didn't really say. Well- he said he didn't come all the way north to deliver me to Winterfell, for me to leave again.' 

‘He wants you to stay here?’

‘Apparently.’ 

'What else did he say?' 

Jon shrugs, ‘Not much.’ 

That is probably a lie but she doesn’t want to push it, ‘It doesn't matter.’ 

‘It does matter.’ He says and he looks up with that same sad look on his face, ‘I'm sorry, I really am, I know you don't want to stay here, now you have to because I-‘

‘We’ll stay here.’ She says and she pulls her hand through his hair, ‘We can always stay here. My parents love you, and Robb too. They were all so happy you came home, Winterfell is your home as much as it is mine.’ 

‘I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've asked.’

‘It doesn't matter now, does it?’ 

‘I think it does.’

She shakes her head. She wants to wrap her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder, ‘He may change his mind.’

‘Maybe.’ Jon says but she can hear how he doesn't believe that at all. 

She looks up, she wants to kiss his cheek and his jaw and nose, ‘We’ll stay here.’ She whispers. 

‘We’ll have to.’ He says and he frowns at the way she looks at him, ‘I have no say in where I live… or so it seems.’ 

‘I think it’s sweet that you asked.’ She says, she can see the way he looks at her lips, she always likes it when he does that. 

‘I never should’ve asked. I knew he’d say no, it was stupid.’

She disagrees with him on that, ‘It's not stupid at all.’ She says, ‘It’s like you said, he wouldn't even notice if he gave it to you, it would be a small gesture and if he cares about you at all-‘

‘He said it would be insulting to Northern lords- to give their land to a bastard.’ 

‘He said that?’ She can't believe it; how could he say such a thing? The king always seems so careful with his words, he appears to be so gracious and he is always amicable to her.

Jon takes the necklace she wears between his fingers, rolls the silver stone between his fingers and stares at it while doing so.

‘Jon…’ she starts but she doesn't know what to say, ‘You’re not just a bastard. You are the king’s bastard.’ She’s not sure if saying that will help, whenever his birth comes up she never knows what to say, nothing seems to make him feel better.

He looks up at her and says, ‘To some people that’s even worse.’ 

‘How?’

He looks at her as if it physically pains him that she asks, not because he thinks it’s stupid, just because he doesn't want to answer, ‘It’s complicated.’ 

‘I'm not stupid.’

‘I never said you are.’

‘Then you can explain it to me.’ 

‘No.’ He says, ‘I mean- I could but I don't want to.’

She wants to get up but he pulls her arm, closer to his body then she was before, ‘Jon, I-‘

‘Listen to me.’ He says and she stops trying to pull her arm back as she feels anger creep in at his remark but the look in his eyes tells her that perhaps she shouldn't be, ‘I’ll tell you, just not today.’

‘You always say that.’ She sounds like a nagging, spoiled child now, she can hear it herself.

He bites his lower lip and lets her go, so she can move away from him if she wants to but she doesn't, ‘I am the only thing that connects the North to the crown.’

‘Father always-‘

‘The dragons are gone, the Baratheon rebellion proved that the Targaryens are not invincible.’ 

‘They have never been defeated.’ She feels almost exited at this sudden burst of information he is sharing with her, he not always does that, not about matters that concern his father.

‘Anyone who thinks they can’t is a fool.’ Jon says.

‘What does that have to do with the North?’

He smiles at that question, as if he loves the answer, ‘The North is the largest of all the Kingdoms, all the other ones could fit into it, the scale of it is immense, losing it would be unbearable to my father. The North has never been easy to control, the only thing that stops your father from rebelling, now and especially during the Baratheon uprising, is me. Our fathers are bound by blood. But even with me the North is a struggle, it’ll always be a struggle.’

‘The North was loyal before-‘

‘Before my father killed my mother?’ Jon looks away, into the fire, ‘The North remembers. They’re loyal to house Stark above everything, above everyone else. You have to understand, Sansa, that without me, your father would never support the king as much as he does now. My grandfather killed his brother and father.’ 

‘I have never heard my father speak about rebelling against the crown.’ 

‘It is not about your father and what he wants, he has many bannermen to please. King Aerys killed the warden of the North and the heir while his son kidnapped, raped and killed a lady of Winterfell. The Targaryens aren't well-liked up here and for good reason.’ 

‘Everyone knows that your mother wasn't raped and kidnapped.’ Sansa says. 

'No.’ Jon says firmly, ‘Not everyone knows that.’

She eyes him in disbelieve, ‘So what are you trying to say?’

He is still not looking at her when he suddenly says, ‘I don't really know.’ 

Sansa knows that he's not answering the question she asked. She asked why it's worse to be a king's bastard. This is not about his birth, this is about his blood, and he's avoiding the question, by answering another. Jon may be a bastard, but he descents from both old Valyria and the First Men as well as the Andals and the Rhoynar, few can say the same, ‘Your father doesn’t want you to become a Northener.’ She decides, it is the only thing that seems logical to her from what he just told. 

‘But at the same time he does.’ Jon says, ‘It’s why he let me grow up here but ordered me to go to King’s landing and live with him when I became a man grown.’ 

‘Is that why he wanted us wedded?’ She asks, if this is the reason then she feels rather disgusted by it, for her to be part of this game they play, with Jon, with his life. For their marriage to be a chess piece on a board.

‘I don't know.’ He says and finally he looks up from the fire.

‘You don't think so?’

He shrugs, ‘I never asked him. It seems unnecessary.’

‘What does?’ 

‘If he wanted to strengthen his ties to the North he would have married you to Aegon. Aegon is a Targaryen, unlike me. I'm already linked to the North.’

‘Then why?’

‘I don't know.’ He says again. 

‘He never told you?’

He laughs at the silliness of her question, ‘No.’ 

‘Why do you think?’ 

He shrugs, ‘Perhaps he wants me here now that Ned goes south, maybe he wants to show people he has power over your family by making them marry their eldest daughter to a bastard, maybe he hopes that his hold on Winterfell will expand with me here- or this was all just his way of getting rid of me, only the Gods know. And my father. I stopped thinking about it, maybe I’ll never find out.’ 

‘I don't believe it.’ She says, ‘It sounds cruel.’

‘Some people are.’ He says and he suddenly wraps both his arms around her, as if he wants to protect her from those cruel people, ‘Not everyone is like you, Sansa.’ He softly says to her hair. 

She wants to ask him what he means. _Like you_. ‘But he’s your father.’ 

‘I know.’ His arms around her tighten, ‘But if I wasn't my mother’s son, he would have long gotten rid of me.’ 

‘I don't believe he hates you.’

‘No,’ Jon says, ‘Me neither, I think he doesn't _care_. He hates it that he needs me so much, but all he _feels_ is indifference.’ 

Sansa thinks that’s even worse, and again she refuses to believe it. She knows the story of prince Rhaegar and his lady Lyanna, she can't believe that Rhaegar Targaryen could hate or ‘not care’ about Lyanna’s boy, the only son of his to be born from a true and tragic love. 

She doesn't repeat her disbelieve again, she knows she won't ever change Jon’s mind, not now she won't. Instead she decides to push all her insecurities aside and she kisses him, because this seems somehow the best way to show him that there are people who care about him, despite his complete certainty. She cares about him, no matter how strange that makes her feel, she really, oddly, does. 

‘I don't want our marriage to be a chess piece on a board.’ She breathes against his lips.

‘It's not to me.’ He says and she smiles, he kisses that smile and then presses his forehead to hers. 

‘We can stay here, at Winterfell.’ She promises and wraps her hands around his wrists as he cups her face in his hands, rubbing her cheeks with his thumbs, ‘If you’d like that.’ 

He pulls her in his lap, ‘Even if I didn’t like it, I would still have to bring you with me wherever I go. You’re my wife and I’m stuck with you now.’ 

She carefully shoves his healthy shoulder, the way he looks at her makes her feels bold, ‘Admit that you don't mind being stuck with me.’ 

He grins and it warms her heart. How can Rhaegar Targaryen not love him? If she will ever have a son that will be half as good and lovely as Jon Snow she’ll love him with all her heart. She actually may have a son like that one day. The idea makes her belly flutter. 

‘I love it.’ He says effortlessly and when he kisses her he pushes her down on the bed. She giggles and purposely fails at trying to push him away while he presses kisses to her face. 

He looks down at her, his eyes widened, ‘You’re really pretty.’ He says, as if he purposely tries to make it worse, ‘You’re far too pretty for me.’

‘You are not that bad-looking yourself, you know.’ She says, again it’s not something she should have said, but he looks so lovely, the expression on his face makes her cheeks burn and she wants to let her fingers stroke his jawline.

He has never given her the impression that he lays with her because it is his duty, she knows he likes it, perhaps more than she likes it. He can still shake sometimes and his breathing is often unsteady. She likes how much he likes it, he is so terribly affectionate and it makes her feel good.

Maybe she wants him too, it's this new feeling in her lower belly, she can feel it now, she felt it before and it made her want to arch her back, pull him closer and deeper too, maybe. It makes her want to kiss him the way he kisses her, she wants to reach out and place her hand on his hot skin, scratch it with her nails. She really wants to wrap her legs around him, move with him, make the sounds that she has trouble keeping in, to take of her nightgown and be completely naked in his arms, as naked as her nameday. 

She knows it's not proper to want these things, it's even worse to do them, but somehow, she still hopes that one day she may find the courage to do it anyway. 

She likes his smell and his body heat, she likes his breath on her skin and in her neck and the way he takes her hand and squeezed it. She likes what he whispers in her ear even more, during the day and during the night, they make her blush with anticipation, bright red with embarrassment. She likes talking to him, kissing him and watching him. He is very handsome to look at, she sees how other girls look at him, they do it with Robb too. Sometimes these girls look at her too and Sansa knows they're jealous and Sansa likes that too.

She loves the way he looks at her, as if he sees her, actually sees her, how he talks with her and genuinely wants to hear what she has to say. He seems to be the only one lately who treats her the way she wants to be treated, he makes her feel like she is his equal, like she is a woman, not a girl. 

She loves his smile, because it’s so rare except the one he smiles at her. She loves his voice and his bobbing Adam's apple when he swallows. She loves it to move over and lay on top of him when he lays on his stomach, place a kiss between his bare shoulder blades and press her nose in his hair. 

She loves wanting him, because he is hers and she is the only one to whom he belongs to.

It is madness, it must be, she has no other explanation for it. She never expected madness to be enjoyable, comfortable and glorious. 

Lately she feels something when he enters that reminds her of relieve, as if the moment is something she's been anticipating for many moonturns. Sometimes that is what it feels like, except it's never a moonturn, it's hardly more than a sunset. It makes her gasp and bite her lower lip to retain herself from moaning. 

Why is it so good? Why don't people prepare you for it actually being good? Why doesn't anyone ever talk about that? They only mention the pain, not what comes after. No one ever told her she'd like the ache.

Sometimes she feels her abdomen tighten, it makes her gasp, her toes curl and her legs tremble. She always pushes him away when that happens. It scares her somehow, as if she is about to lose all control.

‘Does your shoulder still hurt?’ She asks, she feels the urge to hold him and shield him from pain and sadness. 

‘Aye.’ He smirks before he moves to lay his head on her shoulder, ‘But right now, it doesn't.’

‘Good.’ She says and she places a kiss to the top of his head.

She feels as content as ever in that moment as she moves her fingers through his hair and she knows he is about to fall asleep and she wants him to, because he doesn't sleep enough, especially lately, and she feels responsible for it, keeping him up all night. 

She closes her own eyes, leans her head back against the headboard as she feels every muscle in her body relax. If anything she feels blissful, secure too. His body is heavy but warm and she loves the pressure. 

When there is a knock on her door her eyes shoot open en she feels anger well up. Why can't they leave her alone? Not even when she is in her own bedchamber with the door closed? 

She pushes Jon off her, pulls all her underskirts and skirts down properly and opens her door.

‘Robb, go away.’ She says when she faces the person who knocked, what is he even doing here? He's supposed to be on that stupid hunt. 

Her attitude changes when she sees his expression. He looks upset and angry, his hands fists.

'What is it?' She asks.

He walks into the room, ‘Where is Jon, why… What are you doing?’

‘Jon’s shoulder hurt.’ It seems like a relatively good lie and perhaps it is because Robb looks away from Jon, who sits on the bedside, his eyes sleepy and an expression on his face that suggests he perhaps doesn't quite know where he is. 

'Bran fell,' Robb says and she sees the tears on his cheeks, 'from a window of the broken tower, the maester says he may die.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the really sweet reviews for last week's chapter, I spend so many hours working on it, even more thinking about it, because I wanted to get it right and I'm glad most of you seemed to think I did! So thanks! X


	7. Bellflowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants him to trust her because she wants to trust him, but he clearly doesn't think he can and it hurts.
> 
> _Talk to me,_ In her head she tells him all the time, _talk to me because I want to talk to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter was originally going to be the ending of chapter six, it moved to chapter seven mostly because of wordcount reasons. Anyway, that's why we have a Jon-Sansa-Jon pov, It's not something I would ever do intentionally but I hope it's not too annoying- anyway, I personally call this chapter, 'That chapter where Jon and Sansa listen to everyone but each other' expect that title sucks a little so I named it Lavender and Bellflower instead...- enjoy :)

**Jon**

Jon doesn’t sleep at all that night. He tries to whisper words of comfort while he holds her, slowely rocking her, but he doesn't feel like it helps. The tears keep streaming down her cheeks, in her hair and the pillow beneath her head, they drench his shirt and the muffled sobs wrack against her chest. 

She doesn't speak but he hopes she listens when he tells her it's okay to cry, because she constantly tries to stop herself. ‘I'm here.’ He says and he needs her to know that, he needs her to know that he is there for her and he will always be.

Her sobs in the silence of night may be the worst sound he has ever heard in his whole life. Her golden lashes are brimmed heavy with tears; her hands clenched into shaking fists, in a hopeless battle against the grief. it's as if her sadness and fear ripped his stomach open and pulled his guts out, smashed it against the wall and then nestled in the hole that was left behind, filling him there to haunt him long after she has fallen into an obliviousness numbness.

His shoulder hurts, it can't be compared to what it felt like when it was all loose and dangly, because that honestly was the worst pain he has ever experienced, he screamed until everything in front of his eyes vanished. Even now it still hurts like the seven hells combined; it stings and no matter how he lies or moves, it throbs constantly. So he lies still, his nose in her hair and his hand around hers. Sansa’s breathing is peaceful again, it's comforting and sometime since they got married, it became familiar to him too. 

She moves very little when she's sleeping, he knows that now, she often falls asleep on her stomach and wakes up the next morning with all her limbs in the exact same place. 

He is, apparently, not like that. She complains about it sometimes, says he kicks her or rolls on top of her or pulls the fur off her. She never seems angry when she says that, just annoyed and a slight bit amused even though she tries to hide that. 

She more often than not wants to hide her amusement, he wishes she wouldn't. She looks lovely when she smiles, she has so many types of smiles, all different and he is convinced she has one especially for him; genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness. He often knows how to make her smile, especially in that way that makes her cheeks rosy. 

He knows many things about her, he likes that he knows things no one else knows, he learns new things every day, silly things, lovely things. 

He knows what it's like when she rubs her cheek against his shoulder during sleep and he knows she likes to eat drapes when she's lying in bed. 

Sansa doesn't like the smell of lavender and she hates it when her underskirts are made of wool because they itch and make her legs reddish. The story of prince Aemon the dragonrider and his sister queen Nearys is the story she likes best, she told it to him once, she doesn't like the story about the prince of dragonflies much, but she knows it very well because it's her mother's favourite. She likes to wear blue the most and he agrees because it suits her eyes- her innocent and honest eyes that have a deep Tully blue, like a sunlit sea, the same as Rickon’s. When she is angry with him her eyes can spit fire too. 

Her favourite flower is a bellflower, even though she does not like the colour purple she loves their shape. Sansa sings to herself all the time, when she undresses, when she eats or brushes through lady's coat and also while she strokes his hair. He knows she thinks he should cut his hair more often, which he does not quite understand because she seems so fond of the tall knights from the south and they all have long hair. She likes his hair though, he thinks, because she always strokes through his curls, tries to tug them behind his ear, wraps them around her fingers and often pulls on them so she can bring his face near hers.

She surprises him sometimes, she can be surprisingly impulsive than, more than he is and he knows it’s because she had a happy childhood, he knows she doesn’t quite realise how lucky she is that she had one.

Sansa loves her parents but is fond of her mother the most because she looks up to her a lot. She likes Robb even though he treats her like a little girl and she feels very responsible of Bran and especially Rickon. with Arya, her relationship is troubled at its best, he knows Sansa would like to see it differently. Sansa would love to have a sister whose hair she could braid and who she could embroider with but that won't happen and he wishes she could accept that and maybe see Arya’s value. He also knows that she doesn't like it much that Jon gets along so well with Arya, he is not quite sure why but he doesn't want to ask because he doesn't want her to know that he notices.

Sansa’s heart is warm and kind, she always manages to be courteous and friendly to everyone and he admires her for it. She's gentle and cruelty frightens her, she's the sort of girl that cries when there's a dead bird lying somewhere under a tree. She is so innocent it sometimes worries him because he knows that her ideas about the world are not close to the reality of things, he doesn't want to see her world get crushed but it is unavoidable that it will someday. He loves and dreads how she always wants to see the best in people, she believes there is good in everyone and she can do that because she has seen so few of evil. 

She can't lie to save her life and she says thank you too much. She is so eager to please her parents and her mother says she is always courteous but Jon now knows better than that. Everyone always comments how Sansa looks a lot like her mother and perhaps that it true but there are significant differences and aside from age, their laugh and the way they both look at him it's mostly the hair, they both have a full head of auburn hair but Sansa’s is lighter. 

It's bright and when it catches the candlelight during the night it shines like copper, it's so thick and soft and she likes it when he plays with it, it makes her shiver sometimes and when he does it while she’s fighting sleep she’ll hum. 

He knows what it feels like when she runs her nails along his arms, he knows what it sounds like when she swallows a moan, he knows how her tongue tastes after too much wine, he knows how eager she becomes after too much wine, how she seems to want him then. He knows that the absolutely best thing in the world is the way she arches her back into him.

She gets embarrassed when she believes she makes a sound. She’ll hush him when she thinks he is being too loud and it annoys her when he tells her he doesn't care about people hearing them. There is nothing he wants more than to give her pleasure and he wishes she’d let him. She is still easily embarrassed and is sometimes afraid and uncertain, he hates that. 

She can be bold sometimes, he never expects it and he hopes it stays that way. He thinks it is cute how she places her hand in front of her face in embarrassment when she does something she is insecure about, he thinks it's amazing when she does something she is insecure about.

She loves to rub his feet with her own, he doesn't like it very much but he lets her sometimes. What she loves most is when he pulls her back against his chest and places a kiss to the skin of her neck. She grabs his hand and holds it close to her chest when he does that and intertwines their fingers. She smiles when he whispers to her how beautiful she is and blushes when he tells her how he always wants to be inside of her, how he looks forward to it all day.

She hates it that he gets up early, because she is used to her bed being warm now, and when he has been gone for some time, his side will be cold. She always mends his shirts because she doesn't think anyone else can do it as good and he tells her that's true. She enjoys watching him sometimes when he and Rob are training in the courtyard, but when Robb laughs and says Jon is showing off she quickly leaves. 

He knows her legs are long and skinny, her hands soft, her fingers thin and pretty, her belly is flat and her breasts are petite and fit in his hands perfectly. He wants to rub his fingers over their tips so they harden but she hardly ever lets him. 

He knows her scent and what her voice sounds like when she whispers to him in the middle of the night. He knows that she can laugh uncontrollably when no one else hears and he knows that her skin tastes a bit salty when she is all sweaty and warm.

Today he learned about Sansa Stark that her sadness has become worse than his own, he found out that her pain hurts him too. He hates that there is not much he can do but pull her as close to him as possible and wrap his arms around her shaking shoulders. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand and presses his lips to her forehead. 

He wants to tell her how she makes him feel but he doesn't know how, he doesn't know what words to use and if she would like to hear them. He wants her to know that she has been the loveliest thing that has ever happened to him, that he doesn't think he deserves her because she is too good and too perfect. 

He wants to talk to her about his life, he wants to answer the million questions she constantly asks but he doesn't want her to know because most of all he wants to protect her, keep her safe, wrapped around him in his arms and against his body, her hot breath warming his skin. 

The idea of something happening to her is more frightening than anything ever was before and he swears that if anyone ever tries to harm her he will dig his sword through their heart. 

Three moons ago Sansa Stark was just a stranger to him and now she is everything. 

 

**Sansa**

Sansa wanted to stay up all night, with her parents and Robb, to sit around Bran’s bed and watch him die.

Then Jon pulled her hand, told her she would do no one, least of all Bran, a favour if she stayed and without her mind giving her body consent she let him help her upstairs to her bedroom while he made sure to never let go of that hand that always feels so safe in his. At one point she nearly sank through her knees and he lifted her up, in his arms, brought her to the bed and made her lay down. 

She cried, like she has never cried before, until she fell asleep, it felt like disappearing in a deep and black hole. When she wakes up the next day, he is still there. He never is, he is always up before she wakes but this time he stayed. 

Waking up in his arms, Sansa thinks, could be the best experience of her life. She can't tell really, her eyes are puffy and ache because of all the tears. For a second she tries to remember why that is and then it hits her. 

When her first tear of the day rolls down her cheek he wipes it away with his thumb and she realises he is fully dressed. He did wake up long before she did, he got dressed and left her there, except this morning he came back.

‘They say he’ll live Sansa.’ He tells her, ‘Maester Luwin says he believes Bran won't die.’

She can't stop herself from crying as the words sink in no matter how hard she rubs her eyes. He pulls her closer and she clutches the leather of his sleeveless doublet with one hand and the linen of his shirt underneath it with the other. 

She dries her tears in the next two days and sits with her little brother, watches him sleep as she prays for him to open his eyes. She prays to the mother to give him life, to the warrior to make him strong, to the crone to give them all guidance and begs the stranger to stay away. It helps very little because Bran does not open his eyes. 

Sansa knows her father doesn't want to leave, especially not after this, but she does not doubt he’ll go anyway, he has no choice. 

Septa Mordane tells Sansa she needs a bath after she returns from the godswood. As much as she hates it that the septa thinks she can still tell her that as if she is a little girl that has been playing outside all day, she knows she has to agree. The warmth of the tub might do her good. 

The septa brushes her wet hair and Sansa can feel the comb move over her scalp, as sharp as needles. 

'Did your moonblood come?' The septa suddenly asks.

Sansa, who was rubbing her knees stops doing that instantly, Yes.' She says, 'It did.'

'When was that?' 

She doesn't really remember, 'Days ago.' She says eventually.

'Five days or more?'

'More.’

'You should watch yourself my child,' the septa says, 'When I am gone I won't be able to do it for you.'

Sansa doesn't need her septa to do it for her, she wasn't even aware she was doing such a thing. 

'You may have a child growing in your womb at this very moment.' 

Sansa feels absolutely terrified at the prospect, 'No,' she says, 'I can't be.' 

The septa chuckles, 'Of course you can.' She tugs on Sansa's hair with so much force it makes tears appear in the corners of her eyes, 'He has had you daily lately.' 

Sansa clutches her naked body as if that might take away some of her shame. Has he? Yes he has. How on earth does Septa Mordane know that? Maybe Jon knows how the septa knows, but the idea of talking to him about that seems like an awful idea. Maybe he will laugh at her too. That would be humiliating. It would hurt, she cannot remember him ever laughing at her before and she doesn't believe she could handle it if he'll start.

She asked Jon if she will get a new septa when septa Mordane leaves, he asked what the point of this one is. She told him it has been the Septa's duty to turn Sansa and Arya into a lady and he shrugged and decided; 'I suppose no one is in need of a septa as little as you are.' 

He didn't even mean it as a compliment but it still made her blush. He makes her blush all the time, even when people can see, that too, is embarrassing. She never expected marriage to be so embarrassing.

'Is he good to you?'

'W-what?' Did she have to ask? Her mother finally stopped asking. 

'It can be very unpleasant, but once you give him a son his visits will lessen and your duties as a lady wife will concern your son more than anything.'

Unpleasant? What does the septa even know about it? She is a septa. 

'It is not unpleasant.' She says and she should not have because the septa stops brushing her hair.

'I'm glad to hear it.' She sounds like she doesn't believe her, or maybe she's not glad to hear it at all.

Sansa turns around in her bathtub to look at septa Mordane, 'I could manage on my own now, thank you.'

'You should be careful, my child.' The septa says when she gets up and walks over to the door, 'Men are unpredictable and the mother finds it harder to guide them.'

 _I'm not a child._ Sansa thinks.

'My husband prays to the old gods, the mother's guidance is of no concern to him.'

Sansa doesn't know why she says that, perhaps because the septa is leaving soon, with Arya, away from Winterfell, or maybe because she is married now and the septa won't run to her mother for a scolding, or it's because she hates where this conversation is heading. She is done talking about bedding, done talking about her moonblood and if someone asks or presumes one more time about the pains of her marriage she will tell them it is private and nobody’s business. 

Does anyone ever asks Jon? She is certain nobody does. He never gets the uncomfortable questions, and even if they do he will know exactly what to say to save himself from humiliation, that is just the way he is.

'It should be of your concern.' The septa frowns, 'Even the good men can cause us heartache.'

Even the good men? Sansa doesn't know what the Septa is implying and she doesn't believe she wants to know, 'Thank you septa.' 

'Sansa, my dear, never betray your virtues, a lady's courtesies are her armor.' 

Sansa wants to drown in her scented bath water.

'Men are unpredictable and can cause women much pain, Especially after you have given them children.'

Sansa would very much like it to have been dressed while undergoing this conversation, the water is getting cold. 

'You see, men desire sons almost as much as they desire women, once they have sons, their behaviour may change.' 

'What do you mean?' this is getting too complicated and out of hand most of all.

'Men marry because they need sons, they hardly seek for pleasure in their wives.'

Sansa bites her lip, she doesn't want to repeat that she no longer needs the Septa's service because she doesn't want to be rude, but this conversation is starting to get worse with every word spoken. 

Desire sons? Jon has never mentioned sons to her, not once. The idea of having a child frightens her as much as this conversation does. It was not too long ago she felt like a child herself. 

Men hardly seek for pleasure in their wives. That is what septa Mordane says, but she is a septa, so she can't know that, she doesn't know men the way Sansa does. Sansa knows that they sometimes do, sometimes they seek for pleasure in their wives every night. She knows that it pleasures him to lay with her, he tells her but he doesn't need to, she can notice. She can see it on his face, hear it in his breathing and most of all she feels it in the way he touches her.

Would things change if she carried a child? She could be pregnant now, the septa is right. Her mother keeps repeating it too, 

'Sansa your womb may be growing at this very moment.' Catelyn said.

Would she know? Could she feel it? Would he like it? She knows he doesn't touch her because he wants a son. If that is the reason he should touch her only when the maester tells him to. 

Sansa's mother and father have more than one son, they have three! Rickon was born when her mother and father were married for many years.

She would like to talk to Jon about it, but she knows she won't, the idea alone makes her nervous.

'Thank you, septa.' Sansa gets up from the bathtub, the air is cold on her naked and wet skin, 'I will finish on my own.' She repeats.

She gives the woman no chance to continue her words when she steps out of he tub and wraps herself in towels.

'My lady.' The septa leaves her there, alone with her thoughts.

She wishes she could tell him, they talk plenty but she doesn't speak to him about everything. Why doesn't she? She knows he doesn't either. She knows many things because she can see it on his face, but she wishes she knew what they mean, where they come from. Perhaps she could make it better. She’d like to make it better.

She knows he's not fond of his father but he never tells her why. When she asks he says he doesn't like to talk about it, or he says he doesn't want to talk about it now. She is afraid he simply doesn't want to talk about it to her, and maybe he never will. When she asks him why he dislikes King's Landing so much he never truly explains. He tells her to stay away from the queen but he won't tell her why and simply says Cersei can't be trusted.

Jon hates Joffrey and Sansa can't understand. He hates his older brother even more and she couldn't explain that hatred to anyone even if she tried. 

She wants him to talk to her, but he doesn't. She wants him to trust her because she wants to trust him, but he clearly doesn't think he can and it hurts. 

It is all so terribly new. She loves being with him, listening to him, touching him, she loves it when he makes love to her, whispers her name in her ear, when he pulls her close after being inside of her all night. But he often still feels like a complete stranger. How can you be so amazingly intimate with people and still not know them?

_Talk to me._

She wants to tell him.

_Talk to me because I want to talk to you._

She wants to hold his hand and squeeze it when she sees the way he looks at his father. She sees the way his father makes him feel, she wants him to tell her, to say what it is like, what it does to him so she can try to take a bit of it away like she desperately wants to. 

Sansa stands there with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She closes her eyes and she feels frightened. She doesn't want him to leave her, he feels like hers and not just because he is her husband. She knows husbands aren't always like this, she never expected her husband to be. 

She knows not all wives get goosebumps all over their body because cold wind touches skin wet with kisses. She cares for him, more deeply every day. She worries about him when Robb persuades him to do something stupid and foolish, when his brother makes him sad she feels angry and his happiness found in simple things gives her joy. Sansa planned to hate him, moonturns ago when her father told her of their betrothal, but she can't, she couldn't, and she won't even try anymore. How can anyone hate him?

He's not like men from stories she's heard, these stories kitchenmaids tell. Sansa knows she's lucky, that he is the way he is and sometimes she wonders if that is so much more important than titles and gold, lands and names. He had no name, no enheritance, no land... but he treats her gently, he makes her smile and when he kisses her... perhaps that is more important. Perhaps they forget to teach women that marriage can bring you joy and happiness as much as wealth and position out of fear for them running away the way Sansa's aunt, Jon's mother the lady Lyanna did. Would Sansa run away if she knew she could fall asleep every night, naked in his warm and protective arms, after having him inside for so long her loins pleasurably, contently and ardently ache? Would she? She is not sure, all she knows is that the Gods have blessed her and after all the tears she shed on him, she did not deserve it.

Jon only has his blood, and it's more royal than not, it's Stark and Targaryen, no other man can say the same, it gives him a certain position of privilege and he's as much a prince as anyone who's not a prince could ever be. Jon's father may not shower him with love and attention... Sansa can see the way Rhaegar looks at Jon. There's a certain pride there, a certain kind of satisfaction... she can't quite name it, but whenever Jon says Rhaegar hates him, she doesn't tell him he's wrong, but she thinks it all the same.

Jon's relationship with the princess Rhaenys confuses her just as much if not more. He complains about her, can be vile to her, rude as well yet sometimes she slaps the back of his head, he rubs it and shoves her and minutes later they'll be laughing at a joke only they understand. Rhaenys can say the worst things to Jon, in his face, he calls her a _vile bitch_ and she calls him _you dumb bastard_ sometimes, and when she's angry with him her eyes are like fire... but Sansa knows that most often she's only teasing him, she challenges him and he challenges back. They make fun of other people together, laugh at them behind their hands and Jon pulls on her hair and tells her she's got to 'stop being clever'. Rhaenys warningly eyes at Jon when he's taking his Joffrey hate too far, yet helps him when Joffrey fights back, she barks an insult in her younger half-brother's face once or twice and it's over, just like that, because the vocabulary of princess Rhaenys cannot be matched by no man, least of all prince Joffrey.

Rhaenys is kind to Sansa, though only politely and she has a tendency of mocking Jon's behavior when he's around her. Apparently she finds it amusing to make fun of her younger brother for being married, she said she feels sorry for him because his life will be so dull now. Sansa is not sure what would be so dull exactly, she hopes Rhaenys did not mean Sansa as a person, but married life itself. Rhaenys must have some extraordinary friends, because she often starts a sentence with _I have a friend, and he once told me_ , and the most incredulous things come out of her mouth. 

Despite what Sansa first believed, Jon is as much a member of this extremely intriguing and messy family as all the others. They're all jealous of each other in some way, she thinks, ans they sometimes seem to enjoy the bickering, the making fun of each other, the rude comments and unnecessary meanness. Aegon always defends Rhaenys, Jon always defends Myrcella, Tommen and Rhaenys, Rhaenys always defends Aegon and Jon, Myrcella always defends Jon and Tommen, Joffrey defends no one and no one defends him but his mother the queen and Tommen sometimes cries when the bunch of them start raising their voice. The royal family fights like little children who have spend too much forced time together and it could be funny was it not a little tragic most of all.

Sansa can see Rhaegar roll his eyes in a _not again_ , or _not now_ , sort of way more often than not when another fight breaks. They always join the arena all bloodthirsty and ready for battle, they don't give up and Sansa has to give it to them, Targaryens don't know fear nor exhaustion.

It makes her see Jon in a different light, because it impresses her, his ease and comfort around important people, it's as if he's never afraid, no one can effect him, no one, expect Aegon, sometimes. Jon is as much a prince as Joffrey at least. People don't only like him, they respect him too, in such a different way than they respect his older brother the crown prince. The crown prince is respected and admired for being crown prince, but Jon... he is respected because people genuinely care about what he has to say. Sansa won't blame them, because she likes listening to him too, his voice is the most pleasant sound. most of all Jon's respected because people _like_ him, and, Sansa truly believes, because they see the look in Rhaegar's eyes too, whenever Jon sits on his horse and grins down at the world as if he's invincible. People respect Jon because he knows what he's talking about, and Sansa even hears Rhaenys say this once, _You're taking advantage of your popularity now, that's not fair_ , she said, but Sansa can't remember what the context was exactly, she probably didn't understand, she hardly ever understands what it is Rhaenys is talking about, but Jon always knows, they're an intellectual match and it makes Sansa sometimes feel a little jealous.

She likes it, Sansa knows that, to have a _respected and intelligent_ Lord husband, she likes watching him be smart, to hear him argue and reason his opinions, he never embarrasses himself while Joffrey always embarrasses himself. Jon makes her proud too, and Sansa never believed she could ever be proud of a bastard lord husband, but if a king can be proud of his bastard son, then Sansa can be proud of the same man, when he is the way he is and makes her feel the way he does.

'The capital was good for you.' Sansa's father says and when Jon loudly protests he raises his hand to silence him, 'His grace taught you well.' Sansa's not sure what her father means exactly, what it is he taught Jon, other than High Valyrian, unnecessary sword fighting, his own family tree and the history of the Seven Kingsoms and the lands beyond the Narrow Sea.

Sansa feels so comfortable around him now, when he pulls her in a corridor and kisses her, whispers to her that he's missed her all day, when she falls asleep pulled against him in his arms and when they have supper together, just the two of them, and he talks about stocks and horses and landlords and honestly seems to want to share such things with her. Sansa never believed her lord husband would ever care to share anything with her.

She wants to ask him if he wants a baby, if he thinks about that, ever. She wants to ask if it's why he wants to be with her, but she doesn't because she fears his answer. He'll ask her if _she_ wants a baby and she'd rather not say because if truth must be told... Sansa doesn't believe she wants a baby. She feels the world sometimes still treats _her_ like a baby, and she wouldn't know how to do it, how to be a mother, the thought alone terrifies her.

It makes her feel ashamed, for what sort of lady wife is she? What sort of woman? When she does not want a baby? All it is she should want is to give him a son yet the idea alone terrifies her. He finishes inside of her, the way he must, should, and rolls off her, kisses her face, her lips, her shoulder, all of her, pulls her against him and she wraps herself around him and as he falls asleep she feels scared because... what if? She's young, he's young, Septa Mordane is right, they make love every night, eagerly, longingly, with no patience and she loves every moment of it. She could be pregnant and it makes her feels almost nauseous with fear. Sansa always fantasized about her silver-haired prince babies, but now... now she cannot help but feel scared. Now it comes too close and it feels too real.

Yet... when she sees him play with Rickon, outside in the snow, in a way her father's too old for and Robb feels too good for, she can't help but dream about a future.

Sansa never believed she'd ever dream of a future with him, not the way she does now. It makes her smile sometimes, knowing she'll spend the rest of her life with him and it doesn't scare her, it doesn't even make her feel disappointed anymore. He'll protect her, he promised, he'll take care of her and he'll do anything he can to make her happy. Married to him... she could be happy. Sansa truly believes that. He makes her happy now, he makes her happier every day.

He annoys her too, he can be very irritating, but she always forgives him, no matter how often he dares to laugh when Robb says something rude to her, no matter how awful he looks when he comes back from sparring in the courtyard, then covers her in mud when he hugs her before changing clothes. She can't be angry for too long. His face is too handsome, his smile too kind and his touch too sweet. 

Sansa pulls her nightgown down over her head, her hair still damp, and she wraps herself in a nightrobe before she walks into her bedchamber. She hopes that perhaps he is already in there waiting for her and she is not disappointed.

He lays on the bed, fully clothed.

'Take your boots off.' 

He gets up and greets her back with news, 'Sansa,' he says and he seems exited, 'The royal family is leaving in two days.'

'Are you sure?' She hates that this news makes him so happy, it’s not right, 'I thought they were supposed to leave two days after our wedding.'

He gets up from the bed and takes her hands in his, 'If only they had.' 

'In two days?' 

'Yes.'

'Early in the morrow?'

'I'm certain you will still be fast asleep in our bed when they leave.'

'I better not be, they are your family, we should see them off.' 

'You don't have to if you don't want to.' 

She wants to roll her eyes but stops herself in time as she walks around him and sits down on the bed. 

'But you will go?' 

'I'll have to.' 

'Is my father coming with them?' She asks.

'Of course.' Jon huffs, 'My father did not give him much choice.'

'You father is in need of a Hand.'

He looks at her for a second, opens his mouth then closes it again and she can see his adam's apple bob, 'I'm sure he'd rather stay here with your mother, to be with Bran.'

'We can't always be where we want to be.'

'You would know.' He says and she looks up at him in confusion.

'What do you mean?'

He walks over to the chair along the wall and sits down in it, ignoring her question.

'It will take some getting used to, with them not being here.' Sansa says, 'They were here for such a long time, almost three moons.' 

'I won't have to get used to it.' He says and he stopped looking at her.

'Jon.' She breathes, a kind of hopelessness rises in her belly, she hates it when he talks like that, 'You should not-'

'I don't want to talk about it.' He says and he immediately stands up, 'I don't need to hear it.' 

'You don't need to hear it?' She raises her eyebrows at the way he speaks, he never speaks to her like that. 

'I don't want to-' he stops himself.

'What don't you want?' She wishes he'd just say what he feels like saying for a change, instead of what he thinks she wants to hear.

'I'm sorry if their departure is bad news for you.'

'What?' It should be bad news to him.

'I'm sorry if it makes you sad that you can't come with them.'

She raises her head and makes sure she glares at him, 'Sad is not the right choice of word.'

'If you say so.'

'I don't understand you.' She says, 'Your family is leaving and you are happy about it. I know Aegon bullies you a little but-'

'He bullies me a little?' There is something in the expression on his face now she has not seen before. 

'He is your brother! And to me he seems perfectly charming.' 

'I'm sure that's because he is perfectly charming to you.'

She fails to see what is wrong with that, 'Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you-'

'No.' He won't let her finish that sentence, 'I'm sure it has never occurred to me that they are in all fairness perfectly lovely people.'

'You could at least do them the honor-'

'Sansa just leave it.' He says, 'I can't listen to this.' 

'You can't listen to this?' 

He laughs and it sounds like he is making fun of her, 'I don't want to hear about how much you admire the queen and about how perfectly gallant Aegon is to you. Just don't.'

'You pity yourself.' She says and the look he has been giving her changes into something worse.

'I pity myself? Don't deny that you hate it you are forced to stay here, you have never been jealous of Arya all your life and now-' 

'Shut up about Arya!' She feels frustration slowely take over her choice of words, the worst thing he can do now is bring up Arya. She is not supposed to be jealous of Arya, she can't be. 

He looks a little stunned, 'Don't you want to leave?'

'Yes!' She wants to rub that look off his face with her fist, 'Yes I want to leave! I've never wanted to stay here, locked up in the North where nothing ever happens. It's easy for you, you have been everywhere, you never felt locked up!'

'I felt locked up every day I was at King's landing, you wouldn't want to go there if you knew what it is really like.' 

'You can't tell me that, you can't know that.'

'No Sansa,' he shakes his head, his face has reddened with anger, 'You don't understand, you don't know anything about-'

'About what? About the real world? You think I'm a stupid child with stupid dreams.' 

He glares at her and then he does not deny it, 'Sometimes you act like a stupid child.' 

She doesn't want to say anything, she doesn't want him to speak either, she needs him to be sweet to her and for his voice to be soft and his words lovely because right now, he's hurting her. 

'I'm sorry that I am keeping you here, if I could find a way for you to join your father I would help you but I can't.' 

She hates it that he makes it seem like he wouldn't care if she left, he says it like he would prefer it if she went, 'I accept your apology.' She says and she regrets it immediately.

'I'm sorry that I am not what you want me to be, I know you deserve better.'

She wants to tell him _no, I do not deserve better_ , she wants to tell him that she likes being married to him more than she expected to ever enjoy being married to anyone no matter to whom, she wants to tell him that if she has the choice of staying up here in the North with him or trade with Arya and be parted from him she'll always stay. She is not going to tell him that, because she knows he mocks her. She may care for him as deeply as she does but it still pains her. All her dreams about the capital, everything she longed for ever since she was old enough to want anything at all- it was taken from her the moment her father told her Jon Snow was going to be her husband. 

She still hates him for it, she doesn't want to but she can't help herself. He does not get to mock her dreams when he is the one who personally scattered them. 

'It doesn't change anything, does it?' She asks. He looks at her and she sees some confusion when she turns towards her bed and pulls the fur away, 'Your apology changes nothing. I do want to go south, I do hate it that I have to stay here with you and it is not going to change.'

'You're pathetic.' He says and her eyes sting, 'You don't know what you want, you are a child and you've seen nothing, you understand nothing.' 

'If that is what you think then I don't see how-'

'How much do you hate me exactly? I don't need you to hide it, if that's what you have been doing, please stop.'

'I don't hate you.' She says and tears threaten to roll down when he doesn't seem to believe that.

 _Please don't hate me either._

‘But if you're asking me to deny that I did not want to marry you I cannot. I _was_ disappointed, I _never_ wanted to marry you and I don't want to stay here and I shall not lie to you about it.'

'I wouldn't believe you if you tried. I'm not a fool. I know.'

'You know?'

'I know how you begged and protested right up until the moment they dragged you to the godswood.'

'I was never dragged.' She doesn't know who told him, it could have been anyone really, she did not try to hide her suffering back then, 'I went voluntarily.'

'So did I.' He says and he walks around her towards the door.

'Where are you going? I don't want you to come in here in the middle of the night and-'

'I'm not coming back in here.' He laughs a little and it hurts her, just when she thinks it can't get any worse he makes it worse, 'Don't worry, I won't be a bother, I'll sleep in my own room.'

_This is your room._

'Very well, that sounds like your first good idea.'

'If you say so.'

The door slams shut behind him with more force than he needs to, like Arya does when she is upset.

Sansa sinks down on the bed, staring at the closed door in disbelieve for a while until she suddenly realizes there are tears on her cheeks.

She wants to go after him and yell, shake him, demand him to talk to her. They can't argue like this and not make it right. She doesn't know what she will have to say to him to make it right. Tell him she's sorry? He ought to tell her first. The things he said hurt. Did he mean them? He can't have.

He called her a child. Did he really think so? How can he kiss her the way he always does when he thinks she is stupid and pathetic? She said some things she shouldn't have too, she didn't mean them, not really, but at the same time she is not at all ready to take them back.

 

**Jon**

Jon can't stand the idea of looking at her, so he avoids her. It’s not hard to avoid her, their routines don't necessarily match, they never did. 

It makes him feel a little nauseous to go through an entire day without seeing her, it seems wrong that he can even do that. 

He’s cranky and when Robb notices he asks what's wrong. He assumes aloud that Jon’s upset because his family is leaving but Jon knows Robb doesn't actually believe that. 

‘Did Sansa say something to you?’ He asks eventually and Jon feels like crying. 

‘No.’ he says, ‘No I haven't seen her all day.’ It’s not really a lie. He could never tell Robb what he said to her, his shame is too fresh and he is not ready to face it. 

He feels like kicking against things, so he does. Pebbles, small rocks, big rocks, opened doors, closed doors, the foot of a chair, snow on the ground and the foot of his bed. Ghost seems to keep an eye on him, as if to stop him from making it worse, it seems. Jon’s glad someone tries.

When Ned knocks on his door, the night before his departure, he thinks that maybe she told her father what an asshole her husband is and he prepares himself for the worst. Images of Ned pulling his head off and feeding it to the direwolves appear in front of his eyes.

‘Arya is missing.’ He says, he looks more worried than Jon can remember ever seeing him. 

‘W-what?’

‘You must come, I need to find her before the Lannisters do.’ 

Ned need not say more. Jon pulls himself together, grips his cloak and his sword and takes large strides on his way to the guest tower. 

In the guest hall he can hear Cersei’s screams of terrorizing anger, They used to give him goosebumps but now all he does is roll his eyes, they would still frighten him if he wasn't aware of how completely out of her mind that woman is. 

Arya bullied Joffrey, threw his sword in the river and made her direwolf attack him. Or so it seem. It's the story Jon can hear Joffrey tell their father. Even Rhaegar doesn't seem to believe him, though his face shows no sign of disbelieve, or any other kind of emotion really, he straightens his back and asks his third son, 'Are you telling me that a fourteen year old girl bullied you and you could do nothing but allow yourself to get attacked by a puppy?'

Jon tries not to laugh, he has hardly ever seen something as absurd and ridiculous as Joffrey clutching his lower arm. The cut there is smaller than the one Jon had after the most embarrassing hunt he'd ever participated in. The wound may not even need stitching and yet he looks as if he nearly died.

Aegon doesn't shy away from laughing, 'Attacked by a fourteen year old girl and her pet; a puppy wolf. What an idiot!' His laughing infuriates Joffrey and his father glares at him.

'Your brother has been violently attacked!' Cersei screeches.

Rhaenys laughs her hollow laugh, ' _Please_ , it's barely a scratch, the seven know he could use some scars.'

'The beast must be killed!'

'It's a _puppy_!' Rhaenys laughs a little louder now, 'Why were you being attacked by the beast anyway? You were being your viscious self again, were you not? Such a-'

'Nobody is asking you to spread your vile opinions!' Cersei screams.

'You're only saying that because no one has ever asked for yours.'

'Rhaenys that's enough!' His father shuts her up immediately and turns to look at Joffrey, 'Are you telling me you were fighting with a fourteen year old girl? Do you think that is the sort of behavior I would ever approve of? Are you not a prince? Should you not behave as one? Have they not taught you to be courteous to ladies?'

'The wolf attacked me!' Joffrey yells again, his face so red Jon fears it'll burst.

'Don't you have anything better to do than fight with fourteen year old girls?' Rhaegar asks and Joffrey's shame and anger grows with every word spoken. The way he looks at his father and Aegon and Rhaenys makes Jon wonder if he'd like to kill them all right there and then.

Rhaenys is not done yet when she narrows her eyes and glares at Joff, 'Look at you, standing there. What must the Starks think of you? Such an embarrassment.'

Cersei screams some more but Jon leaves before he can hear his father bellow to her to keep her mouth shut. 

He, Robb and Theon saunter through the woods while they call for Arya for what feels like hours. He’s cold and irritated, keeps kicking against branches on the ground and he knows his behaviour is the main reason for Robb’s silence. He prefers it that way, he needs silence to think, to keep himself from screaming. What the seven hells is he doing? He should go back to the castle, beg his wife for her forgiveness on his bare knees and see to her welfare. 

Joffrey said she was there, he said she saw Arya throw his sword in the river and everything else. Maybe she was scared, or upset, worried about Arya. He knows for a fact she is still angry with him. As much as he tried his best to stay out of her way he gave her plenty of opportunity to stop him but she didn't take them, she let him avoid her and maybe she liked it that he did. He should apologize, he really wants to apologize but he just simply couldn't before, there was something stopping him and it wasn't his grudge only. 

‘Jon, your wife hates me.’

Jon does not look at Theon when he tries to hide his smile, he hates it that even in that moment, when he is worried, cold, hungry and angry with her, the mention of Sansa can still make him smile, ‘She has good taste.’

Robb laughs and slaps Theon on his back, ‘You should behave in front of my sister, she prefers manners.’

‘Manners?’ Theon snorts, ‘I hope for Snow’s sake that’s not true.’

‘What happened?’ Jon asks.

‘She hates me.’ Theon says again and Jon rolls his eyes.

_She doesn’t hate you she hates me._

She doesn’t even grant Theon a single thought, Theon doesn’t keep her from getting what she always wanted. Theon is just an annoying boy who teaches her younger brothers things she finds offensive. 

‘She scolded me like she's my mother.’

‘Did she?’ 

‘She always has to pretend to be so shocked and embarrased.’

Jon finally looks at him, ‘Then stop embarrassing her.’

‘I didn't! I wasn’t even talking to her, I was talking to Bran.’ 

‘I don’t care.’ Jon says, he really doesn't.

‘You should tell your lady wife that you cannot accept it that she talks to me like she does!’

‘Theon, I see some tears in the corner of your eye.’ Robb says, Jon may have laughed if the circumstances were different. 

‘I don't think I will.’ Jon says, ‘My _lady wife_ gets to talk to you and everyone else in the manner she finds suitable.’

Theon glares at Robb who doesn't seem to plan on chosing a side, ‘You can’t control her?’

‘Control is a nasty word.’ Jon says.

‘Not always.’ 

Robb laughs again, probably glad there has come an end to the silence, he finds this conversation far too amusing and Jon hopes it stays that way.

‘Why do you care so much?’ Jon asks, he knows exactly what he has to say to end the nagging, ‘She is a woman.’

Theon gets up, ‘Aye a woman! Who does she think she is? She speaks to me as if I'm a servant. I deserve some respect.’

‘Do you?’ Robb kicks against a branch the way Jon has been doing all day.

‘I do!’ Theon points his finger at Jon, ‘You should tell your wife that I deserve her respect. I am Balon Greyjoy’s last surviving son, who is she? She is married to a bastard.’

There is nothing that could have been said to Jon in that moment that could have angered him more. He marches to Theon, grips his collar and lifts him up so their noses nearly touch, ‘Listen to me carefully, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy,’ He says as Robb watches them in complete surprise, ‘I don't care what you say to me but you don't get to tell me how I should treat my wife and if you ever talk about her like that again I am going to make-.’

‘Let me go you Targaryen scum!’ Theon spits.

Jon pushes him away and the push makes Theon stumble, ‘I mean it!'

‘Why are you defending her?’ Theon asks, ‘You think she would ever do the same for you?’ 

Jon plans on breaking his skull when Robb pulls him away, ‘Thats enough, stop it, both of you stop it!’

Theon opens his mouth to make it worse but then they see a man in Lannister armor appear through the woods, ‘What are you doing my lords? They found the Stark girl an hour ago.’

‘Arya?’ Robb forgets the entire situation and looks angrily at the man, ‘Why was I not informed?’

‘They brought her to the castle and she is already asleep in her bed.’

Robb pushes the both of them aside and runs away, back to the castle.

What a fucking waste of a day. He doesn't believe he has ever had one before that he needed to be over this badly, except maybe his wedding day. But that day was awful for entirely different reasons, even when it concerned the same person. 

He has to go to her now, he really, really does and he really doesn't want to. He’s used to doing things he doesn't want but not concerning Sansa, not lately. He closes his eyes and imagines that she’ll be super happy to see him, she’ll smile and tell him she has already forgotten everything he said, she'll tell him they'll pretend if never happened and make love till the sun comes up. Maybe she'll even admit that she is not disappointed in him, that he is not a disappointment, that he has not failed at being a husband to her. The dragons are more likely to raise from the dead. 

He has to apologize, tell her she is not a stupid child, tell her he thinks she’s so clever. He should tell her he understands, he knows she deserves better, he knows that he’s a bastard, he knows how humiliating it is to be married to him, he knows what their union means for her. He should tell her he not only understands, he needs to tell her he doesn't mind. It shouldn't matter that he does- he really, really does mind. Thinking about how he is a disappointment, especially because she used the word herself, makes him want to pull his own hair out. He wants to give her everything she deserves but he is the last person who is capable of doing that. 

Maybe his father gave her to him to torture him because that is what being married feels like. Torture. The sweetest torture there could ever be. Still a torture. He doesn't deserve her and she doesn't deserve him, it’s unfair and perverse, no matter how right it feels. Because it does, being with her feels right, like she is where he belongs, she feels like home, a home he never knew exists, a home he never dared to hope he’d ever get no matter how often he dreamed of it. 

He wants to be her home too, make her smile and happy. Make her feel protected and loved and wanted. She’s all these things, she really is. He swears she’ll always be and prays she’ll let him. Maybe she will, after he asks her for forgiveness and she gives it to him. After that maybe he’ll tell her, maybe he’ll show her too, show her how grateful he is, he’ll show her that being married to him won't be the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. He disappointed her once but he will never do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided the time had come to make myself a JonSansa Tumblr, it ended up being more of a Sansa tumblr (I wanted to call it Sansaland but someone else owns that name already unfortunately) but yeah, I have had a Tumblr for over a trizillion years but having a jonsa one seemed very necessary, you can follow me, my name is winterfelland, I'm thinking I might post some previews there or something. There was something else I wanted to say but now I've forgotten and since it's ten past two in the middle of the night I'm gonna leave it. Thanks for reading, next update will be next Wednesday!


	8. Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Not everyone’s like you.’ She says and he remembers telling her exactly the same thing. He knows it's true, they are some extraordinary combination and not just because he is bastard-born and she is the eldest daughter of the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start, I am extremely sorry about Lady, I wanted to originally keep her alive but the thing is that I wanted Sansa to learn she needs to trust Jon and his advice the hard way. Plus, well, Ghost, that one's gonna be important.

**Jon**

Jon doesn't follow Robb to the great hall to find Ned, he can't look at his uncle right now, not when all he does is remember the things he said to his daughter, too many things he shouldn't’ve. His head aches and he feels lightheaded. He can't stand it that she did not come to him after what happened, he wants her to confide in him and she did no such thing. He doesn't believe he has ever felt this guilty before. He failed as a husband after barely three moons of marriage and he wants to bang his own head against a wall. 

His legs are heavy when he pulls them up the stairs, he dreads opening the door of her bedroom even though he already made the decision to come here this morning, when he woke up in an empty bed. 

The room is still lit by candles and they create dancing shadows on the walls. He walks in and sees her sitting on the bed with her back towards him, dressed in nothing but one of her flannel nightgowns, her bare feet on the stone floor. She doesn't look around when he closes the door behind him and he stands there for a second, thinking about what to say.

‘I'm just… If you don't want me here I'll go.’ 

She doesn't respond and he realizes something is terribly wrong when he looks through the mirror and sees the way she holds her head in her hands.

He quickly walks around the bed and she looks up at him, her eyes puffy, bloodshot and filled with tears that are about to join many others on her cheeks.

‘Sansa…’ he says and he kneels in front of her, taking both her hands in his, ‘Sansa can you please forgive me? Please don't- I can’t stand it when you cry.’ 

She shakes her head and one teardrop runs down her nose, ‘Jon…’

‘I am sorry.’ He says, ‘I really am.’

‘I know you are.’ she says and she pulls her hands from his, ‘It is n-not… I am not… I’m sorry too.’

He wants to take her hands again but he doesn't think he should because she just pulled them back so instead he grabs a part of her nightgown where it covers her knee and clutches it in his fist, ‘I know that you wanted to-‘

‘Jon-’ She hiccups, she tends to do that when she has been crying for a rather long time and he wonders how long she has been sitting here while he was being an asshole trying to postpone the moment he had to open the door. 

'Arya's safe, she's asleep, you don't have to worry about Arya.'

'I don't care about Arya.' Her eyes widen for a second.

The way she says that makes him uncomfortable, it's almost as if she means it. He knows that something else is entirely wrong when she lays her hand on his cheek, the look on her face tenses him, he doesn't know why she is upset, but he knows it's not because of him.

‘Tell me.’

‘I don't-‘ she tries to find a way to pronounce words correctly but her entire body is shaking with her sobs, ‘I'm not-‘ she hiccups again, ‘Arya went missing because of m-me.’ 

‘That's not true.’ He says and he pulls her hand from his face and holds it between both of his, ‘She ran away herself.’

‘You don't understand!’ She wants to pull her hand away again but he won't let her, ‘You don't know what happened.’

‘I will if you tell me.’ 

She frowns angrily at him now, he knows she wants to accuse him of never telling her anything either but something stops her and instead she says, ‘Joffrey asked me if I wanted to go riding with him.’ 

That hurts. In the first place because she never went out riding with him before, he never asked her but that is mostly because he didn't believe she would ever like to do that. Mostly it hurts because Joffrey is a sadistic idiot and he told her that many times, apparently she still chooses not to believe him. ‘And you did?’ 

She doesn't respond. She must know that she can easily pull her hand away now if she wants to, but she doesn't, instead she goes on, ‘Arya was playing some stupid game with the butcher’s son and then Joffrey he- Joffrey was making fun of them so I think- he… He was drinking wine and... it all went wrong, I never meant for it to...’ The tears fall down from her chin.

Jon can imagine it did, he has already heard this much, apparently Joffrey didn't make it all up, and that's a first, ‘Joffrey says Arya bullied him and Nymeria attacked him.’

Sansa starts sobbing again and she buries her face in her free hand, ‘They didn't bully him.’ She says, 'Not really. He was being h-horrible.’ 

‘He usually is.’ _I told you._

‘It just- it all happened before I even… Arya threw his sword in the river. Nymeria attacked him when Joffrey wanted to strike- I should’ve done something, should've said something…’

‘It's not your fault Sans,’ he says, ‘Things like this happen all the time. It all sounds to me like a-‘

‘The queen was furious and she wanted Nymeria’s skin on her floor.’

Jon had not even thought of that and he doesn't understand why. Joffrey acting as if his arm got nearly ripped off, naturally Cersei’s wrath would know no boundaries, ‘Well that is-‘

‘They couldn’t find her,’ Sansa says, ‘They looked but they couldn't find her.’

Jon lets go of her hand so he can place his on the rim of the bed to steady himself, ‘Well, that is at least-‘

‘She was so angry, Jon.’ Sansa tries to aggressively wipe her face dry, ‘She said Joffrey’s arm could’ve fallen off, she said that- she said she wanted to have Arya’s hand cut off.’

The old penalty, for striking one of the blood royal, Jon knows that. It is the sort of thing you learn in King's Landing with Cersei as queen consort, ‘She’s wicked.’ He says, ‘And no one will let it happen.’ 

‘Your father called her insane and cruel.’ 

‘She is.’ Rhaegar may be a crappy family man but he isn't senseless. 

‘They fought, the king and queen, she screamed and he insulted her.’ Sansa sniffs, ‘And then she d-demanded-‘

‘What did she do?’ He feels angry suddenly and for the first time that day he's not angry with himself. Sansa is clearly upset over this whole thing and if he is about to find out that this has anything to do with Cersei Lannister he is going to set that wheelhouse of her on fire. 

‘She wanted someone punished.’

_Of course she did._

‘She wanted to pay for the skin. When she found out your father was not going to do anything about Arya… When they couldn't find Nymeria she wanted- s-she wanted Lady.’ At this Sansa collapses like a sack of flour against his chest and he strokes her hair as she lays her head on his shoulder and buries her face in his neck, where he can feel her tears on his skin. 

‘Sansa that’s not going to happen, I promise.’ He says, ‘I'll talk to my father, I'll try to talk to Cersei, I’ll fix it, I swear.’ 

She shakes her head and lifts it up, ‘You don't understand.’ She says.

‘ I mean it, Sansa... I'll fix it.’

‘No you won't!’ She pushes him away, ‘You don't understand!’ There is anger in her voice that reminds him of the night before, ‘It already happened.’

‘What?’

‘They killed her!’ Sansa looks away from him as if his shocked expression makes it worse, ‘My father did it, he cut her throat.’ 

‘But how-‘ 

‘The king he-‘

‘Rhaegar agreed to this?’

Sansa wants to get up from the bed but he pushes her back down, ‘Jon I-‘

‘Why didn't you come to me?’ He demands, ‘I could've-‘

‘Stopped it?’

‘Yes.’ He says and he knows he could've saved Sansa's direwolf if he'd tried, his father would’ve spared Lady's life just to avoid a discussion with him. It can't have been hard to convince Rhaegar not to waste an innocent life, especially not if he'd pressured, if he'd explained how important the wolf was to Sansa...

She presses her lips together and looks away, her hands lay fidgeting in her lap, ‘Sansa,’ he says, softly this time, ‘I could’ve helped, I would have.’

‘You were cross with me.’ She says, her eyes moving over everything but him.

‘That doesn't matter!’ He wants to take her head in his hands and make her look at him, ‘You should always come to me, I could’ve helped you, I always will, that's where I am for, can't you see? I am your husband, no matter how angry I am with you I am on your side.’ 

She looks at him and he sees uncertainty there, perhaps some disbelieve and he places his hand in her neck, ‘Jon I-‘

‘I'm so sorry about what I said last night.’ He wants to kiss her lips softly and make her pain go away with his touch but he needs her to stop avoiding his eyes first, ‘I never meant to-‘

‘You never talk to me.’ She says, ‘You want me to listen to you and understand without explanation. You want me to always come to you and ask you for help, you tell me that you’re on my side but you don't understand that I am on your side too.’ She says it without a single shake in her voice, her tears have stopped and her sobs are gone.

‘I need you to…’ he can't finish the sentence, he simply doesn't know what to say. 

_I need you_

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Don’t say that.’ She whispers and then she closes her eyes and leans into his hand.

‘I'm so sorry Sansa. About Lady, I mean. I wish I could make it right.’ 

Sansa doesn't open her eyes and doesn't respond. Her cheeks are still wet with tears and he places a kiss to it.

She opens her eyes, he removes his hand and she shakes her head, ‘I'm sorry about Joffrey, I never should have-‘

‘It's alright. You don't always have to agree with me, it’s okay if you sometimes have to find out on your own.’

She smiles a tiny bit and the sight of it warms all his limbs, ‘I was going to say that I’ll try to take you more seriously from now on.’

‘But you have already changed you mind?’ 

She still smiles when she presses her forehead against his, ‘I'm sorry.’ She whispers again, the sincerity in her apology is raw, ‘About not coming to you and avoiding you all day, not listening to you when you tell me to stay away from people and I am very sorry about what I said the day before.’ 

‘I’ve forgotten.’

‘No you haven't.’ She says and she nudges her nose against his, ‘I don't know about your father or you brother or any of them. I don't know them like you do and I don't get to decide-‘ 

‘I don't like talking about it.’ He cuts her off, ‘It's not you, it's not that I don't want to… I'm just trying to… I do want to tell you things. It's not that- I do- I trust you.’ He hates words. 

She takes his chin between her thumb and index finger, ‘I trust you too.’ She says, he wonders since when she suddenly became so touchy, since when has she started looking at him like that? He can still remember her trembling body and her shrieking away from his touch. Nothing of that remains.

He nods, ‘good.’ He says, ‘Because you are my responsibility now and I want to take care of you.’

‘I want to take care of you too.’ She says and then she kisses him, just softly, she hardly ever kisses him so it takes him by surprise and it sets his heart on fire. She pulls away far too soon. 

‘I'm sorry about Lady.’ He says again, ‘I am.’ 

She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, ‘She didn't bite anyone.’ She says, ‘She was good.’

He nods, ‘You taught her well.’ He pulls her hair up and places it behind her shoulders, ‘She’s in a much better place now.’ 

Sansa just looks at him, she has stopped crying, her body is no longer tense and she's not hiccuping anymore. Her eyes are still wide and red but they look at him with more than just her sadness.

He needs to tell her this, about what he feels in his chest and his stomach, but he doesn't know how. He doesn't want to stammer again and sound like an idiot. 

Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loves silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces. He likes to think of her as his, but she is not a property, he just gets to love and hold her while no one else does, not like he can.

He never expected he’d ever be married to someone like her, he never expected to marry at all, least of all did he expect to ever make someone like her happy sometimes, but he knows he does. She never says it but he knows that being married to him turned out to be not at all as bad as she expected- being a relieve, what more could he ask for? She makes him happy too.

He wants to tell her she makes him happy, perhaps he should even tell his father, tell him that after giving him Sansa Stark, Jon can forgive him anything and everything.

She lays both her hands in his neck, with her thumbs caressing his jawline, their noses touching the way she likes. His kisses used to be so careful, soft, innocent and discreet, back when he could still be rational at all times. 

She no longer giggles when she accidentally bumbs his teeth, feeling his tongue in her mouth doesn't make her all shaky anymore and instead of placing her hands on one shoulder each she grabs his hair, digs her nails in his scalp and sighs in content.

She lays down on her back and pulls him with her, on top of her like she always does, like they always do. But he resists her and when she looks up in confusion he says, before carefully thinking about it first, 'You can go on top, too.'

'What do you mean?' She asks and he laughs a little bit. She hates it when he laughs, he knows that and it's because she thinks this is not as new to him as it is to her and she doesn't like it when that makes him laugh. But it's not why he laughs, he laughs because being with her makes him happier than he has ever been. 

'Never mind.' He says quickly when he sees the look on her face and he lays down on his side next to her.

'No,' she says, pushing him away when he leans down to kiss her, 'Don't say that.'

'What?'

She tries pushing him off her completely now but he won't let her, he pulls her to his chest and kisses her temple.

'You can't say things like that to me and then pretend you didn't right after.' She says and she frowns angrily at him.

He has to try his very best not to look amused because she is very cute, 'I meant that you can go on top.' He repeats, simply.

'How?'

'I don't know Sansa it was stupid don't... Just forget it.' 

She pushes his arm away when he tries to pull her close again and it's getting more and more difficult, he's getting harder every second and it won't be long until she notices and he doesn't want her to get all awkward. 

'I could go on top.' She says and he stares at her in disbelieve.

He gets upright, 'Could you?' She shoots him a look, 'Of course you can.' 

'If you teach me.' 

She sits up too, her hair a little wary and her lips are pressed together in embarrassment. He doesn't know what to say, so instead he decides to say what he has been thinking ever since she arched her back and moaned his name for the first time without realising it herself, 'I want to make you feel good.' 

'What do you mean?' She asks again.

'You know what I mean.' He insists, 'I can make you feel good too, if you want.'

'I-I don't know.'

‘Only if you want.'

She looks down at her hands and he can feel his cock throb. Maybe this is a very bad idea. He does not want to scare her and he is starting to think he has completely destroyed the moment. 

'Okay.' She then says, 'Do I have to go on top?' 

He laughs again before he can stop himself and he thinks for a second about turning it into a cough but it's too late, 'N-no you don't have to do anything.'

'Anything?' 

'Not if you don't want to.' 

'Stop it.' she breathes. 

'What?'

'Stop being so nice.' 

That's an odd thing to say. He has never tried so hard to be nice to someone and now she tells him to stop.

He can be unkind too if she likes. He can be rough, he thinks about being rough sometimes. When he wakes up and she's still asleep, curled up in his side, her head resting on her hand and her back touching him, filling his abdomen with an unbearable longing- that's when he thinks about fucking her hard. 

Every morning he watches her sleep for some time while thoughts poison his mind. Thoughts that would make her lock him out of her bedroom for the rest of their married life if she knew. 

It’s the view of the curves of her body, naked or clad in a thin nightdress, perfectly round and soft, that have made waking up a torment and, frankly, it's why he always let's her sleep. 

He can't wake her up in the morning, he thanks the Gods always when she is still asleep. His mind is a foggy, misty cloud.

He wants to be a sweet and devoted husband, gentle and kind, but seven hells he's not a fucking maester of the citadel and it feels too damn good to be inside her. 

'I'm sorry.' He says.

'Don't apologize.'

'Okay.' 

This is driving him to madness, she is purposely trying to test his Targaryen sanity. Maybe she is still angry because it feels like she is punishing him, if she is he’d prefer it if she would just say it. 

He looks her in the eye for a moment and then decides to tuck on her nightgown and he slowly pulls it down her shoulders. He'd like to suck on her really perfectly soft breasts but in fear of that being too much he just cups one and moves his lips to the skin behind her ear. His breath makes her shiver and he places gentle kisses from her neck to her collarbone.

She pulls his head up by tugging on his hair, she is always tugging on his hair, he loves it, 'you're being weird.' She says.

He could be acting a lot weirder any moment now, 'Sorry.' He says again.

She just looks a at him, a frown decorates her face.

He's done, he did not sign up for this, why is she making him feel all these unusual things? Why does it have to be so difficult? He never expected it to be easy but this is a whole new level of impossibleness. Sometimes she drives him more crazy than Aegon ever could, except sometimes he loves it. 

He wishes he could just tell her all the things he wants to tell her, all at once, just to be done with it, but he is afraid of breaking down all that they have somehow created these past moons, he doesn't think he has ever been this afraid to fuck something up, to lose it. Maybe he should tell her that. He is a fool and weak, a weak-ass fool.

He drops the hand that covered her breast and then, she lifts her nightgown all up, over her head until she's completely bare naked in front of him.

She isn't often, she still seems to prefer it to just keep that on, he always pulls it up not off and that is it, he'd clutch it in a desperate attempt to have something of her to grasp at. Lately he doesn't have to be that desperate anymore. 

She looks a little uncomfortable, without much confidence, and he can't imagine why, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He tries to remember how to blink before he pulls her towards him,‘You’re amazing.’ He says, he can't help it, he needs to say it.

'You're being weird.' He doesn't need her to keep telling him that, he is very self-aware at this moment.

‘Stop saying that.’

Sansa grins, 'It's true.

'I'm sure,' he says, 'But saying it is only going to make it worse.'

She doesn't respond to that, instead she moves her hand along his arm and closes her eyes for a second before she says, her voice hoarse and soft, 'I want you, Jon.'

He tries not to let her know how that comment makes him suffocate, he inhales and exhales a couple of times before he decides that if she is going to say things like that to him she damn right should go on top. 

He's being weird again when he gets up to kick his smallclothes off like a complete idiot before he lays back down on his back and pulls her towards him.

She laughs (he'd laugh too if she were him) and then she repeats what she already said, 'I'll go on top if you show me.'

He nods and pulls her right leg to the other side of him while the left one stays.

'Show me, just, don't laugh.'

'You're the one who's laughing.'

'No.' She says and she gives his cheek a little push with her hand, 'I'm being serious.’

'Hhmhh.' He says because he can't focus on what she's saying when she is astride of him, sitting there, looking like a mixture of a dream and nightmare with her hair falling over her breasts hiding her nipples from his view like the little prude she is. She’s always worried about doing the proper thing, even when they are alone, in this bedchamber.

He pushes her hair away and cups one breast again, his thumb gently strokes her side as he feels the tip harden under his palm. He has done it a few times now, often enough for her to manage to watch it all expectantly without rebuking him.

He skates his hand down, over the perfect soft, goosebumped skin of her stomach before he places both his hands on her hips. She has straddled him like this before, but never with no clothes on, never like this. 

He knows she’s wet enough and somehow that makes him nervous. He raises her up and manages to help her as he slides into her. He always feels relieve when he sinks inside.

There is no fear on her face but a tiny hint of shock and something else he cannot name, ‘D-does it hurt?’ 

She doesn’t respond, just gasps so he assumes it doesn't. He quickly moves to sit upright with her in his lap when he spots some discomfort and as he starts telling her his uncreative compliments he can feel her relax and become at ease.

She squeezes his shoulder blades with her hands while she finds her own pace, making sure to never lose his gaze, as if she needs to keep reminding herself this is okay, like she wants him to tell her she is not messing up and she's doing fine. 

She's not doing fine though, fine is not at all the perfect word to describe this.

He tries to let himself enjoy it without losing control, enjoy her smell and her touch, enjoy those sounds she makes. He likes the way she can't close her mouth in her silent gasp, she often does that. 

He wants to make her moan is ecstasy and say his name because it will be the only word she remembers, he’ll drive her mad the way she drives him mad, he’ll make her tremble and beg for more. He wants to make her come really hard because he still hasn't done that and it makes him feel like an asshole. 

Not now, not today, he knows that because she trembles all over and this may be too much, maybe she's scared, maybe she wants to stop.

She clearly doesn't want to stop when she kisses him and he feels the taste of her tongue in his mouth and her breasts compressing against his chest. He wants to keep kissing her face, her cheeks, kiss away the tears that have already dried up. 

He really wants to swear but he may say something she has never heard before and he can't ruin it, not like that, preferably not at all, so he just sticks to her name, he tries to sigh it but he knows he moans it while her hand deliberately finds his and she intertwines their fingers together as tightly as he'd like their bodies to be. 

When he ends it she makes sure he's in buried deep so he can fill her up and just like that he feels all the energy in his body slip away. Even when he just gets watch her do that he feels completely drained.

He lets himself drop to his back in the bed while she still sits there, on top of him. 

He intents to stare at her for some time, because he can stare at her for hours and never get bored, but she won't let him because she moves off him and pulls the duvets over her naked and trembling body.

He watches her for a second, rather disappointed, hoping he can manage to hide that before he gets under it too and he doesn't hesitate to pull her hip and drag her against his chest, spooning her the way she likes as he buries his face in her neck to breath in her sweet smell. 

'Are you going to fall asleep now?' 

_Don't laugh._

'I think so, maybe.' 

'You always fall asleep when we- after.' 

'Well, that is what you're supposed to do in a bed.' 

'Yes I know that.' She uses that tone on Robb a lot and it's not his favorite tone. Shit, he really does not want to think about Robb right now. 'I just mean that, you lay down and before I know it you're sleeping.' 

He really doesn't know where she wants to take this conversation to, 'Do you want me to stay awake?' 

'Not if you're tired.' 

Jon feels exhausted, 'I'm fine.'

Her fingers plays with his hand as it lays on her belly, 'You always wake up before I do.' She says.

'Uhuh, I.. I don't do that on purpose.' 

Her big toe slowly moves down his footpad, it makes him shiver and he moves his leg away, places it over hers so he can pull her back closer to his chest and get his foot away from hers.

'I wouldn't mind it if you wake me up.' She says.

'No, I wake up real early, it's a habit, you should get the sleep you need.' 

'I just mean- you don't always have to leave and let me sleep, you could wake me, it could be nice, we could break our fast together.'

In the eleven weeks they have been married, twelve since he arrived, he can't recall them ever breaking their fast at the same time. 

'Yes.' He says and suddenly he knows exactly how to scare her off, 'We could go out riding.'

'We could.' He can hear the hesitation in her voice, 'But we don't need to do that in the morrow, we can do that any time of the day.'

'It's nicest when it's early, when the sun comes up.'

'If you say so, maybe we could. But I'm no hero on a horse.' 

He wants to say something but can stop himself just in time, 'You'll be fine.' 

‘I don’t want the queen to have Lady’s fur.’ She suddenly says.

‘She won't.’ He says, ‘Don't worry about that.’

‘Now I am the only one without a wolf.’

‘You can have Ghost.’ He offers, he doesn't really mean it and he thinks she knows that.

‘No,’ she sighs, ‘Ghost is yours, he wouldn't even want me.’

‘He’s an idiot if he doesn't want you.’

She smiles a little, ‘He belongs to you, a direwolf is no pet that you can just give away or take.’ 

He nods in agreement, ‘But if Ghost belongs to me and I belong to you, he can be ours.’ 

‘Maybe.’ She pushes his face from her neck with her shoulder and giggles a little bit, 'You need to shave, you're scratching me.'

'Sorry, does it hurt?'

'No, but mother may see and she'll think badly of it.'

He doesn't give a fuck about what Catelyn Stark thinks of his stubble scratching his wife's cheek, 'Sorry.' He makes a mental note to suck on Sansa's neck sometime soon.

'Don't apologise.' She says, again, ‘It tickles.’

'Sorry.' He says, again.

She giggles, again, and she turns her head for a moment to kiss his nose, her pupils all fat and glossy. 

'Can I go to sleep now?’

‘Of course.’ She says, she tries to make her voice clear, but it's not working. 

'I missed you.' He says.

She doesn't respond.

‘Did you not miss me?’

She turns around and softly pushes him on his back and lays her chin on top of her hands, on his chest, ‘We can’t do that again.’ She tells him, her face very serious, ‘Fight like that and not make it right.’

‘I should not have left.’

She doesn't disagree with him and it's fine, right now he prefers to blame himself solely.

‘I didn't mean it. What I said.’

‘You did a little bit.’

‘No.’ he says and he wants to put force behind the word, ‘I don't think you’re pathetic.’ 

‘Sometimes you do.’ She says and he hates how convinced she is.

‘Not _you_.’ He says, ‘Truly, just the things you say or think or decisions you make.’ 

She smiles, ‘That’s me doing that.’ 

‘Doing pathetic things don't make us pathetic. Everyone does stupid things sometimes, not everyone's stupid. You are not stupid and you are _not_ pathetic.’ He runs his thumb down her cheek and he can see her smile fade into something else, ‘I think you’re amazing.’ 

She looks away, down, as best she can with her chin on his chest and her face so close to his, ‘Just because I used to be disappointed in marrying you doesn't mean I am disappointed in you.’ Her cheeks are turning a bright red now, he can see it even in the candle light, ‘I like being married to you, Jon.’

She can't know how saying that is the best thing he has ever heard in his entire life, it's the only thing he could ever dare hope for.

‘I like being married to you too.’ He should tell her how much it means to him that she says that, but he doesn’t know what words to use, he doesn’t know why she suddenly tells him, where it comes from. He knows she means it, if only because she would gain nothing by lying. King's Landing taught him that people only lie when they think it helps them get what they want. 

‘And I have not been pretending.’ She adds, ‘It’s important to me that you know that.’ 

He knows she has not been pretending so he doesn't quite understand why that makes him feel the way it does. He wishes she’d look at him, ‘I do.’ He pushed her chin up with his index finger and she seems almost sad when he can finally see her eyes. 

‘I’m so sorry.’ She says, ‘About all of that, about what I said and about... I cannot imagine- the way I acted when they told me we were going to be married, I should not have done that. The idea of you knowing that has made me feel sick from the moment I first saw you because you did not deserve that and I was afraid you’d think of me as some-‘ 

‘It doesn't make me think anything.’ That's not entirely true, ‘Not about you. I know how the world views people like me, Sansa, if I was a woman I wouldn't want that for myself either. You deserve better than anything I could ever possibly give you.’ 

She’s crying again. Fuck he made her cry again, how did he manage? ‘That’s not true!’ She objects, ‘Please don't say that.’ She moves up and burries her face in the crook of his neck, ‘You are so good to me.’ She snivels, her hand in his neck, ‘Everyone just keeps assuming you’re hurting me or that you will but you never do.’

‘I called you pathetic.’ He says, he can't imagine that didn't hurt.

‘I deserved that.’

‘You really did not.’

‘Stop punishing yourself for saying that!’

‘Who tells you I’ll hurt you?’ 

She doesn't respond at first, ‘Not everyone’s like you.’ She then says and he remembers telling her exactly the same once. He knows it's true, they are some extraordinary combination and not just because he is bastard-born and she the eldest daughter of the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

'I won't.’ He says, ‘I promised I wouldn't. I really, really want to be a good husband Sansa.’ Then he goes on admitting something he has not even acknowledged to himself, ‘At first because I didn't want to be like my father but now I just want to be a good husband because you deserve one.’ 

She looks up and smiles, he can feel her cold nose to her jaw, ‘When we are together, like we are now, like we just were, it's because you like me, isn't it? Not because you have to?’ 

‘Like’ is not the correct word, he likes loads of people, They don't make him feel the way she does, not now not ever before, ‘I told you.’ He says, ‘I tell you all the time.’ 

She blushes again and gets up a little so she can have a better view of his face, ‘I like being with you too.’ 

He nods. He wants to tell her it can be so much better, he can do so much better if only she lets him try, he knows she will, one day, hopefully soon. 

But then she kisses him, and it's not a soft good-night’s kiss. He is taken by surprise only for a few seconds before he decides that he should take as much of this as he possibly can, ‘Can you do it twice?’ She asks.

‘What?’ He can't think when she’s doing that, she shouldn't make it worse by talking or asking questions. 

‘Again, can you do it again? Or just once?’ 

He hopes he knows what she’s trying to tell him because if he does this unexpectedly turned out to be the best day of his life, ‘I-I think so.’

‘Can I go on top again?’ 

‘If you want.’ 

She moves up and smiles, like a seductress, or a goddess, ‘I want to try again.’ 

Jon decides that maybe waiting until she’ll ask him to do things is perhaps not the most progressing way, he decides that maybe he should just do stuff sometimes and make sure she really, really likes it. 

' 

When he wakes up the following morning he feels more angry than he initially expected. 

He gets out of bed, puts on his clothes and marches downstairs. He plans on going to the great hall but then he hears Sandor Clegane complain about how long it's taking Bran to die and he finds Joffrey in the courtyard, with Tyrion.

‘At least he dies quietely, the howling kept me awake.’

When Joffrey sees Jon he smirks in amusement, ‘I can't stand the sound of your wailing wife.’ He says. 

Jon looks at him for a second, giving his half brother the indication that he can say things like that to Jon’s face, then he takes a few large steps towards him and slaps him across the face the way Cersei should’ve done years ago.

‘They could cut your hand off for that!’

Jon laughs, ‘like you wanted to cut off my sister-in-law’s hand?’ 

‘That little wench just-‘

‘I heard you let a girl disarm you, I found it typical.’ 

‘I will tell father.’ Joffrey straightens himself and gives Jon a glare of pure hatred, then he opens his mouth to say something but Jon has already wasted too much time of his life listening to him.

He knows what this is all about, ‘You will go to Lord and Lady Stark and offer them their sympathies and if you don't _I_ will be the one telling father.’

Joffrey tells him how he can't wait to never have to see his face again, he adds that everyone is happy to get rid of him, he insults Jon a bit, says he’ll make him regret slapping him, insults him some more, insults Tyrion too and then finally leaves to do what Jon told him to do.

‘The prince will remember that.’ The hound says.

‘I hope he does.’ Tyrion smirks, ‘If he doesn't, be a good dog and remind him.’

Sandor Clegane follows Joffrey and Jon flexes his hand.

‘I wanted to hit him.’ Tyrion says, accusing Jon of stealing his moment.

‘I'm sorry, I couldn't contain myself.’ 

‘You can contain yourself far better than most, Snow.’ He says.

‘Are you well-prepared for the road?’ 

‘I am. To be fair, I did not expect you to be here, I'm honoured you came to see me off.’ 

Jon smirks, ‘Of course I came.’ He says, but it's not true, he came because he is furious and he is here to tell that to the people he is furious with, Tyrion knows that. 

‘I hear good news about your cousin.’ Tyrion says as he follows Jon towards the guesthouse.

‘Aye,’ Jon nods, ‘the family is relieved.’ 

‘So they should be. I do wonder what stories he’ll tell when he wakes up.’

‘It was an accident.’ Jon says.

‘Was it?’

‘Sansa says he was always climbing, always. He was bound to fall down some time, it is a a tragedy that he fell from that height.’ 

'Yes, a tragedy.’

Jon stops for a second and looks at him, ‘I will never understand how it surprises you that people doubt your loyalty.’

Tyrion smiles to himself, ‘Dear boy, you know how much I love my family.’

‘More than I do.’ 

‘Do I? I don't think so. You got the opportunity to pick between two families and managed to make the right choice. I envy you.’

‘We can’t choose our family.’ Jon insists.

‘Not when we have only one.’ 

‘Take care of yourself without me.’ Jon suddenly says, he doesn't know why, Tyrion always manages to take care of himself no matter how hopeless the situation may seem for him. 

‘I am actually planning on joining your uncle Benjen on his way further north to see the wall.’

‘Are you?’ Jon frowns at him in amusement, ‘Are you planning on taking the black?’

Tyrion laughs, ‘Seven hells no, I am not like you, I don't care about my lack of honour.’

‘You don't lack honour.’

‘The whores would come begging.’

‘Except maybe you do.’ 

Tyrion laughs again as he follows Jon to the morning room of the guesthouse. The entire family sits there, breaking their fast, and they look up all with different expectations on their faces when they see him.

Tommen gets up and breaks an uncomfortable silence when he asks if Bran is going to die.

‘No.’ Jon says, ‘Maester Luwin thinks he will live.’ 

He glares at Cersei who appears unmoved at the news. His father doesn't even seems to hear him.

‘That is good news.’ Rhaenys says, he wants to believe that she means it, but he can't. 

‘It is no mercy for the boy to live.’ Cersei insists.

‘Will lord Stark leave now that his boy is so ill?’ Aegon asks.

‘I'm sure his grace will make that decision for him.’ Jon says, he knows it's true. 

Rhaegar doesn't respond to Jon’s glare, he watches Aegon instead, like he always does, he is always keeping an eye on Aegon.

‘Will Bran be alright?’ Myrcella asks.

‘He will never walk again.’ Tyrion says as he sits down, unlike Jon, who still stands. He feels no need to sit, to pretend he belongs with these people.

‘Brandon Starks usually end up being the unlucky ones. They should end the boy’s misery now. Don't turn him into a cripple.’ Ser Jaime says.

‘Oh no,’ Tyrion says, ‘Life is full of possibilities while death is so final.’ He picks up a cup, ‘They say the howling wolf outside Brandon Stark’s window may contribute to his survival. When they close the window he weakens and when they open it his strength grows.’

Cersei mocks him with her laugh, ‘What a bellony.’

‘Let's hope my lady wife does not fall from a tower.’ Jon says and he can see anticipation in Aegon’s eyes, who knows what may be coming.

‘Let's hope not.’ Jon’s older brother agrees, ‘It would be quite a waste.’

With ‘waste’ Jon knows he doesn't mean Sansa's life, he means that if Sansa dies this whole trip he detested so much would all have been for nothing. It angers Jon more than he likes to let on.

‘I would like it if you could explain to me why my wife’s direwolf was put down without informing me beforehand.’ 

Rhaegar finally looks at him and his brows are knit together.

‘Your grace.’ Jon adds and he hopes his voice is as scornful as his soul.

‘Your brother was violently attacked.’ Cersei says, trying her very best to sound astounded. 

‘I saw him,’ Jon says, ‘This morning, I was disappointed to find him looking exactly the same as he always does.’ 

Cersei is clearly insulted by the remark, ‘You should-‘ 

‘Quiet woman!’ Rhaegar suddenly bellows. 

Jon has never seen his father watch him so carefully, it's as if he is trying to investigate what the meaning is of this attitude when it seems rather obvious to Jon. Naturally his father does not understand, when has he ever?

‘It was only a beast.’ Rhaegar says, ‘Perhaps you can gift your lady wife a dog on her next nameday, she’ll be happier for it.’

What does Rhaegar Targaryen know about the happiness of women?

‘These beasts are dangerous and disturbing and should not be kept in homes.’ Cersei says.

‘The Starks disagree.’ Jon doesn't know why he is still standing there when he knows it won't matter, nothing ever changes, ‘The direwolf was innocent and it was cruel to have it put down. I don't expect anyone here to see it that way because I know you too well.’ 

‘Jon-‘ his father starts but he can't listen to it. He does not want to hear the excuses for killing Sansa's direwolf. He knows why he allowed them to kill it, they killed Lady because his father couldn't stand to listen to Cersei’s nagging, his father offered an innocent life to spare himself a headache. 

'Of course.’ Jon says, ‘I was told you offered to buy the skin, but the direwolf is the sigil of house Stark, you are not fit to wear it.’

Cersei’s face reddens with anger but Rhaenys speaks before she can open her mouth.

'Jon. It can't be changed now, it’s done.’ 

He is fully aware. Jon bows his head to his king, ‘I hope your travel will be a save one, your grace.’ He says before he turns his back on them and walks out of the room. 

He hopes desperately that this was the last time that he ever has to talk to them. He hates them, deeply and passionately, no matter how long and how hard he tried not to, they forced him to hate them. He wanted to look up to his father all his life, but there was nothing to look up to, all those people who admire him are fools.

He marches through the courtyard, ignores all fuss around the king’s departure and before he realises where he’s heading he stands next to a bed, where his wife is still embraced by a deep and peaceful sleep.

He throws his clothes off and moves to lie down next to her, where he just left her not that long ago.

She shifts against him and smiles without waking up when he takes her in his arms. He’ll hold her like this until she wakes up, shield her from these terrible people outside this room. Their room of bliss where they fight, talk, joke, eat, sleep, fight some more and make love every night.

He knows that it's his duty to go outside, stand next to Robb, Catelyn too, when the king departs for King’s Landing at last, he will do that, he will be there and do his duty. Yet right now, all he cares about is his duty to the sleeping figure of Sansa Stark. 

He never belonged in King’s landing, he was never a Targaryen and he would never be, he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to pay his respects to the people who treated him like a shameful embarrassment for all these years. 

They tried to shake, insult, yell and slam the Stark out of him but they never could. He was not his father’s prince, he was his mother’s son and he asks the gods for it to never change, no matter how much Cersei Lannisters punished him for it, no matter how much Aegon hated it. 

Rhaegar Targaryen had fathered his bastard and greatest disappointment over nineteen years ago and now he finally found a way to get rid of it, by giving him back to the only people who ever loved and cared for him, the people who raised him, the people he belonged with. 

He belongs here, in this bed, he was born to hold her in his arms as she sleeps, save and secure, as innocent as a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so very happy about the ending of this chapter but I figured that since I wrote it a month ago it can't get much better than this and I did want to have some sort of good bye (or lack thereof) between Jon and his family. Anyway so yeah, next update is gonna be Sunday as usual. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!


	9. Sunflower Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb frowns at him, clearly fishing for the right words with no bate, ‘You should take care of her, make sure she doesn't do something stupid.’
> 
> ‘Sansa’s not stupid.’ Jon says, ‘Maybe you underestimate her sometimes.’

**Jon**

As much as Jon wants to enjoy the peace and calm silence that appears once his family leaves, he finds it impossible. 

Bran has still not opened his eyes and despite the maester’s vast confidence of his survival he is unsure in what state the boy will be once he finally wakens. 

It effects Catelyn the most and she sits by her son’s bedside at all times in a fragile mental state that terrifies him a little. Sansa tries to keep her company, to convince her to sleep or take a bath, but it all helps very little. 

Robb needs his mother’s guidance now that he has become the lord of Winterfell in his father’s absence, but she refuses to help him and is annoyed whenever anyone troubles her with matters that do not concern Bran. She can't be bothered as long as her son may still be dying and it angers her when anyone expects her to. 

‘Provisions need replacement, Vayon Poole needs to be replaced too, he left south with my father- along with a number of other positions. The King’s leave was postponed again and again, it cost a small fortune and now my mother refuses to look at numbers.’ Robb shakes his head.

‘I'll write to my father.’ Jon assures him as they walk through the grassy field behind the castle walls, along the glass garden, ‘He cannot expect Winterfell to provide for his party for the time it has and not share in the expenses.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Robb sounds truly grateful and Jon can imagine why.

‘My father will understand.’ Jon knows how the king is no thief and never will be, he also knows his father could cover his iron throne in gold if he wants.

‘She did not even say good-bye to the family.’ Robb continues, ‘What about Arya? With Bran unable to go and Sansa staying here she will be all on her own in the capital, they say it's a rat nest, she’ll be lonely.’

Loneliness is not the most dangerous thing Arya may encounter and somehow Jon feels that out of all the Stark children Arya could be the one who may survive best in King’s landing, ‘Your mother is afraid.’ He feels sorry for Catelyn, he cannot imagine what she must be going through, the few times he has seen her since Bran’s fall she reminded him of a corpse. 

‘Bran is not her only son.’ Robb says, ‘She has more children that need her. Bran won’t die, the maester is sure of it.’

Rickon follows Sansa around all day, crying, tugging her skirts.

‘Rickon thinks everyone is abandoning him.’ She told Jon. 

Sansa has taken on Catelyn’s mother duties and spends most of her day time with her youngest brother. She plays with him in the garden, tells him stories, sings her songs to him, tries to teach him all she knows about their own family tree and brings him to bed every evening, tucking him in and kissing the top of his head. It is a lovely sight, if only the reason behind it could be less tragic. 

‘Sansa takes good care of Rickon, every child would be upset if half his family suddenly left.’ Jon decides, he wishes Robb was easier on his mother. 

Robb stops walking and looks at him for a while, ‘How are you and Sansa?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just realise, I have never asked you.’

Asked him what? Jon just stands there and looks at Robb, who pulls a hand through his own hair, with the curls that are just like his but auburn. 

‘How is she?’

‘Good, I think.’ 

‘Is she still asleep? It's getting out of hand, she wastes half her day in her room.’ 

Jon looks away, trying to hide his red cheeks. There is no reason for Robb to know that Sansa staying in bed that long has everything to do with him keeping her awake all night, ‘She wasn't feeling very well this morning.’ 

‘Maybe Sansa can talk to mother.’

‘She has tried.’ Jon starts to walk again, ‘Sansa is not very good at pressing on.’

‘You haven't answered my question.’ Robb reminds him as he catches up.

‘What question?’

‘Are you two getting along? You’ve been married for some time now, I suppose you can-‘

‘We get along alright.’ 

Robb does not hide his attempt at trying to read Jon’s body language, ‘Alright?’

Jon knows he may regret it when he says, ‘If your questions could be a bit more specific maybe I’ll give a clear answer.’

‘You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.’ 

Jon doesn't respond, just stares ahead of himself, at the grey and dark landscape of the North, the cold and emptiness that makes the warmth of a bed, the fire of a heard and the softness of women far better here than anywhere else in the world. 

‘It's just that… I thought she seemed to- I was under the impression that things may be amiss when Lady was put down and Sansa never-‘ 

‘Sansa is still very upset about Lady.’ She really is. When she woke up the next morning she cried some more and she snapped at Arya before saying goodbye, even when she has no idea when she will see her sister again. 

They buried the direwolf here, at Winterfell, where no one can take her skin and wear it like a token of some twisted victory. 

‘I know.’ Robb says and he still eyes Jon, ‘You must comfort her, I suppose that is your duty.’

Robb has no idea how hard he tries, ‘I will, I do. I try.’ 

‘Sansa is still disappointed about staying here, she has always dreamed of... You should not take it personally, she’ll accept it eventually.’ 

Why does it always have to be awkward whenever anyone asks him about Sansa? No matter to whom he speaks, ‘She seems fine.’ He tries his best not to appear irritated, ‘I think she is glad that she can stay here now, to support her mother and be with Bran.’ 

He knows that’s true, but he also knows that she does not mind being here with him, if she was still disappointed and sad about being left behind at Winterfell she was either hiding it very well or it has become unnoticeable due to all the hectic of the past few weeks. 

_I like being with you too._

‘I suppose you are right.’ They are silent for a while when Robb decides to ask one last question, ‘But you are pleased with her? I know she can be unkind if she tries, even rude. Mostly she is stubborn, really. But she's a good girl, she can be very sweet. Once she gets to know you-’

‘She is never unkind.’ In all honesty that is not true at all.

‘Good.’ Robb nods, ‘I'm glad.’

‘She’s lovely.’ Jon doesn’t really know why he says that, maybe because he feels like he needs to defend Sansa, he not always likes the way Robb talks about her. 

Robb frowns at him, clearly fishing for the right words with no bate, ‘You should take care of her, make sure she doesn't do something stupid.’

‘Sansa’s not stupid.’ Jon says, ‘Maybe you underestimate her sometimes.’

‘I still think you should take care of her.’ 

Jon refuses to look Robb in the eye, ‘You don't have to worry about that.’ 

Robb smirks, ‘I don't, but I feel like it is my duty to tell you anyway.’

‘Does this conversation feel like a duty to you too? Because I need it to be over.’

Robb laughs, ‘Of course.’ He slams Jon on his back, ‘Theon says you are in love with her.’

Jon feels his body stiffen at the comment, he doesn’t respond and he doesn’t have to because Robb continues, 

‘He said some vile things about Sansa yesterday, it was dreadful. I told him to shut up.’

‘What did he say about Sansa?’ It better not be too vile.

Robb shrugs, ‘I don't know, I forgot mostly.’ When Jon keeps looking at him he adds, ‘He called Sansa a hypocrite for scolding him- I don't know what she scolded about exactly- I asked why and he said something about the way she looks at you and about the way you look at her and just looking in general or I don't know, I don’t remember.’

Jon makes a mental note to not tell Sansa, spare her the heart attack, headaches and lack of sleep she’ll suffer when she finds out Theon Greyjoy talks about her, ‘He said that?’ It sounds too poetic for Theon, Jon thinks. 

Robb does remember all the sudden, ‘He said she looks at you as if you have no clothes on.’ Robb bursts out laughing, ‘it's a bit sad, I’d call it a talent to say such disgusting things about my sister, of all people.’ 

Jon gulps down something that somehow feels a bit like guilt. Images of the night before when she gasped and panted and moaned his name while she told him to 'don't stop’ take over his mind and it costs too much effort to push them away again. If only Robb knew how ‘disgusting’ the things are that Sansa makes him think about. 

When he came back to Winterfell he believed he'd finally have people again that he could talk to and tell everything, but there is no one he can tell how she, three days before, finally did not hesitate when he moved his hand down to touch her there. He can't possibly tell Robb that he softly pressed his fingers inside of her, first one then two, then three, he can't tell him how she gasped. Least of all he can't tell Robb that after he told her to ‘don't stop’ and ‘it's okay, you’re perfect’ she finally let go. He can’t share with anyone how he found out that watching his wife come was the most beautiful fucking sight he has ever seen. 

He can't tell anyone how amazing she is, how good she tastes and feels, how funny and clever she is, how fast her wit is, how he worries about her, thinks about her all the time, how his day brightens when he sees her. 

He can't tell anyone how hopelessly in love he is with Sansa Stark, how he feels like the luckiest bastard in the world and beyond because she is his wife, _actually_

his wife, because everyone at Winterfell is either related to her, much too young, too old or a stranger to him.

'You shouldn't let him talk about her like that.’ 

‘I don't! I smacked him across his head when he said it.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘I think she’ll learn to appreciate you.’ Robb decides, ‘Once she accepts her fate she’ll be alright, she could do a lot worse. Did you know Walder Frey send a marriage proposal to my father when he heard about your engagement?’

It's good to know even Walder Frey thinks his son is a better match for a Stark daughter than Jon Snow the bastard, it's also nice that Robb thinks that ‘a lot worse’ means a Frey. Being married to one of his brothers seems ‘a lot worse’ to Jon, unfortunately no one agrees with him on that. 

‘No,’ he says while leaning down to grasp some snow from the ground to clutch it in his hand and form it into a snowball, ‘I did not know that.’

‘Father refused him of course, he always does. Frey has so many wives and even more children, all those daughters, he doesn't know where to put them.’ 

‘Maybe you can marry one now.’ 

Robb snorts, ‘Over my dead body.’ 

‘They say Walder Frey pays the weight of his daughter in silver for their dowry.’ Sansa didn't come with a dowry, not one tiny coin. why would anyone pay a bastard a dowry? Jon has never thought of it but now he wonders how big her dowry may have been if she’d married Aegon. Jon living at Winterfell must be dowry enough. Jon wouldn't want to marry a Frey if they paid their weight in dragon eggs. He saw some Freys at Joffrey’s nameday tourney, they aren't his kind of people much.

‘At second thought maybe I should marry one, a really fat one so I don't have to bother my mother with the expenses of your father’s little retreat.’ 

Jon throws the snowball in his hand to Robb’s head and it smashes apart in his face. 

He spits out the snow that ended up in his mouth and wipes some more away with the back of his hand, ‘Do that again.’ He warns, a wide grin on his face.

Jon leans down but he’s too late and he can feel the wetness on his skin as the cold burns his cheek. It makes him laugh and when he gets up he sees a snowball reach the back of Robb’s head, a snowball aimed by someone unknown. 

Robb turns around and when he sees his youngest brother he grabs some snow in his hand and goes after him. Rickon yielps and runs away screaming, his small face lightened up with joy.

Jon stands there and looks at them, then spots Sansa, standing under a tree, hugging her arms around herself and grinning as she watches her brothers. He knows she’s probably the one who told Rickon to aim the snowball at Robb, looking at her bare hands it’s even safe to assume she made it for him. 

He takes a few long strikes and pulls her to his chest. With Robb in the distance, still running after Rickon, who turns out to be surprisingly fast, Jon allows himself to place a peck on her nose. 

‘Theon thinks I'm in love with you.’ He doesn't know why he tells her. 

‘Does he?’ She looks down at her feet, smiling as her cheeks turn red, ‘Why would he say that?’ 

Jon shrugs, ‘I don't know, he did not tell me, he told Robb.’ He waits a second before he adds, ‘Robb says he thinks you’ll learn to appreciate me eventually.’ 

She giggles and takes his face between her bare, freezing and wet (guilty) hands, ‘Eventually?’ She asks, ‘Thankfully you are a very patient man.’ 

‘You think I have patience?’ 

'Yes.' She breathes out and her breath warms his cold skin before she presses her even warmer lips to his. 

‘Theon is an idiot.’ He says, his eyes still closed even after she ends the kiss, too soon of course, always too soon, ‘If he’s rude to you, you must tell me.’

She pushed some hair behind his ears and he can feel her nod because her nose bumps against his, ‘He’s always rude to me.’ 

He opens his eyes and sees her beaming, beautiful face, ‘I'll make him stop.’ He promises.

‘How?’ 

‘I don't know that yet.’ 

‘I want you to tell me first.’ She quickly tells him and he laughs, ‘I mean it! I promised I’ll always try and stop you from making a fool out of yourself.’

He kisses her cold nose before he says, ‘No one has ever made me feel as big of a fool as you have.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She says, he knows she’s not.

‘Don't be.’ 

 

**Robb**

When Robb sees his little sister kiss his cousin around the corner of the glass garden he doesn't believe there will ever be a thing he’ll see in his life that will haunt him more.

He takes that back the same day. After saving the library tower from eternal ruin he rushes back to Bran’s room, following the agonizing scream for help that clearly comes from his sister.

His mother sits on the floor, on her knees, her hands covered in blood that drips down into her dress. Sansa shakes her shoulders, her face covered in tears, but Catelyn does not seem to notice. Bran’s wolf lays on the bed, at his master’s legs, reddening the fur with blood. 

In the corner lies the still body of an unknown man, his throat has clearly been ripped out by Bran’s nameless wolf.

He tries to help Sansa pull his mother up, tries to ask the both of them what happened, who that man is, why the wolf killed him but Catelyn doesn't respond, she trembles all over and sobs as she clutches her wounded hands into fists.

He runs towards Jon’s room, doesn't find him there and on his way to Sansa’s he runs into Theon, whom he tells to go get Maester Luwin and old Nan. 

He finds Jon in Sansa’s room and rushes with him back to Bran’s where Jon helps him lift his mother from the floor. 

When Theon comes back with Maester Luwin they immediately decide to remove the corps of Bran’s assassin and bring it outside. 

Jon wraps his cloak around Sansa’s bare arms and holds her hand longer than he needs to. She’s only dressed in her nightgown and her skin is visibly covered in goosebumps. She takes their mother back to her chambers where she and old Nan undress her and help her into a bath. 

After the bath, Maester Luwin takes a look at Catelyn's wounds: her fingers are cut almost to the bone and the man has pulled out a handful of her shiny, auburn hair. 

Hours later he is standing in front of the door to his mother’s chambers with Jon, shoulder to shoulder, when Sansa comes out. 

'The maester gave her milk of the poppy.’ She tells them, ‘I’ll pray she’ll sleep for days.’

'She could use that.’ Robb says and Jon nods.

Jon takes a step towards her and takes her upper arm in his hand, squeezes it, ‘You should go to your rooms as well.’ He says, ‘It’s late.’

As Sansa nods and asks her husband if he wants his cloak back Robb wonders why he has not see this before, when did this start?

Her eyes soften when he tells her to keep it, he tells her to wait for him, says he won't be long, and she squeezes the wrist of the hand that still hold her arm. 

She nods at Robb as if she feels obliged to let him know she is aware of his presence too. Then she walks away and Robb wonders why anyone ever dares to call Theon an idiot when obviously he is.

‘What am I going to do?’ He asks while he stares after his little sister. He doesn't really expect a proper answer, it's not a proper question. 

‘Bran needs a guard in front of his door.’ Jon says, it seems so obvious, why did he not think of that yet? Why does his head feel like it's up in the sky and not stuck to his neck? ‘We have to find out who that man was as soon as possible, find out if he left a trace, check his clothes, see what he was carrying with him. We have to find out if his presence was noticed.’ 

Robb keeps nodding and he know he must look dumb.

‘Someone wants to have him killed.’ Jon decides.

Robb wants to ask who he means by ‘him’ but he can stop himself in time, ‘Why would anyone want to kill a boy of ten, crippled and bedridden?’

Jon looks away for a second, into the hallway where Sansa just disappeared around a corner. He probably wants to go to her room to comfort her or something. That is his duty now. Maybe he’ll hold her and maybe she’ll cry. Maybe this conversation is making him irritated because he wants to leave and be with her. Maybe tonight he’ll be with her like husbands do with their wives and she’ll kiss him again like she did behind the glass gardens. The idea makes his stomach turn into a knot. Why has he not thought of that ever before? He does not want to think about that, he should not be thinking about that. It makes him look at Jon with a frown, he seems a lot less trustworthy suddenly. 

‘My father always says that lordlings have to answer their own questions.’ Jon tells him, ‘You are the lord of Winterfell now.’ 

When did the king ever tell him that? As far as Robb noticed there was very little interaction between Rhaegar and his bastard son.

Robb wants to shake Jon and scream at him that he does not understand, that this seems like one big nightmare or so many nightmares all passing by, one after the other, he needs it to stop, he needs his father, his wisdom and his advice. 

‘If that man tried to kill Bran, it means someone does not want him to wake up.’ Jon says, after what feels like a whole summer of silence. 

‘Someone is afraid of what he saw. Of what he may say if he wakes up.’ Robb says, his own words surprise him.

‘ _When_ he wakes up.’ Jon corrects him. 

 

 **Sansa**

Catelyn sleeps for four days. In that time Sansa feels like a ghost, chased by a ghost, one she cannot see and one that soundlessly follows her, watches her, presses his wet nose to her hands and lays his head in her lap. She feels sick, she can't eat and her sleep is troubled. 

She wakes up in the middle of the night, tears streaming down her face, the sight of her mother’s hands and the corps in the corner of Bran’s room haunting her. 

Rickon wails and whines all day and it takes up all the energy she can find to not snap at him. Her back hurts, she feels tired and warm, like she can’t breath properly. 

Nobody knows who the man was, but it’s likely he had been lurking in the stables ever since the king’s arrival. They find ninety hidden silver stags under the straw of his hiding place, he seems to have been low-born and without a proper trace there is little more they can do but burn the nameless peasant outside the castle gates. 

‘You must forgive me for my behaviour.’ Catelyn tells Sansa when she visits her mother after her awakening, ‘It shall not happen again.’

Sansa wants to take her mother’s hand in hers but decides against it. They look painful and she doesn't want to make it hurt more, ‘I forgive you.’

‘I have not been there for you.’ 

‘It is alright.’ _I have Jon_.

‘You look tired.’ 

‘I am.’ Sansa admits. _All the time_.

Robb looks all dressed up, wearing armor and a sword when he comes to see their mother, along with Sansa's husband, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Hallis Mollen, who is apparently the new captain of the guard. She has missed so much lately, everything seems to pass by. 

Hallis tells Catelyn about the man, who he was, where he came from, what happened to him.

‘Someone tried to murder Bran because he saw something.’ Robb says, ‘We need to find out who.’

Rodrik points out that the dagger used by the assassin, a Valyrian steel blade with a dragonbone handle, is a much finer weapon than anything the low-born footpad should have possessed. 

‘Someone gave it to him.’ 

Sansa sits there and listens, her eyes jumping from one man to the other as they discuss the circumstances. She tries to make Jon look at her but he either ignores her or does not notice as he stares at the floor with a frown on his face.

Sansa presses her lips together until her mother starts speaking and she looks up to watch her as she confidently tells them about a certain letter. 

‘But if it was written in a secret language… perhaps you misunderstood.’ Jon looks at Catelyn, the frown on his face has deepened and Sansa knows for certain now that he deliberately avoids her stare. 

Catelyn shakes her head, ‘I know my sister, I know what that letter said. Jaime Lannister did not go hunting with the others the day Bran fell, I do not believe that Bran fell, he was pushed.’

Jon looks horrified and she wants to rush to him and comfort him. Jaime is the uncle of his siblings, the brother of his mother-in-law, he lived with the man for years and the knight was sworn to protect both him and his kin. He looks at Sansa’s mother in disbelieve but everyone else seems to find this to be a reasonable conclusion.

‘However,’ Maester Luwin says, ‘All we have is conjecture, we must have proof or else keep silent.’

Sansa sits up more straight when, after some deliberation, Catelyn decides that someone must go the King’s Landing, to inform Sansa’s father. 

‘I have to go.’ Catelyn says, ‘I need to speak to my husband and be the one to tell him.’

‘What about Bran?’ Sansa asks.

‘I have prayed to all the seven, Bran’s fate lies in their hands now.’ Catelyn says.

‘You cannot go alone.’ Robb says, ‘Jon can come with you.’

Sansa’s eyes widen at the suggestion and finally Jon looks at her. 

Robb seems to spot their exchanging of looks, ‘He knows King’s Landing better than any of us, perhaps he could speak to his father-‘

‘I cannot speak to my father about this until we have proof.’ Jon interrupts him, ‘He will listen when we present him facts but I shall not accuse his queen or his brother-in-law, a member of the King’s Guard, of murder with no proof beyond reasonable doubt.’

‘I am certain.’ Catelyn says, ‘We need to leave soon, if we do we may arrive ahead of the king’s party.’ 

Jon moves towards the door, ‘I cannot speak to my father of this,’ he repeats, ‘But if you wish me to join you on your travel to the capital I will.’

He leaves and Sansa bites her lip so hard she fears she'll bleed. 

‘Don't take Jon.’ Sansa says once the door falls shut and she is alone with her mother once again.

Catelyn looks at her, ‘Sansa, I have to do this, I need to see your father.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ in truth she doesn't, not really, but she knows it won’t help to say it, ‘Just, please don't take Jon.’

‘It won't be long,’ Catelyn’s lips turn into an affectionate smile, ‘He’ll be back before you know it. Perhaps you will have to get used to his absence, there is more than one reason for a lord husband to leave his lady wife behind sometimes and Jon is the king's son, he may live at Winterfell now but you must keep it in mind that he can be summoned to court at any time.’ 

‘I know that.’ Sansa looks at her hands again, she presses them to her stomach when she says, ‘Maybe the king will want him to stay, maybe you'll have to leave without him.’

‘We won't be presented at court.’

‘Jon will have to, he can't go to the capital and not meet with his father, it would be insulting, people may speak badly of it.’ 

Catelyn eyes her in suspicion, ‘Do you care for him this much?’

 _Yes_. She wants to say, because she does, but it's not the only reason why she wants Jon to stay at Winterfell, she needs him here, during the day and during the night. 

Sansa avoids to look at her mother before she pulls her hands from her flat tummy, ‘Maester Luwin tells me there is a child growing inside of me.’ 

Catelyn gasps, ‘Sansa…’ she whispers, ‘That is marvellous news!’

Sansa tries to smile, ‘I was told this morning, I have not said anything to no one, not even Jon.’ 

‘You ought to tell him.’ Catelyn says, ‘He’ll be overjoyed.’ 

Will he? Sansa wonders. They have not discussed it, never spoken of the possibility, ever. Why haven't they? Now that it’s real she doesn't understand why they did not, they should have.

‘I will.’ She doesn't know how or when.

‘How are you feeling?’ 

‘Dreadful.’

‘The mornings?’

Sansa nods, the nausea in the morning has only worsened and she’s glad Jon wakes up and doesn't see her like that, it must be unflattering.

‘It will get better.’ Catelyn assures her, ‘What did maester Luwin say?’

‘He said that it has the seize of sunflower seeds and that I have many moons to go. He also said that I am healthy and so is Jon therefore he sees no reason for worry, as long as I take good care of myself.’

‘You must take good care of yourself.’ Catelyn smiles at her daughter, ‘We were in need of some good news.’

‘I'm glad I could give it to you.’ She means that.

‘You are carrying the king’s first grandchild, Sansa, that is an honur.’ 

Sansa had not at all looked at it in that way. She always expected to give the king grandchildren, but she imagined them to have silver hair and purple eyes. The chances of the sunflower seed inside her to grow and look like that were relatively small. Perhaps her baby will look like Jon, not a Targaryen but a Stark, with brown hair, a long face, grey eyes and a good heart. She'd like that.

‘I need him here, mother.’ Sansa says, ‘Please don't make him go.’ 

Catelyn nods and then takes Sansa’s hand in hers, ‘He’ll stay.’ She promises.

Sansa feels like she can breath for the first time that day, ‘Thank you.’ 

.

Sansa knows where to find him, yet she doesn't consciously decide to go there, her mind is lost and it wanders around somewhere in a world of numbness.

‘Jon.’

He looks up and smiles, it's a sad smile, the lopsided one that is half smile half frown and though it's a handsome smile, it is not the one she likes best. 

‘I’m sorry if you’re at prayer.’ 

He shakes his head, ‘You belong here more than I do.’ 

‘Do I? I wonder if the old gods like me, I spend too much time talking to the new ones.’

‘I don't understand how southerners can think in those septs, it never feels peaceful in there.’ 

If anything the weirwood tree looks peaceful, not to everyone perhaps, she can imagine is doesn't, but to her it does, it’s where they got married, it's a sacred place to her that will always, in many ways, represent her sacred childhood, ‘I came here a lot when I was a girl.’ She still feels like a girl, but not that girl. 

He looks a little surprised, ‘You did?’

She nods and sits down beside him, as close as she possibly can with the lack of chairs and all their layers of clothing, ‘I was always praying for all the things I wanted, not for all the things I had.’

‘That’s what most young people do.’

She wants to lay her hand on his cheek, rub her thumb over his lower lip, ‘Nowadays I mostly pray for the things I have.’ 

He smiles and this time it is the nice one, the one that makes him look away, down at his hands. It doesn't last, before she knows it there is that tormented frown again, ‘I don't want to go to King's Landing.’ He says it as if he admits it to her, but he doesn't need to, she knows very well. 

‘You won't have to.’

‘Your mother seemed very determined.’

‘Not as determined as I am.’ She says. 

A grin spreads across his face, ‘You convinced her then?’ 

She nods and moves towards him, lays her head on his shoulder,‘You won't leave me.’ She breathes in his neck, her face in the crook that smells so nice, and she feels his arm around her middle.

He shakes his head.

‘Stay with me.’ She commands him.

‘You too.’ He says, ‘You have to stay with me too.’

She places a kiss just below his ear and closes her eyes, perhaps she is praying, perhaps she can pray to the old gods like this, by closing her eyes and dream of this feeling to never end, perhaps praying to the old gods feels like dreaming. 

If he holds her like this at night she can hear his heartbeat below her ear, now all she feels is leather, and his lips when he presses them to the top of her head, she hums when he strokes her hair from her face. 

‘You brood too much.’ She tells him.

‘So do you.’

‘Not right now I'm not.’ 

He chuckles and she smiles at the sound of it. Then she moves away from him a bit, raises her head from his shoulder and takes his hand in hers when he turns towards her, a questioning look on his face. 

She softly places his hand on her lower belly, covers it with her own, and presses her forehead to his, ‘Tonight, when it’s you and me, promise not to brood.’ She whispers and she can see him stare at her, his eyes widened as he starts to realize what she is telling him, he looks down at his hand, ‘Promise to forget everyone and everything but us.’

‘Us?’

She squeezes his hand, ‘Us.’ She repeats before she moves closer towards him again and whispers, ‘We are going to be a family.’

‘Sansa…’ the devotion in his voice makes her eyes water. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her perhaps a bit more roughly than he intended to but she doesn't mind, she smiles against his mouth. 

When she looks at his beaming face, his eyes filled with affection and some disbelieve, she feels an utter joy take over that she has never experienced before.

‘Are you sure?’

‘The maester confirmed it this morning.’ She says and he shakes his head as if he cannot believe it. 

‘So you’re certain?’ He asks again.

She smiles, ‘A woman knows.’

‘Seven hells.’ He never swears in her presence, except those times when he doesn't know what he’s saying. 

‘Are you happy?’ 

'Of course I am, Sansa.’

It's only now that she tells him, and sees his excitement and the way he looks at her that warms her heart, that she properly realises. She has walked around with the idea for some days now, she knew for certain when she threw up this morning, again. She did not need maester Luwin to confirm it, when he did it just felt like a necessity. 

She knew but it did not feel right until this moment. Jon pulls her back in his arms again, her head perfectly tucked in the crook of his neck. 

‘Seven hells.’ He says again and it makes her giggle. 

She is going to be a mother, to his child, _their_ child. It’s growing inside her at this very moment, safe inside her belly, where it’s warm and safe and there is no pain. 

They are having a baby, a tiny human being that will be theirs, her and Jon’s and somehow nothing in her life has ever seemed so right before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you for all the sweet comments and everything, I can't believe this story has over 350 kudos it's insane, thank you thank you thank you! 
> 
> I'm back to my normal update schedule, that means next chapter is gonna be here in a week, Sunday again. 
> 
> Hope you have a good week!x


	10. Flat and Silk-Covered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon walks after his wife and Bran knows he is not the only one who doesn’t understand why. Bran wouldn’t want to be near his sister right now even if it would give him back the power to move his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola! I must say I did not expect to post this today, exams are killing me, but I really want to update regularly so I'm super glad I managed!

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

In her mother’s absence Sansa spends all her time knitting very tiny pieces of clothing. She loves knitting hats the most, in all sorts of sizes, just to be sure.

She keeps asking maester Luwin what size her baby is now and he keeps comparing it to food. Her babe turns from a sunflower seed into a berry, the berry turns into a bean, then a grape which Sansa loves because she always eats grapes before she goes to bed. It all seems still so terribly small to her. A grape is tiny and completely vulnerable.

Her breasts hurt too, a constant ache that makes it unable for her to sleep on her stomach, which she always used to do.

Her nausea only gets worse, she is tired all the time, no matter how much she lies down and she can't stop thinking about eating, so she does that a lot. 'Are you eating that _too_?' Jon asks, and Sansa glares.

Jon's terribly sweet and she desperately tries to appreciate it, she really does, but at the same time she wonders how he suddenly has become the most annoying human being in the kingdom of the North.

Every time she snaps at him she feels so bad about it and she'll apologize with tears in her eyes. He looks at her with those grey worried eyes, not quite understanding what it is he did wrong this time and it makes her feel guilty. When she tells him she's sorry he says he doesn't mind and she’ll be annoyed all over again with how considerate he is. Sometimes she wishes he'd yell at her, just so she could yell back, and she wouldn't have to feel guilt.

She hates it that she lays in bed all the time, she hates seeing the inside of her bedchamber constantly, she can't stand how much energy it costs her to simply get dressed.

She can't stand him being near her at night, she doesn't want him to touch her yet at the same time it's the only thing that makes her feel better. She doesn't know what she wants, she doesn't know why she treats him that way, she doesn't know how he takes so much of it.

She feels like crying, she lays on her back in her bed as he walks around the room doing things that annoys her and she suddenly feels the tears stream down her cheeks.

Sansa needs her mother and she tells him that. he looks completely stunned at the sudden outburst of emotions and he moves over towards her, saying her mother will soon be returning and she’ll have to settle with his company for the time being.

‘You don't understand!’ She says.

‘I can try.’

‘No.’

‘Not if you don't want to.’

‘It has nothing to do with _trying_ Jon!’

‘I'm sorry! I only mean to help, I don’t know what to say.’

She turns away from him and faces the wall.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No.’ she says, closing her eyes firmly.

‘Do you want me to go?’

She doesn't respond in time and he gets up and walks over towards the door.

She jumps upright in the bed, ‘No! Don't go, please stay.’ She feels like sobbing again, ‘I’m so so sorry, I am, truly.’

He frowns at her in confusion, visibly suppresses a shrug and walks back to the bed. He gets in next to her and pulls her against him, ‘It’s going to be fine, Sans, maester Luwin says you are doing very well, he says it will get better. He says that it's often like this, during the first three moons. He says the baby takes all your self-control and-’

'You spoke to maester Luwin of me?'

For a wee second Jon's eyes widen when he realizes and he stammers, 'N-no, I mean, I did, I just... I mean, I asked him and-'

'What did you ask?'

'How you are feeling-'

'You could ask  _me_ , I could tell you how I'm feeling! No need to ask the maester!'

'I know! I do! I did, I ask you how you're feeling, all the time, I-'

'Then why are you-'

'Because he's the maester! Seven hells Sansa, all I did was speak to the maester of my lady wife!'

'To ask him why it is that I'm being so terribly difficult?'

' _No_! I asked him about your health and-'

'So you think I'm being difficult?'

'W-what? I didn't say that, I-'

'You don't need to say it!'

'If you want to believe that, please do, I cannot change your mind no matter what I say!' 

'I'ts fine Jon, don't bother please!'  

'I won't.' he decides. Jon gets up again, grabs his doublet, doesn't take the time to put in on and makes his way over towards the door, again. Sansa doesn't mean to hiccup, because she doesn't want him to know she's crying, again. But he turns around when he hears and she aggressively wipes tears off her cheeks when he hurries back towards the bed. 

'I-I'm s-sorry, I-'

'It's okay.' he says, 'You don't have to apologize. Does your back hurt?'

Sansa nods and he rubs circles on her back in that way that sometimes helps, 'I just want my lady mother.'

'I know Sansa, if I could go and get her for you I-'

'All of you men don't understand. You'll speak to the measter, expect him to know, but he doesn't. He's never done it, has he? He only reads about it. Reads what other men wrote down with their difficult choices of words about what only women will ever know. That is not right.'

Jon grabs her hand as it lays in her lap, covering the non-existent bump of her belly, 'I won't talk to the maester again.'

'I cannot ask of you such a thing.' Sansa sobs softly, 'Lady wives do not have any right to-'

'Shut up, Sansa.' he says, and it does the opposite of annoy her, and she sobs a smile. 

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.'

'I feel miserable, that is all.' 

'That's quite terrible, actually.'

Sansa sobs some more and he pulls her closer, 'Don't stop rubbing my back.' She says and he instantly goes back to doing that. She closes her eyes because the touch does make some of the pain go away, and he presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth that's so gently and sweet that Sansa can feel her bottom lip tremble.

‘You must try and find some sleep.’

She doesn't want to go to sleep, if she goes to sleep she’ll wake up in a few hours when the sun rises and her tummy will be upset and she’ll be hanging above a chamber pot before the sun is well and truly up.

‘My breasts hurt.’ She tells him instead.

‘Maybe-‘

‘Don't touch them! It gets worse when you touch them!’

‘I wasn't touching them, my hand was on your arm.’

‘Don't yell at me!’ tears well up in the corner of her eyes, ‘Don't do that.’

'I wasn't-'

‘I’m s-sorry.’ She hiccups, ‘Please don't go.’

‘I’m not going.’

'P-please don't do.'

'I won't.'

‘How am I going to survive this?’

‘You’ll manage, like all women do.’

He is right, she can do this, why is she being such a child? Why is she nagging all the time and why is she still crying? She needs to stop crying, ladies don’t cry all the time, they pray in the sept and thank the mother for blessing their marriage, making it fruitful as soon as this. She's not supposed to be scared, she should be overjoyed.

She wants to feel like a grown woman, but without her mother helping her, Sansa still feels like a little girl, completely lost and all alone in all of this. No one understands, and everyone is unbelievably frustrating.

‘Your mother will come back soon, and all will be better, you can ask her everything, and she will know and she'll say the right things.’

She nods and rubs her cheek against the cotton of his tunic, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don't be.’

‘I still am.’

‘You must tell me what to do.’

‘Just keep rubbing my back.’

‘I will.’

‘Okay, thank you.’

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

He never expected to ever want to avoid Sansa, not anymore. Lately he does exactly that, however, and it is all to do her a favor. It doesn't matter what he says, it is always the wrong thing, he’s certain of it, because he has tried saying it all.

She keeps saying she needs her mother and it becomes frustrating because he can't give her that, he can't go and get Catelyn when she’s already coming back to them.

He knows she arrived in King’s Landing, he knows she spoke to Ned, he knows of the dagger and most importantly, he knows Ned agrees to not tell the king. He knows because Ned sent him a letter, and even though it does not say all these things exactly, he still knows.

Ned wrote to him, asked him to to take care of his kin. To help and guide Robb as much as he can. Ned called Robb ‘just a boy’ and Jon doesn't know how to feel about that. Jon is just a little over a year longer in this world. In many ways Robb is much like Sansa, so so naïve. Sansa knows it and she hates it, Robb is less aware and doesn't realize everyone around him views him as such, so he struggles. He struggled when his mother was mourning his dying brother and he struggles now his mother left him. He constantly repeats how he needs his father’s guidance and Jon has stopped reminding him that one time, he will have to do without the advice of both his parents.

Along with Ned's letter came a letter from Jon's sister, Rhaenys. 

_Dear Jon,_

_Let me begin this letter by telling you I hope you have not frozen to death as of yet. I do not consider it false fear, knowing what a brick of ice the North is, snowing in the midst of summer, I shall never forget. When we left you behind in that wasteland of fierce cold, I knew I'd come to regret the day I did not gift you a fine fur cloak for your nameday._   _I wouldn't say we miss you much, for you would not believe me and I know how much my honesty is of value to you. Nevertheless, I suffer Cersei's presence more without you there, as now, I am her least favorite person at court. That, and I wish to hear you mock her, for you know father never will and Aegon is simply not quite as witty and good at it._

Jon can't help but grin as he reads her words. Rhaenys writes as she speaks and he can hear her speak to her in his head, as he reads. Her hoarse voice is one he never believed he'd miss, yet, he knows, that if he'd miss anyone, it would be she. As she describes King's Landing without him, he's shocked to find that some of it makes him smile. 

_I must say, I do feel a liking for your uncle, even though he's so very Stark. I believed he would be much like you, but not so much. He's not so melodramatic. His honor is strong to a fault, which can be quite annoying, but you can imagine how much father appreciates it. I bet a dozen golden dragons that it reminds him of you. Perhaps it is good, and now I think of it it may have been his intention all along to replace one sullen northern fool with another. Father and Aegon are fighting for he, again, spent half a fortune on his costumes. I call them costumes for a reason, I know I don't need to explain. He did surprisingly well in the tournament for Myrcella's nameday. With that, I naturally mean he managed not to drop off his horse. Myrcella misses you terribly, as does Tommen. At least, so I am told. They're getting quite big and Tommen now walks taller than the imp. The imp asked when you shall return to the capital, for a visit, I told him that if you were wise, you'd wait for winter to be over, he said that saddened him, for this winter is expected to last long. That is what they say... for the summer was long. But then, here in the capital, there's little men do but say things, you know I've learned to listen to as little of it as I can._

Rhaenys seems to have remembered the reason for her long letter half-way through it when she, at the ends, tells him,  _Father asked me to write you to inform you of his decision to wed his sister to his brother. I do not believe your presence is required, so if you do not feel any all-consuming desire to make the travel all the way over here to this hell hole to witness that witless idiot marry our aunt, I can ensure you, you shall be excused and pardoned._

Rhaenys ends her letter with a heartwarming,   
  
_Don't mope too much, be good to your lady wife, remember who you are and give your Old Gods all my love,  
Your sister, Rhaenys of house Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, lady of the Rhoynar, Andals and First Men, of the King's Council, Master of Ships._

Jon feels bad for Daenerys, it was a longtime coming and Viserys has always assumed they would marry, but yet. It has been at least a year since Jon last saw Daenerys, he can still remember rather well. She was one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen in his life. They say she looks like the Queen Naerys and people tell him she reminds them of what Jon’s father used to be like.

Jon can't believe his father was ever anything like Daenerys, Daenerys is the most gentle person he knows, always afraid of her brother, she is the sweetest Targaryen alive today. Was she born sooner, she may have been queen, now she is locked away at Dragonstone and forced to spend the rest of her life by the side of someone who so clearly inherited the mad nature of Jon’s grandfather.

Jon knows that if he had not been born a bastard he would be the one betrothed to Daenerys. When he was younger he'd dream of his father legitimizing him so he could marry her and rescue her from Viserys. Now all he hopes is that Rhaenys is right and his father won't make him come to the capital for their wedding, because he’ll have to leave Sansa behind and he can't bare the idea.

Rhaenys, in the meantime, continues to be an unmarried maid and Jon wonders if his father purposely keeps it that way. Rhaenys was always his favourite, marriage would mean her depart from the capital. As for Aegon... Jon knows they can wait an endless summer for Aegon to get married. Everyone knows that.

 

Jon sits down to write back to Rhaenys, makes an attempt to keep it short, but fails terribly. He tells her of the weather, of all the now, of his struggles with Robb's incompetence and of how peaceful and calm Winterfell is without the King's entourage. 

_I wish you could get to know Winterfell as I know it. Not with half the court here to make it feel like an icy version of the Red Keep. I know you don't believe you could ever love it, but I believe you might come to appreciate the simplicity of it all._

Jon ends the letter with telling her of what maester Luwin told him not to tell no soul. He managed to keep it from Robb, but he figured that, as Sansa told her mother, he can mayhaps get away with telling him sister. 

_Sansa is with child. You musn't tell anyone, not even the King. We're very happy but she's terribly uncomfortable, and the maester says it is because she'll have a boy. You have no idea how much she eats, truly, I don't understand how it all fits in, she's so tiny. She's in pain, however, and only for that reason I cannot wait for the child to come, although the idea is also equally terrifying as it is thrilling._ __I never believed the Gods would bless us so soon, and it is hard for me to realize, especially because as of yet, little has changed. We have many moons to go, though, she is not even growing, so I try to not be too impatient. A year ago I was still thinking of taking the black, can you recall? Of course you can. I try not to think of it too much._ _

Jon contemplates how to end the letter, and eventually settles for 

_Don't hide away inside all day, try and enjoy the sun you claim to love so much. Give Myrcella and Tommen my love and tell everyone I am doing wonderfully fine and I'm not coming home anytime soon,  
Your brother, J_ _on Snow._

Jon is discussing the stack of crops with Hallis Mollen, the new captain of the guard, when a maid runs in, screaming, or bellowing, that ‘ _He is awake_!’

He tries to calmly walk over to Bran’s room, if only to keep the peace and prove a wicked maid can't influence his state of mind.

When he walks into the bedroom he sees Sansa and Robb, both sitting by Bran’s bedside.

Bran looks as white as a cloth, his lips are pale and his hair in a mess. But his eyes, they are wide open.

‘I have decided to name my wolf Summer.’ He tells Jon calmly. Jon looks at Sansa, her cheeks are glistening with tears.

‘That is a good name.’ Jon agrees.

 

**Bran**

‘I saw you.’ Bran looks at Sansa as she sits by his bed, a work of embroidery in her lap.

‘Did you?’ Sansa smiles without looking up.

‘Yes. I saw mother too, and Arya and father.’

‘When you were dreaming?’

‘It was no dream.’ He knows it wasn't.

‘Then how could you see our parents? They are not here.’

‘I saw them anyway. The crow showed me.’ Bran wishes she would look at him, but she keeps smiling down at her work.

‘What crow?’

‘He showed me how to fly.’

‘Did you?’

'Did I what?’

‘Fly, of course.’

‘Yes.’ Bran says, ‘I did, I was flying. I told the crow I couldn't but he said I have never tried. Then I tried and I saw all of the realm, everything in it.’

‘How can you fly?’ Sansa finally looks up, ‘You don't have any wings.’

‘I could still fly.’ Bran says, he wants her to stop smiling, ‘I saw Winterfell, and everyone living here. I saw Hodor, and I saw Jon and Robb.’

‘And me.’

‘Yes.’

‘What was I doing?’

Bran remembers, he saw Sansa, he knew it was her. She was crying, crying herself to sleep with blood in her bed. The furs were red, nothing like her hair, much darker.

‘Needling.’

Sansa laughs a little, ‘That sounds like something I’d do.’

‘I saw Arya too, she has a swordsmaster.’

‘I really think you were dreaming, Bran.’

Bran saw shadows, he remembers them, they followed the people he loves. One had the face of a hound and another was as black as ash. A giant armored in stone was looming. It was real, Bran knows it.

He saw his cousin Jon Snow sleeping, growing cold, a wall of ice behind him. He saw dragons in the Far East, stirring in the fabled Shadow Lands. He looked beyond the Wall, and beyond the curtain of light at the edge of the world, into the heart of winter. What he saw there made him cry. The crow told Bran that he knows why he must live: winter is coming.

Bran saw spires of ice rising up to impale him and the bodies of a thousand dreamers before him. The crow told him to choose between flying or dying. Bran spread his arms and flew away.

Down below, in the courtyard, Bran can hear Rickon play with the direwolves. He closes his eyes and pulls his fur up, to his nose, covering his chin. Then, he realizes he is crying; he wants to be down there too, laughing and running.

Sansa pushes her needlework away and worriedly moves over towards him, wiping some tears from his cheeks. ‘It is alright, sweetling.’ She soothes but it only angers him.

‘No, it is not!’ The crow lied to him, he cannot fly, he can't even walk.

‘Do you want me to tell you a story?’

‘I hate your stories.’ He snaps.

‘They are not my stories, they existed long before you and I did.’

‘They are old Nan’s stories and she’s the oldest person in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Bran says.

‘Someone told them to her.’

‘I don’t care who tells them, I hate stories no matter who tells them.’

Sansa is unperturbed, ‘Old Nan once told me a story of a boy who hates stories.’

‘I don't want stories I want mother and father.’ Bran starts to cry again and Sansa pulls him even closer.

‘I know you do, so do I.’

Bran wants to run, and climb, and ride like before. His father had promised he could ride a real horse south, but left without him.

‘They left and they forgot me.’ Bran says and Sansa tells him to not say that but he does anyway, ‘Robb never smiles now and is so busy being a lord and Jon spends all his time with you.’

Jon is always helping Robb and when he isn't doing that he is spending time with Sansa, who is either knitting or sleeping. Bran doesn't understand why Jon wants to spend so much time with her, she is always snapping at him lately, he wishes they could go back to the time when Jon didn't care about Sansa yet, when he would play with Bran and Rickon, he helped teach him how to use a bow and arrow and told them stories about the brave knights of King’s Landing.

‘Maybe old Nan can come in and tell you a story? She knows far more than I do, she may know one you like.’

‘I like scary stories.’ Bran says, Sansa only knows stories about handsome knights in shiny armor and beautiful princesses waiting to be rescued from some random high tower.

Maester Luwin comes in just when Sansa wants to respond and tells them Tyrion Lannister has arrived, with a message from the wall.

Hodor, a stable boy and the only family left that remains to old Nan, comes to pick him up and bring him downstairs to the great hall.

‘So it is true, the boy lives.’ Bran had forgotten how incredibly ugly the dwarf is and he doesn't look at him, as he speaks, ‘Starks are hard to kill.’

Jon walks over to Bran, his face excited, tells him that his uncle Tyrion knows of a saddle that could help him ride.

‘It is a special saddle for a cripple.’ Tyrion tells him.

‘I'm not a cripple!’ Bran finally looks up at the imp, angrily.

‘If you are not a cripple I am not a dwarf.’ The man says simply, he points at Jon, ‘And he is no bastard.'

At that, Bran feels shame as he sees Jon turns his eyes down to the floor.

'My nephew asked me if I knew of a way to help you and I told him I'd try. I have a soft spot for bastards, cripples and broken men.’

Bran can see the way Sansa suspiciously eyes the Lannister imp, ‘Is this safe?’

‘Yes, completely.’ Jon tries but it hardly reassures her.

Bran can see Robb, who frowns deeply, he sits in the high seat, wearing his armor with his sword across his lap. Bran knows what it means to greet a guest with a unsheathed sword, but Jon does not seem to notice the lack of hostility in the room. Sansa keeps glancing back and forth between him, Bran and Robb and she fidgets with her hands, clutching her stomach.

Everyone but Jon seems nervous and Bran doesn't understand why.

‘Bran has lost complete use of his legs.’ Maester Luwin repeats but lord Tyrion insists that with the right horse there should be no trouble.

‘How did you fall?’ Tyrion asks him.

‘I never fall.’ Bran insists.

‘He doesn't remember.’ Sansa explains.

‘That’s interesting.’ Tyrion says, ‘Tell me boy, are you fond of riding?’

Bran nods.

Tyrion hands Sansa the piece of paper with his drawing for Bran’s saddle.

Maester Luwin declares that it may work and Tyrion explains how the idea came easy to him, he tells them the design is similar to his own saddle.

‘I do not understand why you went through all this trouble, my lord.’ Robb says, still frowning.

‘Jon asked.’ Tyrion repeats again and Bran sees Sansa press her lips together in both disapproval and annoyance as Jon hugs his uncle.

They offer Tyrion a room and their hospitality at last, but he refuses. The men of the Watch he brought along do stay at Winterfell and they host a feast for them, which excites Bran as much as the idea of possibly being able to ride.

Sansa is the only one not excited about the feast, but then, nothing seems to excite her lately. She used to call the men of the Night’s Watch the defenders of the real, dressed in their black armor they defend the Seven Kingdoms, but now all she does is sniffle at the mention of them.

Her annoyance at their presence at Winterfell is nothing compared to her displease when the night ends.

The men bring news of uncle Ben’s disappearance. Yoren says he believes Benjen is dead but Jon disagrees passionately.

‘Starks are hard to kill.’ He says.

‘He knows the forests better than anyone, he always found his way back.’ One of the men assures them.

‘Maybe the children of the forest will safe him.’ Bran blurts out.

‘Bran, the children of the forest are gone.’ Sansa says, and he wishes she would leave, she clearly doesn't want to be here, why won't she retreat to her bechamber and sleep like she did all day?

‘Who can say what lives beyond the wall? I have never been there.’ Jon says and Bran wishes he had kept his mouth shut, for now Sansa tries to desperately kill her husband with her eyes, who pretends to be fully unaware.

‘The watch is in a depressing state. We are armed with a little less than a thousand men. Lord Commander Mormont asks for help.’

‘I know that my father-in-law spoke of it with my father.’ Jon says.

Bran doesn’t emmediately know who Jon is talking about, then he remembers that Bran’s father is now not only Jon's uncle but also the father of his lady wife.

‘It concerns all of the realm.’

‘So you are in need of more men?’

‘Capable men.’

Jon nods, ‘My uncle told me. He says he was treated well at the Wall, I must thank you for it.’

‘I would prefer it if you could speak to the king yourself m'lord.’

‘I am no lord.’ Jon says and he sits back in his chair, Sansa is watching him, her lips still pressed together, but her annoyance seems to have faded.

‘I have heard of the Watch’s strength now being under a thousand men.’ Robb says, ‘Does that leave the wall guarded by only three men each mile?’

‘Yes, that is correct, my lord.’ Robb does not need to tell the man he is no lord.

‘The Watch has become an army of sullen boys and old men. It has mayhaps 20 men that can read, and fewer who can think or lead.’

‘I shall write to my father.’ Jon repeats.

‘Lord Commander Mormont invites my lord to come to the wall, and see it for himself, as Lord Tyrion did.’

Jon doesn't again tell the man not to call him a lord again, ‘I don't believe it would make much difference to his grace.’

‘The wildlings are running south.’

‘Winter is coming.’ Robb says, simply.

‘This one will be colder than any other we have seen.’

‘Are we fearing wildlings now?’ Sansa asks.

‘They fear more than just the cold, my lady. Benjen Stark is not our first disappearance.’

Sansa looks down at her food, she holds her fork in her hand and squeezes it, like she always does when she feel uncomfortable.

‘How long would you want me to stay?’ Jon asks.

Bran is surprised, when Jon did not join Catelyn to King’s Landing he never expected him to leave for matters such as this one.

‘Just a few days.’

Jon nods, he has returned to ignoring Sansa’s stare. She looks furious, the hand around her fork turned white and she is is clenching her teeth.

‘Yes,’ Robb says, ‘If Jeor Mormont invites you, I see no reason to decline his offer.’

‘Offer?’ Sansa snorts, ‘The wall is not a place where one goes to retreat.’

‘I'll be back within a moon’s turn.’ Jon tries but it does not help, wrong has been done.

Sansa pushes her chair back and gives all the men around the table a look that would frighten the proudest, most brave and fearless knight.

She retreats with not another word and the way she walks away reminds Bran, strangely, of his mother.

Jon seems to suppress a sigh and an eye roll, ‘When shall we depart?’

‘If a fortnight could work for his lordship?’

‘Yes,’ Jon says, he nods at Robb who nods back, then stands up, ‘If I could be excused...’

He walks after his wife and Bran knows he is not the only one who doesn’t understand why. Bran wouldn’t want to be near his sister right now even if she could give him back the power to move his legs.

Robb brings him to bed that night, lifts him him up and sits with him for a long time.

‘Why were you rude to lord Tyrion?’

‘I don’t trust the Lannisters.’ Robb admits.

‘Jon likes him.’

‘Jon likes Sansa too, would you say she has been likable lately?’

That makes Bran laugh, ‘Sansa is being odd.’ He says.

‘I think she misses mother, there have been some very major changes in her life lately.’

Bran wants to tell him that there have been quite some big changes in his life as well but he is not biting everyone's head off, instead he asks, ‘Will Jon be back soon?’

‘Yes, a moon’s turn at most.’

That's a little longer than the time Bran spend sleeping, he decides that Sansa is exaggerating. His sister was never much fun but lately he could do without her presence entirely.

‘Why doesn't she come with him?’

‘There is no place for women at the wall.’ Robb says, ‘Sansa cannot go.’

‘I hope the saddle Tyrion made will work.’

‘I'll find you a horse.’ Robb promises, ‘You can meet mother riding your new horse.’

Bran likes the sound of that, ‘I could visit the Night’s Watch, just like Jon.’

‘Maybe next time he goes you can come with him.’ Robb says.

‘Yes! I can see the wall.’

‘Who wouldn't want to see it, they call it the largest building ever made by men.’

‘Old Nan says it’s not made by men, she says it’s magic.’

‘Old Nan is an ancient wench.’ Robb says, ‘Once she told me we all live inside the big blue eye of a giant.’

Bran laughs again and he goes to sleep with a smile on his face that night.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

She screams, she throws things at him, she tells him to sleep in his own room, she says he shouldn't come back if he leaves and she threatens to never look at him again but it won't help.

Jon knows that Sansa is fully aware of how none of it will help, but she does it anyway. It is as if she is trying desperately to make him hate her. It's not working. Sometimes, when he ignores all the things she’s saying, sits there, watching her with a sheepish look on his face, he stares at her, all red-faced and passionately angry, and he catches himself enjoying the view, feeling somewhat aroused by how passionately furious she is.

The night before his departure he goes to her room even though she specifically told him not to.

He expects her to be angry again, to give it one more go before he leaves and she’ll have to do without her favorite victim for at least a month.

She’s not angry, however, just sad and when he climbs into the bed with her she doesn't hesitate when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest.

‘I don't want you to go.’ She whispers after a long moment of silence.

‘I know you don't.’ Jon wonders if he has ever known anything as much as he knows this, ‘I'm glad you’ll miss me.’

‘Will you miss me too?’ She asks, he notices the sincere uncertainty in her voice.

‘Of course I will.’ He hopes she believes him.

‘I wouldn't miss me.’ She says and he chuckles.

‘Next time I am going somewhere I'll take you with me.’ He says.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

She breathes in deeply, ‘Measter Luwin says our baby has the size of a lime.’

‘That’s huge.’

He knows she smiles, ‘It’s bigger than a drape.’ She says.

‘It is a giant compared to sunflower seeds.’

She laughs now and the sound makes him so happy, he wonders how he’ll do without it, it seems to have become as valuable to him as the air he breathes.

‘Jon?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I hope you’ll feel really lonely at night.’

‘I'm sure I will.’

‘Good.’

He grins and presses his nose in her hair, then whispers in her ear, ‘Will you be sweet and gentle with me when I come back?’

‘Like you have been with me?’

‘Like you were before.’

‘You are too good to me.’ She decides.

‘I can't help it.’ He says, ‘I'm in love with you.’ It feels strange to say it out loud, he has never done that before, not like that.

She gets up and moves her legs astride of him, then leans forward and presses her nose to his, she smiles when she says, ‘When you come back I might be getting fat.’

‘I can't wait to see that.’

She takes both his hands in hers and places them on her flat, silk-covered belly, ‘You will come back as soon as you can?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll be sweet and gentle if you do.’

‘You don't have to if you don't want to.’

A grins spreads across her face and he remembers how, when he first saw her, those moons ago, he didn't believe she was capable of grinning, her grin is gone when she tells him, ‘I just want you.’

‘I'm yours.’ He says and he clutches her nightgown where she placed his hands.

‘You’ll forgive me for the way I have treated you?’

He smiles, ‘I don't mind, you always apologize after.’ It's a thousand times more than what he was used to once.

‘Jon?’

‘Yeah?’

She smiles at him in that way only he has ever seen and it makes him pull himself up so he can face her, hold her cheeks in his hands and kiss her lips, ‘You have to make love to me all night.’

‘Doesn't your back hurt?’ He has not touched her in days, she has been tired or sick or cross with him. He tried to pretend he didn't mind but he did, he missed her and he wants her.

‘No.’ she says and she moves her hands down to pull his shirt off, ‘It doesn't, I feel fine, I want you.’

‘I want you too.’

‘You’ll even want me when I'm really super fat?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Even when I am horrible to you?’

He presses her down on her back into the bed, ‘Especially when you’re being horrible.’

She giggles and she lets him kiss his way down. It's weird to kiss her belly now, when it's not just her anymore, a part of him is in there too. He won't leave her alone completely, he decides, he’ll leave his most vulnerable part with her and she’ll have to take care of it, watch it and treasure it in his absence.

He rubs his cheek against the inside of her thigh, she doesn't tell him not to, she stopped telling him not to scratch her, perhaps she has accepted that he can't help it.

‘I want to kiss you.’ He says.

‘You can kiss me.’ She says, as if she gives him her consent.

‘I don't think you understand.’

‘Maybe I don't.’ She says with a roll of her eyes.

He kisses the place he just rubbed with his cheek, ‘Can I kiss you some place new?’

‘What?’

He grins at her through the darkness, ‘I really want to.’

She moves up on her elbows, stares at him in both anticipation and nervosity, then widens her legs for him, as if she knows.

He loves it when she gasps, he loves it even more when she moans things she’ll forget ever saying. Maybe she never forgets it, maybe she just pretends because she’s embarrassed.

She's embarrassed now, he knows because she hides her face behind her hands and bites her lip to stop herself from moaning, he wishes she wouldn't do that, he likes it when she moans and he loves it when she moans his name.

He has to keep her down with his hand, her whole body trembles and shakes and when she reaches the peek she succumbs and lays there, panting, her limbs all powerless.

‘That is not how you make children.’ She says after a while, her voice still shaky.

‘We don't have to make children, we already did.’

She grins, ‘That doesn't mean it's proper.’

‘Why does it have to be proper?’ He doesn't give a shit about proper.

‘Because I am a proper lady,’ she says, but she smiles when she tells him, ‘This is not how lords are supposed to lay with ladies.’

‘I'm not a lord.’

‘I know that.’ She says and there is no scorn, no spite in her voice.

‘So you didn't like it?’

She doesn't respond but the way she looks at him, all flushed, embarrassed and exited, makes him feel pretty good about himself.

‘Who taught you how to do that?’ She asks and it surprises him that she wants to know.

‘No one.’ He says as he takes her foot in his hand and places his hand to her footpad.

‘Liar.’

He grins, ‘I'm not lying. I just wanted to kiss you there.’ He moves his hand down to her belly, where her own hand lies, as if she wants to protect their baby from this unproper thing, ‘Sansa you are… there has never been anyone else.’

‘I don't believe you.’ She says it quickly, and he knows she has been thinking about it, he wishes she'd asked.

He laughs but stops when he sees how serious she looks, ‘It's true. Just you.’

‘Just me?’

He nods.

‘But how? When you were at King’s Landing-‘

‘All the girls only ever had eyes for Aegon.’ He says.

‘I know that is a lie.’ She says and she pulls his face towards hers and whispers to his lips, ‘I can see the way every person in a skirt looks at you. They are all jealous of me.’

‘So they should be, you have some very impressive hold on me.’

She smiles but then looks serious when she asks, ‘Why didn't you? Don't tell me you couldn't because I don't believe you.’

‘I never wanted to father a bastard.’ He admits and he knows it's not a romantic answer, perhaps it's not the answer she was hoping for, but it's the truth.

Her eyes soften and he hates how she pities him in that moment, ‘I have met many trueborn men,’ she says, ‘I like you better than all of them.’

‘So you have learned to appreciate my bastard royal status?’ He asks, he smiles but he knows it doesn't reach his eyes.

‘well, I appreciate _you_.’ She says before she kisses him, and this time she does not stop too soon.

When he wakes up the next morning he pulls her sleeping figure towards him. She wakes with a smile on her lips that he kisses.

He makes loves to her properly, like a lord makes love to a lady. He looks deep into her eyes, holds her as near to him as he possibly can and keeps his mouth close to hers, the way she likes it. She really loves to be kissed, she should be kissed all day, properly, not like a lord kisses a lady but like a man kisses a woman.

He lets her rub her feet against his, he lets her intertwine their fingers and doesn't tell her to open her eyes. He watches her, as she moves beneath him, as she experiences their coupling. She’ll do better without him than the other way around.The idea of sleeping alone without her warm body next to his in their bed makes him almost sad.

She comes down with him and they break their fast together for the first time ever. He has been at Winterfell for five moon turns now, five moon turns and two full weeks, but they have never woken up together and sat down in the great hall to eat their first meal of the day.

Sansa doesn't speak while she eats and he doesn't force her to. He knows it surprises Robb to see her down and he’s grateful when he doesn't say anything about it.

Jon is not used to hard good-byes anymore, not since he left Winterfell for the first time. It's different now, he knows that it won't be forever, he knows that he’ll come home, that she’ll be there when he does. She feels more like home than any place ever has, not King’s Landing and not even Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this was a friends episode I'd name it 'the one that had to be written because Jon needs to go to the wall and he can't suddenly be there'.  
> Thanks for reading, I'd love it if you could let me know your thoughts. See you next week!


	11. Lemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Well my wife was worried, I mean, she looked like she was. Also a little annoyed.’ 
> 
> ‘Why would she be annoyed?’
> 
> ‘I don't know, she sometimes is, she’s my wife.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just wanted to say thank you again for all the lovely messages, this story has almost 500 kudos and that is insane, it really drives me to keep writing and I'm loving writing this more and more.

**Jon**

* * *

 

Three days out of Winterfell the farmland give way to the dense, dark forests of the Wolfswood.

It takes twelve days of journey for the inns and settlements to disappear, forcing their party to make camp.

During those few nights out in the open Jon remembers what his uncle Tyrion used to say about the men of the Night’s Watch. He described the Watch as a midden heap for the realm’s debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards, all kept busy watching for imaginary grumkins and snarks.

The watch, as it turns out, is not like that, yet worse than he could have feared.

The wall amazes him, more than any sight ever has and despite his many years of build up expectations, the building does not disappoint. They already see it two days of riding away from reaching it. Almost seven hundred feet high it stands, three times the height of the tallest tower in the stronghold it shelters. Jon’s uncle Ben once said the top was wide enough for a dozen armored knights to ride abreast. The gaunt outlines of huge catapults and monstrous wooden cranes stand sentry up there, like the skeletons of great birds, and among them walk men in black that look as small as ants.

Castle black is not a proper castle. Once it was the home of thousands of brothers, now only 600 remain. It consists of several stone towers and timber keeps and has no walls to defend it from the west, east, or south. Only the Wall stands to the north.

Jon rides through the gates at nightfall so he retreats upon arrival. They give him a room in the King's Tower, which name makes him feel uncomfortable. It is a round tower with merlons atop it and has an oak door studded with iron. They tell him it is reserved for honored guests, not only kings, and Jon can understand why no king has visited castle black in over a hundred years and he is fairly certain his father would see the wall come tumbling down before he has to stay a day or night in this place.

He has trouble finding sleep that night, more than he did any night during his travel. He wishes he could speak to Sansa, he has grown so used to telling her about his day that he can't stand not being able to tell her about it now, about what he saw, what the wall looks like. He can't wait to tell her, see her face as he describes it. She loves to listen to him describing places, especially places she would love to go to, they make him want to take her there with him, so he can show her, so she’ll find out that Winterfell truly is the best place to be.

When he dreams that night he dreams of Ghost, who howls and finds no rest, he runs and runs and falls down, through a door in the sky, mountains all around him. He falls in an ocean, a red one, as red as blood, with the sky as green as dragon fire.

He walks down steps, deep into the crypts of Winterfell, to his mother. Who holds out her hand to him, her face beautiful, but sad. She looks lonely and afraid. He’s not sure why he knows she’s his mother, not because he finds her in the crypt where her bones are laid to rest, it's something different. Maybe because of her eyes, just like his, grey, dark, almost black. And sad. Her eyes are sad.

Jon stretches his arm out to touch her face, lay his hand upon her cheek. Then her hair turns red, as red as fire, and she smiles at him, a sad smile, as sad as her eyes, as if she wants to tell him it’s too late, he should’ve come sooner.

The next morning they tell him that for the new recruits, the mornings are for swords practice and afternoons for other work, which varies so that the watch can measure a recruit’s skills.

He watches them as they practice and he has to admit to being fairly to extremely unimpressed.

‘This looks horrible.’

‘Most of them have never held a sword in their hand their entire life, my prince.’ Ser Jaremy Rykker explains and Jon notices his noble face.

‘I am not a prince.’ Jon says, he wants to understand that many people have trouble with titles, but he can't allow anyone to call him prince when he is not even knighted.

Jon watches while Alliser Thorne ruthlessly tries to teach the skills of a knight to peasant boys and beggars. As he does Jon wonders how many of them are rapists, or killers. It makes the whole sight even less bearable to look at than it already is.

‘They are now sending pigs to the wall!’ The man yells at a boy who may be the fattest person Jon has ever seen, it’s hard to tell after years of growing up in King’s Landing where the people who come and go never fail to astound with their appearance.

The boy must weight at least 20 stones and has dark hair and a moon-shaped face. Even though he brought his own armor, none of it is black and they instantly send him away to change.

‘He is from the Reech.’ Jon says as they watch him walk away. He recognized the accent, the Tyrell’s speak just the same.

‘Samwell Tarley,’ Rykker says, ‘Eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarley, he joined voluntarily.’

Jon cannot understand why, the boy doesn't seem too excited to be here and with good reason.

When Samwell returns, Ser Alliser is ready to send a very strong-looking boy at him. In under a minute the fat boy lays on the ground with a broken helm, yielding with high screams and some begging.

When he refuses to stand up, Thorne tells his opponent to hit him with the flat of the blade until he does. The initial hit is tentative, but Thorne insists that the strong kid, whose name is Halder, can hit harder and the next blow splits leather.

Jon moves towards the scene, a powerful urge to object forcing him to do so, as it’s honestly impossible to look at.

‘Ser Allister!’ The man looks up and his eyes widen when he sees who it was that called his name, his eyes narrow then and Jon’s not initially sure why, ‘There is no honor in beating a beaten foe.’

Jon helps the Tarley boy up and almost drops him again when he gets mocked.

‘Is this how you would defend your lady love?’

If ser Allister thinks that he could kick Sansa to the ground, bleeding and begging, with Jon doing nothing more but object and help her up he is mistaken and a fool, ‘No.’ He simply says.

‘This it a training exercise, lord Snow. You came here to observe, not interfere.’

‘Training exercise is over.’

Jon's father unknowingly taught him many years ago that a simple stare, a tiny frown, a press of the lips and a look in one’s eyes that suggests the consequence of disobedience can be more than enough to make people do what you want them to do, it can be worth more than a thousand convincing words or hollow threats.

Ser Allister walks away, furious, and leaves Jon there, with the boy recruits. He looks at them for a second before he orders them to do ‘something useful’. It's what the Starks always say too, Sansa mostly.

_I can't! Mother wants me to spend my time being useful!_

Sansa wouldn't be very useful at the wall, he’s glad she’ll never have to see it, it’s not a proper sight for a lady, more than that he highly doubts she’ll be able to stand the look of it, crushing her idea about the brave knights guarding the realm. He is not sure if he can handle one more dream of hers to get crushed.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Samwell Tarley says.

Jon can't find the strength to tell him he is no lord. A true born son of house Tarley is worth a hundred bastards and he is the lord among them.

The boy takes off his helmet and Jon can see how much he bleeds, ‘Why didn't you fight back?’ He asks.

‘I am a coward.’ Samwell simply explains and when he sees Jon’s expression he apologizes, ‘I don't enjoy being a coward.’ He walks away to the armory.

‘Tomorrow you will do better.’

‘I won't.’ Samwell says and Jon quickly removes the frown from his face.

'The world is full of cravens who pretend to be heroes; it takes a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice.' Jon says, and when Sanwell looks up, he seems more stunned than anything, 'It is what my father always says.' Jon verifies, then walks away quickly. 

That night Jon meets Jeor Mormont from Bear Island, the lord commander of the Night’s Watch, when he dines with the high officers and the Watch’s maester, who is his distant family. No one could ever deny Aemon to be a Targaryen, and somehow he seems pleased with Jon’s presence. They all tell him more of the same.

'I have no man fit to succeed me.' Mormont says and he gives Jon the tragic numbers that seem embarrassing compared to what Jon once believed the watch to be.

‘I dreamed of joining the watch once.’ Jon tells lord Mormont.

‘Why?’

‘The North is my home.’ Jon simply explains, ‘I seeked for ways to be here.’

‘Why did you not join?’

'My father wouldn't let me.’ Jon can still remember, it was one of the few times his father raised his voice to Jon and somehow that had felt good, the emotion was real and back then it meant something.

‘The Night’s Watch is no place for a king’s son.’

‘Isn't it a place for outcasts? I am not the King’s son, I am the king’s bastard.’

‘In the North they call you Winterfell’s bastard.’

Jon looks at ser Alliser Thorne. He knows they sent the man to the wall because he fought alongside Robert Baratheon during the uprising. Maybe that is why the knight seems to deeply detest Jon’s presence. Most people who lost something or someone during the rebellion hate the mere idea of his existence and Jon is used to that.

Alliser is one of the few living knights to have taken the black, they led him no choice, it was the watch or a Lord Tywin Lannister type of execution, who is, indeed, very fond of heads on spikes.

‘It is where I was born and my name is Snow.’ Jon says, he’d prefer to be a bastard of the North to a Targaryen bastard any day.

‘I knew your mother.’ Lord Mormont suddenly says.

Jon doesn't know exactly what to say or what to think, he stares at the man without responding.

‘You look exactly like her. My sister named one of her daughters Lyanna.’

It lays at the top of Jon's tongue to say that it is indeed a very pretty name but he can stop himself in time.

'My family considered it a great loss, when she passed.’

‘I think something should be done about the training of your recruits.’ Jon blurts out. 

Lord Mormonts looks a little astounded at first but he gets the message. Jon doesn't want to talk about his mother, he never does but especially now, he knows that the only reason the man had to bring her up was to set the mood for asking for a favor. Mentioning his mother was not the way to do it.

‘They are all thiefs and outcast. There is no suitable successor for me among them.’

'Maybe there could be, if they are trained properly.’

‘What does my lord Snow suggest?’ ser Allisor glares and him and Jon realises right there and then he has just made himself a new enemy.

‘More teaching, less shouting. Making inexperienced boys attack each other won't make them better fighters and it only causes friction among them. They will be sworn brothers, they should respect and learn to appreciate each other.’

‘I was not aware you came here to tell us how to prepare men for a lifelong duty to the black.’

‘Nor was I,’ Jon says, ‘But then I saw you allow one recruit to attack another and continue doing so while he lay on the ground begging for mercy. The whole spectacle gave me new insights.’

‘How many winters have you seen, my lord?’ Lord Mormont asks him.

‘Two.’ Jon answers.

‘The long summer is ending and portents say a long winter is coming.’ Maester Aemon says.

Jon wants to say that he is fully aware, he is married to a Stark, every few days their family tells them winter is coming, it is not what he says, however, ‘You want me to write to my father, ask him to help you?’

Lord Mormont doesn't respond, just watches Jon with a look in his eyes he cannot name.

‘I will.’ Jon says, he’ll try, he has no idea how to, but he can always try.

‘Our gratitude is most sincere.’

Jon highly doubts it when he looks around the table, but that doesn't make his promise any less true. The Night’s Watch needs help, and if he can provide anything like it, he will.

‘What about my uncle, Ben Stark?’

‘We are still hoping for his return.’

‘Hoping?’

‘I don't have enough suitable men for a search party. The number of disappearances is growing. We did not lose Benjen Stark only, ser Waymar Royce dissapeared as well, I sent Stark to look for him, and now that Stark is gone I have no one left.’

Jon knew of that man, Sansa told him about Royce, she met him when he stayed at Winterfell for a couple of days with his father who escorted him to the wall.

_He was handsome, graceful and slender, with grey eyes. He wore very fine clothes and he was an annointed knight, one we don't see often in the North. So, naturally, I fell wildly in love with him._

‘I gave him command of a raging in the haunted forest. I never should have, he lacked experience, only with us for half a year, but he was a knight, and I didn't want to offend Waymar's father. I was a fool.’

Jon is not sure why the lord commander is telling him such truths other than to win his trust, as a token of prove to his honest nature. Tactics such a these would make Rhaenys roll her eyes.

‘He went with two men, of which one was a brother of the watch long before I was. He was the only one to return, but Lord Stark send me his head.’

‘He was a deserter.’ Jon says, ‘My uncle told me of his witless talk, he spoke of the Others.’

‘He was not the only one to do so.’

‘Do you want me to stop the execution of deserters?’ Jon knows he could never make that happen.

‘No. there is no punishment suitable enough for breaking one’s vows but death.’

‘Then why are you telling me all this?’

'I don't need you to do anything, lord Snow, I need you to understand, I need you to make everyone around you understand.’

‘You overestimate me, my lord.’ Jon says and he leans back, ‘I am only a bastard, if you make me understand then that is it, you have me but no one else. I have no power and no one considers me wise or important enough to take my advice to heart, least of all the king. You have asked the wrong man for help.’

‘I think I have the perfect man.’ Jeor Mormont leans back in his seat as well and maester Aemon smiles again, ‘When shall you leave us?’

Jon is still a little astounded by the man’s plain refusal to accept the harsh truth, he doesn't feel like trying harder to convince him to change his mind, ‘As soon as soon can be.’ He says, he wants to go home.

‘We wanted to invite you to join us on a raging behind the wall.’

‘I'm afraid I can't.’ Jon says, ‘My wife she- I cannot stay, my presence is required at Winterfell.’

‘I understand.’ He clearly does not.

‘I will write my father, even my sister, if I must.'

'My,' Alliser says, 'If Snow is willing to be so desperate to write his lady sister, he certainly is in our favor.' 

'My sister sits the King's council, my lord.' Jon says, 'She is master of ships and the King values her council. I am never desperate to ask her favors or her thoughts for I know their worth and would not foolishly dismiss her for only her sex. In fact, I might write her to tell her of your innovative training tactics, which I'm sure she'd love to hear all about. She might find an interest and I am sure she could find ways to send more men North, men so capable your efforts, even your presence here will be all but necessary.’

'If you could find time to do so, we would be ever so grateful.' Mormont says, and he nearly makes it seem like he missed the great threat in Jon's words and doesn't notice Ser Alliser's wide-eyed furious glare. 

‘I'm certain she will, and my father too.’ They all know Rhaegar wouldn't, the wall has long lost the respect of the crown and a letter from Jon will do little to change that.

'Your father is a good man.’ Maester Aemon says.

Is he? The man seems ancient, to be the son of Maekar, first of his name, Jon supposes he has to be. Maybe he knew Jon’s father before he became the man he is today, maybe he was a good man then, just like everyone else claims.

‘You sound just like him.’

‘I think you have not seen my father for a very long time, maester.’ Jon says.

The maester smiles, ‘That is true.’

'No one ever tells me I look like him.’ Jon adds, he always took pride from that, he wants to look like his mother.

‘I could not tell if you look like him,’ the maester says, ‘I am blind, all I can do is add a face to your voice, and your voice belongs to a face that resembles your father’s.’

Jon walks outside so he can breathe real air, to give his mind oxygen to think. The cold helps, it wakes him up as much as a bucket full of ice water in his face would. He leans against a wall and stares up at the black sky. Why is he here? Who believed it would do any good? He came here and gets the treatment of some high lord, true born and with actual power, when really, he was supposed to be one of them. He was just as much an outcast as many brothers of the Night’s Watch were.

The idea of joining the watch had once seemed so tempting, now it scares him. He would be so lonely here, without Robb, Rickon and Bran. He could never have a wife, he could never father children. It had never seemed to matter because he never thought he would have these things. But now he did and a life without Sansa scares him, far more than that wall or this ruin of a castle ever could.

‘Can I thank you for what you did this afternoon, my lord?’

Jon looks up and sees the fat boy Tarley, ‘You already did.’

‘That is why I asked if I could do it again.’

‘You don't have to.’

‘Why did you? Help me, I mean.’

Jon has to think about that for a moment and then says, ‘I cannot bare injustice.’

‘Then why are you at the wall?’

‘I don't really know.’ Jon admits, ‘Why are you?’

‘My father forced me to.’

‘Did he?’ That makes Jon laugh, ‘My father forbid me.’

‘You wanted to join the watch my lord?’ Tarley does not seem to believe him.

Jon nods, ‘It was not that long ago.’

‘Why did your father forbid it?’

‘He said he will never allow a son of his to take the black. I did not really care for his opinion at the time, I did not say so but I think he knew. I had to be married off, to stop me from joining.’

‘Married off?’

‘Yes. He got me married. A married man should not join the Night’s Watch.’

Tarley’s eyes widen a bit, ‘Are you Jon Snow? Forgive me, my prince, I did not know!’

‘I'm not a prince.’ Jon says and the sudden change in attitude annoys him, ‘No lord either. I am a bastard.’

‘The King’s bastard.’

‘Worse.’ Jon says and Tarley smiles.

‘So what should I call you?’

‘Jon’s fine.’

‘You can call me Sam, then.’

Jon nods. He looks at the snow falling around him, the weather an ever reminder of who he is, he can't imagine it is for the boy he is talking to, ‘It must be cold here, compared to where you’re from.’

‘I had never seen snow till two moons ago.’

Jon nods his head towards the wall, ‘Do you want to go?’

‘To the top? I don't think I could climb all these stairs.’

‘There is a winch.’

‘I don't like heights.’

‘Why does a boy, afraid of heights, join the Night’s Watch?’

Sam looks awfully sad all of the sudden and Jon wishes he did not ask.

‘I'm sorry I asked.’ He says.

'It is alright.'

‘I wish I brought my direwolf.’ Jon says, to change the subject again, ‘He would love it here, with the forest where he could hunt, no people being in his way.’

‘Why didn't you bring him?’

‘He had to stay home to keep an eye on my wife.’ Jon explains, ‘Take care of her while I’m gone. She had a direwolf herself but they put it down.’

‘Why did they put it down?’

‘That's a long story.’

‘There are no direwolfs where I am from.’

‘Hornhill?’

Sam nods, ‘I read a lot about direwolves, I read a lot about the Starks too.’

‘I think you just read a lot in general.’ Jon says and he can't contain a grin.

Yes- well, a bit too much perhaps.’

‘Too much? My uncle says that a mind needs books as much as a sword needs a whetstone.’

‘The imp?’

‘He doesn't like that nickname very much.’

‘My father hated it when I was reading. He didn't want me to go to the citadel, to become a maester.’

‘Why not?’

‘On the eve of my eighteenth name day he came to me, he said; You are almost a man now, but you are not worthy of my land and title. He said that, and then he told me to volunteer for the Night’s Watch, and if I refused, he’d take me with him on a hunt, and my horse would stumble and I’d be thrown from my saddle to die.’

‘I was thrown from my saddle to die not so long ago.’ Jon says, he’s not sure why he tells that story in response to the one he just heard, maybe it's because he doesn't know what else to say, ‘Instead I dislocated my shoulder and I threw up in the woods with the King, high lords and princes laughing at me.’

Sam laughs too, ‘Why would you throw up?’

‘It hurt like the seven hells combined, you have no idea… And I hit my head against a branch, so I was feeling dizzy.’

Sam laughs some more, a little louder this time, ‘I'm sure.’

‘And then I passed out-‘

‘You passed out?’

‘Aye, and when I woke up I was surrounded by the most important men in Westeros staring down at me, all disappointed I wasn't dying, thinking I must've been exaggerating.’

‘I suppose if I’d died in the woods at least my mother would have cried.’

‘Well, my wife was worried, I mean, she looked like she was. Also a little annoyed.’

‘Why would she be annoyed?’

‘I don't know, she sometimes is, she’s my wife.’

Sam laughs again except this time not very happily, ‘You’re lucky to be married. Men of the Night’s Watch are celibate.’

‘Aye,’ Jon says, ‘I’m lucky but not because I'm married,’ he smirks, ‘I'm lucky that I ended up married to her, I have witnessed unhappiness, and too often it's caused by an ill fit for lady wife or lord husband.’

‘So... she’s nice? Your wife?’

‘Most of the time.’ Jon laughs. 

‘She’s pretty too?’

‘Extremely pretty.’

‘You really are lucky.’

‘Yes,’ Jon says, ‘I am.’ He is. He’s the luckiest bastard the seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and it brings him as much guilt as happiness, for she deserves so much better.

It's the next morning when he breaks his fast, that he sits with maester Aemon in the man's own rooms, and he chooses the right moment, before he brings up Sam.

‘Perhaps you could make him your personal steward? He could serve you well. You complain of no men capable to write nor read but this boy can do both and more. He seems intelligent to me, he is highborn with proper education and upbringing, he came to you voluntarily, not cast aside by force of any law, he is not criminal- he may be a coward but he lacks no intelligence or common sense nor integrity and most of all he knows his own stenghts and weaknesses, which is a virtue, surely.'

Maester Aemon doesn't look at him, he never does, he can't, he's blind, but still he smiles, 'Have you considered trade for a lifelong profession? You sell this boy well.'

Jon has never considered trade, though he remembers how his father often said that the best politician must be both a ruthless pragmatist and an honorable strategist and Jon supposes these are popular characteristics for tradesmen, 'I do not wish to sell him, for I make no gain. I'm only hoping to bring your attention to his competences in a desire to make a contribution. That is why I am here, is it not? I do as I was asked, which is all that lies within my competence.'

Measter Aemon raises his chin as if he doubts Jon's words, but then his smile only frowns and it changes into a grin that makes Jon feel like the man knows his deepest and darkest secrets, ‘You’re a good lad. Does this boy deserve such sincere help and sympathy?’

‘I'm not helping him. I came here to see your troubles and hear your complains, I have and now I simply make you a suggestion, if this... I do apologize if you took offense.'

'Offense? I must be the one apologizing if I gave the indication that you perhaps offended me. Quite the opposite, my boy.'

Jon can't recall ever having such an exhausting conversation about a subject of so little importance. In King's Landing, all one does all day, is wonder what people wish to hear, then say it, and hope to get the desired response. It's a game and Jon likes to think he is rather good at, not as good as Rhaenys, but better than Cersei still, decent at worst, impressing at best. He can read faces, he is a bastard, bastards learn how to see things, but this measter is testing him and perhaps that is because the man is blind, but in all honesty, Jon feels as though measter Aemon looks at him like no man has ever looked at him before, as if any invisible fences are down, 'I do not wish to give command, I was only trying to advise you.’

‘Are you not a little young to advise me?’

‘I am.’ Jon admits and he says it quickly because he realizes he may or may not have only made it worse. If the measter was not offended before, he might as well be now, ‘Far too young and I have thought long and hard if I should speak to you of this, forgive me if I misjudged, but I couldn't help myself.’

‘You truly are just like your father.’ Jon leans back in his chair, because the sudden mention of his father, again, for no reason it seems, makes him feel both uncomfortable and on guard. If this conversation could go any less as he beforehand planned, bringing up his father is all measter Aemon needed to do. Frankly, Jon realizes it annoys him.

‘Why do you keep saying that?’ Jon scolds himself for raising his voice, he doesn't mean to be rude, but he feels like he's being tested, and he doesn't like it.

‘Because it's true.’

‘I disagree.’ Jon says and he clenches his jaw, ‘I don't believe I am and I am convinced I do not want to be.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Why wouldn't I?’

‘Your father is one of the greatest kings the Gods blessed the seven kingdoms with in such long time.’

‘A good king is not necessarily a good man.’

‘And you wish to be a good man?’

‘I'll never be a king, a good man is all I'll ever be able to be.’

Maester Aemon smiles again, ‘Yet you are advising me. You are a Targaryen, as was I. I know, the Gods fashioned them for leadership and greatness most of all.'

‘Am I?’ Jon doesn't think so, ‘I am a bastard, I will never lead no man, but I can be as honorable as my existence is dishonorable.’

‘Yes,’ maester Aemon says and he seems so pleased with himself then, as if he's just been proven right about something after uncountable years of debate, ‘You are just like your father, but most certainly your mother’s son.’

At that Jon blinks, he always assumed his mother’s character was nothing like his father’s, he never truly believed he was much like his mother aside from the Stark look, and since he never wanted to be like his father he just, at one point long ago, decided to be as good as he could possibly be, whatever that may look like, ‘I would not know, she did not live to raise me, I have no memories of her and all I know is what others told me. But I have been told I look much alike.’

‘Just as stubborn.’ It doesn't seem to be much of an insult and Jon would like to make up for his previous loss of control so he tries to bring the peace back to his voice, if this means he must accept his parents as the subject of conversation then he'll be strong and suffer quietly.

‘You knew my mother?’

‘Not as well as I would have liked.’

‘How long have you been at the Watch, maester?’

‘Too long to remember, I'm afraid.’

That's not a very satisfying answer, he wonders how much this man saw of either his parents, and not knowing when this man joined the watch makes it difficult to imagine what sort of Rhaegar Targaryen this man once knew, ‘I don't think my father is still the same man you remember him to be.’

‘I'm sure he isn't, he cannot possibly be, none of us stay the same during our lifetime, too much happens between the moment we come into the world and the unavoidable end.’

‘He’s not very fond of me- my father, I mean.’ Jon never planned to say that and it's as if he's making a desperate attempt to convince this man that the king truly is a very unpleasant person, because for an unknown reason that seems of importance.

‘Are you fond of him?’

Jon did not see that question coming, ‘No,’ He admits, ‘He is everything I would never want to be.’

‘Perhaps you are everything he never wanted to be.’

Jon frowns, then realizes the maester can't see him do that, ‘I don't understand.’

‘Shadows of a man’s past are often just as frightening as a real, living and breathing person standing in front of you, staring you in the eye, telling you about all your mistakes with a lack of proper words spoken aloud. Imagine those two combined.’

Jon cannot imagine, he starts to believe this man is just as insane as most of his Targaryen kin, ‘I don't think my father is afraid of much.’

‘Not much, no.’ Maester Aemon smiles some more, though Jon feels he does not smile at him, for the measter's blindness makes him unable I see a thing, Jon assumes those white eyes must give the man nothing but darkness.

'Samwell Tarley can read for you.' Jon tries again, in the hope of changing the subject back to why he started it in the first place, 'He can be your eyes.'

'Why do I need eyes? You have _two_ healthy ones and yet you do not see.'

Jon feels something close to rage and he wants to open his mouth again to speak but the door opens and a man dressed in black, as everyone in this Gods forsaken place, stands in the opening, his eyes wide and his lips pressed together in nervousness.

‘What is it?’

‘A raven came from Winterfell.’ The man says, It’s your lady wife, my lord.’

Jon stretches his arm out to take the letter, ‘Did you read it?’ How can that man read a letter from Sansa addressed to him? That is rude and unacceptable.

‘She- she didn't write it herself, my lord, the letter is by the hand of the lord of Winterfell, and he urges you come home immediately.’

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Sansa’s back hurts, all the time, unbearably. It’s a constant ache that won't stop or lighten up. At night she can't find a proper way to lie down and during the day she has trouble walking. She doesn't sleep a wink and when the rest of the castle is asleep, she cries.

Robb can't help her, he is always busy and she doesn't know if she wants to worry him. Bran is no longer himself, she can't bare it to see him suffer, it is too painful and heartbreaking, how can she bother him? He is only a child, lost on his own. Rickon is still so confused, he continues to ask when his parents will return, if they ever will, if they maybe left him for good.

She has not even told any of them about the baby, maester Luwin said they should wait. Wait until her belly starts growing, but it takes so long.

Only Sansa’s parents know, and they are far away, her father in King’s Landing, her mother… Sansa doesn't even know where her mother is.

The maester told her that soon she will start to feel better. He’s wrong. She doesn't throw up her food anymore and she believes her bad temper has faded but instead she feels a tremendous need for affection and love that no one around her is capable of giving.

She feels all alone, with no one to hold her hand, rub her sore back, stroke through her hair and tell her it will be alright.

If only her mother were here, if only she could ask her for guidance, to tell her what to do, to promise her she'll be safe and perfectly alright.

If only maester Luwin listens to her when she tells him something is wrong. He responds and says there is no reason for worry.

With Jon gone she realizes how scared and afraid she truly is, and every time she looks in a mirror, all she sees is a child. Just a young girl, no woman, and it frightens her, brings her anxiety and her heart races as it battles her rib case. Without Jon, she's Lady Sansa Stark again, and there's no one to listen to her, talk to her, and make her feel strong and grown-up. She finds out how much she relies on him, how often he reassures and comforts her.

They are almost married for half a year, and he is not with her. She clutches her belly for support but it won't give it to her. Her belly has not been growing, it is still as flat as it has always been. She doesn't feel anything, nothing moves. Maester Luwin tells her it's normal, he says she is doing well. He constantly reminds her of her health, and Jon's health, call them young and strong and Sansa sees no way to tell him she feels all but that and all she can do is have trust in his ability to see it anyway.

But she can't. She prays in the sept, she asks the father for the fast return of her husband, the crone to send her father south in the capital her wisdom, the maid to protect her little sister who is there too, mostly she prays to the mother, she always prayed to the mother but never like this.

 _Please help my baby grow_.

Sansa kneels, whispers and begs, she knows she has to. She knows because she can feel it, somewhere, she doesn’t know why. She feels so scared it makes her sick, so worried it takes her breath away. When she finally falls asleep she wakes up with her heart beating in her throat, her forehead covered in sweat and Ghost howling at her feet, pacing around her room.

Her maid tells her a warm bath will help and she agrees.

Sansa lays down in the tub, closes her eyes and tries to let her limbs relax. Her back needs to stop aching, to stop throbbing, but it only gets worse.

Sansa closes her eyes, tries to concentrate on her breathing and not the pain. In her head she starts singing a song, a sweet song, a song mothers sing to their sons.

Jon never should have left, she should not have let him. She knows that if she had told him she needed him, told her how scared she is, how terrified the stories of labour make her, how they keep her awake at night, if only she said he had to stay, that he would’ve. He would've listened, he is not like maester Luwin, Jon will always take her seriously.

The water is warm and steaming, she likes the way it feels, and it in the beginning, it makes her feel better, until it gets worse. Sansa can feel the pain grow stronger and at one point it becomes unbearable. She groans and opens her eyes as she collapses. She hugs her own body as the pain takes over her mind and she wants to scream. She can't, there is no sound escaping from her mouth as she opens it in a silent yell. Her hands grasp the water in the tub, red, a deep color, one that reminds her of the three-headed Targaryen dragon. A threatening view, the most terrifying thing she has ever seen.

The water slips from her fingers and she feels tears stream down her face.

‘No.’

_Please._

She wants to yell and beg for help, she wants to tell them to get maester Luwin but she knows it won't help, she knows it's too late. The water turns to a deeper shade of red and Sansa covers her face with her hands. You never hear of songs written about this. Knights never come to rescue maidens from a bathtub red with their own blood and when wombs quicken they are never supposed to be weak and powerless.

Sansa is not a maiden. She is no child and no longer a girl, no matter what her fears tell her, her life refuses to let her her weakness fight the fact that she is a married woman, she was going to be a mother, but the seven decided against it.

When Robb pulls her out of her tub she has stopped crying, she can't speak, she can't think. All she knows is the pain, the deep sharp pain of her bleeding womb.

She trembles and her fingers grasp the sheets of her bed.

‘Milk of the poppy seems the most reasonable thing to do.’

Sansa agrees, all she wants is sleep, she wants to close her eyes and go to some place safe, where she can protect the people she loves.

‘Sansa can you hear me?’ She wants to tell him that she can, but how? Why would she? Would it matter? What does he want to tell her anyway?

She blinks and her eyes hurt, ‘I...’ She wants to ask him to get mother, she wants her mother desperately, her arms around her shoulders, holding her, protecting her, convincing her that all will be well. She could sing a song and Sansa will know all the words and if she tries really hard at pretending she could be the lady in the story, happy and pretty and a beautiful dancer with all the knights falling down to their knees.

She wants to tell him to get Jon, _please_ , he’ll make her feel better, he always does. He’ll hold her and rock her and press his lips to her forehead, whisper endearments, always the same ones, and she'll believe them.

Robb can't get them for her, they are not here, she is all alone, with the distant feeling of her brother’s hand in hers.

‘Sansa, stay with me.’

She wants to but she can't. She gulps down the substance they help her drink and it isn't long until she sinks away.

When she wakes up she knows she has been sleeping for days, she doesn't know how long exactly. She has no idea if it's in the middle of the night or if the sun is high up in the sky.

Sansa forgot how she ended up here, she can't remember why she is in this bed, why her belly aches and her heart cries.

Everything goes by in a haze, they give her more milk of the poppy and her cheeks are never dry. She doesn’t sleep but she sinks in oblivion, unconsciousness. She hears Robb, she hears him talk to her and sometimes she can even see his face but that is all, she can't respond, she can't tell him how she feels, she can't ask him to make it stop, take away the pain, all of it.

Old gods and the new, she doesn't know who did this to her, she wonders if they could, if gods do such things… Why? Were they trying to teach her something? Whoever it was, the god has an odd sense of humor. Maybe the gods are laughing at her for her foolishness and her stupidity.

They part her legs and take whatever was in her womb, out, bit by bit, it seems. To make sure nothing will remain, they say. If anything's left, it may infect her on the inside. It hurts terribly, but she cannot find the power to cry or scream as she stares up at the ceiling. It keeps bleeding, and in the next days, they keep changing her nightgown, her sheets. Every drop of blood that she feels between her legs is like a stab through her heart, the stranger’s kiss. He found her, he placed his hand on her belly. Her belly was all that could and should have protected her child but it didn't and she failed.

The more days pass and the more blood she loses, she more tired she is and the less pain she feels. She warmer her room seems, too. Sansa doesn't know how much time passes by, she doesn't know how they make her eat, how she can ask them to help her. She doesn't know what words maester Luwin tells to explain to her, she wonders if she'll ever understand. She doesn't know if he truly thinks she’ll ever believe him when he tells her nothing could have been done to change it.

All she knows is that he’s there, suddenly, and it makes her smile even though she can hardly open her eyes.

‘Jon?’

‘Sansa…’ his voice sounds very far away but she can feel his hand around hers, ‘I'm here.’

She knows he’s here, despite his distant voice she can feel his hand, she tries to squeeze it but she can't find the strength.

‘You came home.’ She says, her voice croaks because it's the first proper thing she's said in weeks.

‘Of course I did.’

Maybe she slept for such a long time, maybe he finished his visit and rode back and arrived at Winterfell just in time to hold her hand and watch her wake up.

‘I lost it.’ She says, slowly she gains more sight, she can properly see his face now, he looks troubled and sad, mostly he looks worried. She knows why.

‘Yes.’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Sansa…’ he presses his forehead to her temple and holds her face in his hand, ‘It was not your fault.’

‘She was a girl.’ She tells him and he nods.

‘I know.’

‘Maester Luwin said… h-he said she was the size of a lemon.’

He nods again and for a moment she thinks he may be crying but she chooses not to believe her own eyes, she has never seen him cry, she never thought she would, one day.

‘You are here.’ She says again.

‘I'm not going anywhere, I am here, I'll always be here.’ He says and she nods to let him know she believes him.

Her eyes grow heavy again, but she refuses to fall asleep.

‘Did I wake you?’

She shakes her head but she doesn't know why she woke up, she doesn't mind it that she did, sleep feels like poison, no matter how dreamless.

‘Are you in pain?’

She shakes her head again because she knows that he is asking about the pain in her body. She feels nothing, just numbness in her fingers and toes, caused by the milk of the poppy, 'What did they say?’ She asks, ‘What have they told you?’

He waits a few seconds and the way his eyes twinkle remind her of their wedding night, ‘They said you lost a lot of blood, and then the fever came, and they knew it could kill you, but just when the maester believed your faith lay only in the hands of the Gods, and all we could do was pray, the fever left. He said you clang unto life, battled illness like a warrior... He said... He said you are much much stronger than you look, said your strength baffled him.'

'I am not strong.' Sansa mutters.

'Of course you are.' Jon breathes, 'I always knew. I told him, the maester, I told him I know exactly how strong you are, I said he shouldn't be so surprised, I told him not to be so stupid as to think you weak ever again.'  

'What else... That is all he said? Of before... did he say... did he tell of what I might have-'

'It wasn't your fault, it was nobody's fault.’ He slowly moves his hand to her face and traces the line of her cheekbone with his index finger, ‘He said it can happen, this early, sometimes it happens and you can't do anything about it.’

‘I told him.’ Sansa says, and now someone is here who'll hear her, she finds a fierce need to say it all, ‘I told him something was wrong. He didn't listen, Jon. He never... he took none of my words seriously, all he told me was not to worry so much.’

Jon squeezes her hand, ‘It wasn't your fault.’ He says again.

Sansa knows they believe so, but knowing it doesn't make it stop feeling like it was, like maybe she should have tried harder, 'I knew I... I should have said... I tried... I swear Jon, I tried. I don't know what else I-'

'No.' Jon says and he brings her hand up to press his lips to it, 'You live. That is all. I don't know how I'll ever find a way to thank the Gods.'

'But the baby is gone.' Sansa hoarsely protests.

' _You_ could have been gone.' Jon says, 'Do you realize how close you danced to the stranger's arms? One half of you was already ready to get buried below the earth.'

Sansa wishes she could remind him that he does not believe in the Stranger, that he prays to the Old Gods, yet she cannot find the bravery to do so, if only because he's right.

'You scared me so. Don't ever bloody do it again.' 

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't you dare apologize.' 

'Are you not disappointed in me?’

Then, she is sure, she cannot deny or pretend she can’t see it anymore, that he is crying. There is just one tear as it runs down his cheek, then another one follows quickly. She has never seen him cry, the sight breaks her heart when she did not believe there was anything left to break.

' _No_.' He says, and she spots a desperation in his voice, ' _Of course_ not. It's not your fault.'

Sansa cannot protest again. If it is what he wishes to believe, she shouldn't try so hard to change his mind. If only because he repeats what everyone else keeps telling. She knows they think she is not to blame, that this is the wish of the Gods, who spared her child of the sinful world, but none of it makes her feel better, makes her feel less like a complete failure.

'But it feels as if it is, Jon.' She admits, and her voice is too high.

'If it is anyone's fault, it's mine. I should have... I should have been here. All those days it took me to come back here, I thought that maybe you were gone, and I'd never see you again.’

'I am here.' Sansa whispers, and his overwhelming emotions of what seems to be both grief and fear finally make her realize what it is that may have happened. 

'You better stay here.' He says, and the way he holds onto her hand makes him think he fears she'll end up dead anyway, if he ever chooses to let go, 'What am I supposed to do without you?'

Sansa rubs the sweaty skin of his hand with her thumb, 'There's no need to convince me, Jon.' She tells him, 'I don't plan on going anywhere.' 

He breathes a sad smile, ' _Good_.'

'I'll give you a son, one day.' She promises then, 'I can do that.'

'I don't... Sansa, I don't have a kingdom or a castle to pass on, I don't have to care about all of that, I don't need a son. I only need you. What would I do without you?’

She moves her hand and wipes a tear from his nose with the back of her index finger. She wants to tell him she’s his and she’ll always be there, but somehow, suddenly, that doesn't feel as obvious anymore as it once did.

‘Maester Luwin said it had the size of a lemon.’ She tells him again, ‘It was very small, so tiny, the only thing that protected her from this world was my belly.’

‘You don't have to protect her anymore, she’s in a better place now.’

‘With Lady.’

‘Aye.’

‘Lady can protect her.’

He closes his eyes and when she moves to cup his cheek in her hand she can feel more tears, ‘Can you ever forgive me Sansa? Can you forgive me for leaving you?’

She doesn't know what he means. She is the one who needs forgiveness.

‘Please tell me you will.’

‘I can't… I-‘ She can feel her bottom lip tremble, ‘I don't have to forgive you.’ She decides, ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

‘That's not true.’

‘Never leave me again.’ She says still, ‘Never do that to me again, Just promise me.’

‘I promise.’

‘Alright.’ She nods, ‘Then I forgive you.’

‘Sansa, I love you.’ He says and it makes her close her eyes, shut them tight to stop the tears from falling.

She wants to tell him that he doesn't have to say it, but she can't because he does. His words make her chest lighten up in a way she did not expect to ever happen again. If anyone was going to do that to her, it would be him.

‘I love you too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry? 
> 
> I will be honest and admit that I came up with the idea to do this because I wanted to challenge myself as a writer. To challenge myself even more I tried my best to find a reason for this to happen to them and I'm glad to say that I found one.  
> Next week will be a little more cheerful!  
> Please let me know what you think cause I was pretty nervous about this chapter!  
> Byeeeexx


	12. As Soon As Soon Can Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lemon cake is your favorite.' 
> 
> 'Not anymore.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much about all the amazing comments! I'm so glad you all kind of sort of appreciated it (is that the right word?' Anyway, yes, thanks!

**Jon**

She seems good, he watches her all the time and she seems better, every day she seems a little bit better.

She stayed in bed for two more days after he returned, only because Maester Luwin made her, and then she continued her daily routine as if nothing has changed.

Everything has changed, especially Sansa. She prays more, not just in the sept, he finds her in de godswood a couple of times too. He knows what happened, he can only try to understand what she must be feeling. Sansa, beautiful, innocent, lovely Sansa, as much as he dreaded it, as much as he hoped it would never happen- her childhood is over. 

They have changed too, what they are to each other, he doesn't notice it all the time, but they have. It's in the way she looks at him, the way she speaks to him, the way she lets him hold her, at night and during the day. Her bitter tears break his heart and the sad look in her eyes makes him want to crush something, himself maybe, and the harsh reality of things. Mostly he’s angry at the gods, new and old, trees and those statues, all of them. This didn't need to happen, she did not deserve this, she was so good and sweet, the pain crushed her and her pain crushes him. 

But she seems better. She smiles at him, at one point that smile is sincere again. She spends so much time with Rickon and reads and sings to Bran. She's outside more than she ever must have been in her life and she hardly embroiders or knits or sews. She doesn't eat much at first, the full cheeks of a teenage girl disappear and her cheekbones are more evident than ever before. She looks older, serious, like a woman, the way she scans the world around her seems colder, with less curiosity, less enthusiasm. Later she starts eating the way he remembers, albeit without the occasional humming and never lemon cake, not that.

‘Lemon cake is you favourite.’

‘Not anymore.’ 

Robb hates him. When Jon jumped off his horse and looked around the courtyard, Robb was waiting for him, his face as pale as Jon's namesake, his eyes just as cold. 

'How is she?' He asked.

'She's sleeping.' Robb aswered, and that was it. They have not exchanged much more since. Jon never thought he could feel more guilt than he already did but then he saw Robb. He never told Jon to stay and he never tells him he should not have left but Jon knows. Jon knows he thinks Jon should've been there, that he even blames him a little, no matter how often Maester Luwin tells them there is no one to blame. He can hardly bare the way he looks at him, it is a thousand times worse than the way his father used to look at him, because the reasons for his father's detest were all based on things he could never have changed, Robb's eyes make him feel like a traitor. He failed Sansa and Robb hated him for it. 

Robb gave him his condolences and left it to maester Luwin to tell Jon what happened. As days passed by he realizes that as much as Robb is angry, he also simply doesn't seem to know what to say. He once asks if there's something he can do, but there really isn't.

Jon wonders if maybe Robb blames himself too. Jon wasn't there, he couldn't do anything, he couldn't know, he couldn't see. Robb could've known, he could've helped, he could have listened, maybe if he had, he'd noticed.

There is a sincerity in Robb’s new behavior to Sansa that makes Jon wonder if it is an improvement. He used to treat her like a child, now he treats her like a vulnerable doll. 

Sansa is used to it, she doesn't mind, or doesn't let anyone know she minds. She ruffles her big brother's hair and when he kisses her forehead she smiles. But Robb doesn't ask her how she’s feeling, not truly. He asks if she's in pain but he doesn't ask if she's sad. Maybe he doesn't think he is the right person to ask, maybe he doesn't think she wants him to ask. 

All Jon knows is that Robb is as angry with himself as he is with Jon and he recognizes the guilt he feels in the way Robb looks at his little sister. Jon tries to understand, because he knows that Robb never expected to ever have to see Sansa like that, he knows that Robb is the one who pulled her from that tub, that he is the one who sat by her bed those first days, holding her hand. He tries to imagine what that must be like but it’s hard because even though Jon has two half-sisters, his relationship with them is incomparable to the relationship Robb and Sansa share. 

Jon has to explain to Bran and Rickon what happened, why Sansa was sick, why she cries sometimes, why they have to be ‘really very super nice’ to her. They watch him with widened eyes while he talks and Rickon cries a little.

‘I’ve always wanted a little sister.’

‘She would not have been your sister, she was your niece!’ Bran says and he looks far more annoyed than he should be.

‘Sansa is your sister, and she is very sad, so you must promise me to do everything you can to be nice to her, maybe you can try to make her feel a little bit better.’

Rickon still seems shocked about the whole ‘baby in belly’ thing and he can't seem to contemplate how there was a baby and now suddenly there isn’t, especially because he never saw anything. But Jon knows Bran understands, he doesn't look confused, just angry and he stares ahead of himself, his hands fists. 

Together, they make a little ship out of wood, pieces of cloth and strings. When they give it to Sansa she starts crying and Rickon apologizes. She says he doesn't have to, that it's beautiful and she loves it. 

When Rickon aggressively wipes his tears away with the back of his hand and hides his face in Jon’s doublet Jon has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying as Bran, with all the power he has in his little arms, leans himself over Sansa’s bed, hugs her and tells her he's sorry. 

At night she lies against him, she lets him hold her very close, she whispers to him in the dark. At first all her words do is kill him, then later on she starts talking more about other things, about the weather, about guests, Rickon, Bran, a letter she received from her father, about her day, about her tomorrow too, and she seems good.

‘You worry too much.’

‘I want to help you.’

‘You are helping me.’

He doesn't feel like he’s helping her, two moons after his return he wonders if the feeling that he failed her will ever go away, maybe it shouldn't, maybe he doesn't deserve that.

He wishes he'd told her he loves her sooner, as soon as he knew it. He tells her he regrets that. 

‘Why didn't you?’

‘Why didn't _you_?’ 

She smiles and kisses his cheek, ‘I was afraid that if I said it out loud that you would perhaps hear me and you'd know.’ 

When Catelyn returns Sansa sobs in her arms and as Jon watches them he sees Robb stalking away, perhaps he can't stand to look at it, perhaps it breaks his heart too. 

Catelyn doesn't seem to blame him, for a moment he wonders if she knows how he wasn't there but then he realizes she cannot possibly be unaware of that, maybe she simply doesn't blame him because she believes Maester Luwin when he says no one is to blame, maybe she is the only one sane enough to not feel a burning need to blame someone.

She is the first person that asks him how he feels, how he is doing, if he is coping. He wants to tell her that it doesn't matter how he feels, he doesn't matter, only Sansa matters, but she’ll prick through that anyway and the way she looks at him, all worried and caring, makes it incapable for him to keep up his new front. 

‘Not too good.’ 

She nods as if she understands but he doesn't think she understands, she nods because she already knows, she saw it, she notices because she takes the time to watch him and that makes him feel strangely grateful. She squeezes his hand, kisses his forehead and tells him to take care of Sansa. 

‘There are always dark patches and burdens, the Seven challenge us to make us stronger and perhaps make us see things, understand things better.’ 

He doesn't really understand what she means by that and she seems to see that too. 

‘You two will be alright.’ Cat decides, ‘She needs you now more than ever and if you will be there for her, if you take care of her now, you will share something that will be unbreakable for the rest of your lives together.’ 

He starts to hate it that everyone constantly keeps telling him to take care of her, it's all he wants to do, he doesn't need a reminder. 

He's glad Catelyn's back, all Sansa did before was plead for her mother. Like Jon, she came too late. But her presence seems to help Sansa, it seems to comfort her and she knows what to say, unlike Jon really.

Cat strokes Sansa’s hair while she's sleeping, forces her to eat, sings to her, talks to her about things maybe Jon can't talk to her about and when she holds her, she holds her little girl, her baby, her first daughter and rocks her like a child. It seems to help, it seems to be what Sansa needs and no matter how much he hates it that he can't give it to her, he is enormously grateful for the way Catelyn manages to take care of Sansa and gets her to take care of herself. 

Cat’s return also gives him a reason to avoid duties during the day, she provides him with the opportunity to spend time with his wife like he never used to do a lot. He knows she appreciates it when he does that, so he tries to do it as much as possible.

He just lays down next to her in the bed and rubs her back, strokes her hair, lets her play with his fingers and tells her he loves her. They play cards, eat food and read books in silence. 

When Jon asks, for what feels like the thousand time, if there really was no reason to suspect a thing, Maester Luwin repeats once again that it simply often happens, especially with the first one. 

Jon wants to hammer his head, tell him it's his fault too. He should've known, he should've helped her, she asked for his help, complained about pain and he diminished it, waved her concerns away the same way everyone always waves away the things she says. He hates them for it. It is unforgivable.

Luwin tells them they can start trying again as soon as Sansa feels better. Jon doesn’t want to start trying again, the idea alone makes him feel lightheaded. They have never been ‘trying’ anyway, she was just so suddenly pregnant and he never saw it coming. What an idiot he was. He should've seen it coming, he should've at least thought about it, talked with her about it, but they never did that either. 

They don't decide to ‘start trying’ again, it just happens, sooner than he expected. She tells him it won't hurt, she tells him she wants to, says it will make her feel better. He doesn't understand how it will make her feel better but she says that she needs to feel good.

‘Can you make me feel good?’

He tries, he thinks he manages quite well. He doesn't believe it hurts, even though she firmly closes her eyes and doesn't smile or grin or joke the way she used to do. The first time she cries and he wants to pull away but she only hugs him closer, the second time is much the same but after that it's as if it’s all suddenly just as it used to be and maybe even better, because there’s an eagerness there that perhaps wasn't before, a tenderness and a devotion in her eyes that make him shiver and he wonders if this is what Cat means, if she was talking about the way Sansa now looks at him.

‘Tell me about the wall.’ He has been back for at least two moonturns when she asks him for the first time.

‘The wall?’

‘Is it truly the greatest thing mankind has ever built?’ She asks.

He stops undressing and looks down at her in the bed, where she sits, her knees pulled up to her chin, ‘I can't say, I have never seen all the buildings mankind ever built.’ 

‘But it’s big?’

‘It's really super big.’ That's what he told Bran and Rickon too, and they smiled just like she does now.

‘How do you go to the top?’

‘You can take the stairs.’

‘How long does that take you?’ 

‘Too long, nobody ever takes the stairs they always use the wench.’

‘And did you see them?’ 

‘Who?’

‘ The creatures of night old Nan always talks about, of course.’

He shakes his head, grinning, ‘No I saw nothing, just snow and ice.’ 

He sits down next to her on the bed and her smile fades when she tells him, ‘I received a message from your sister today.’ 

At first he thinks she's talking about Myrcella, but he quickly realizes she can’t be, ‘Rhaenys send you a message?’

She nods, ‘It came today, by raven, it was very short.’

‘What did it say?’ He is not sure if he likes it that Rhaenys sends Sansa messages. 

‘She gives us her condolences.’

‘That's very nice of her.’ He doesn't really mean it because he is not sure it was meant to be nice, he doesn't even wonder how she knows about it, Rhaenys always knows everything.

‘It said; do not forget the lion.’

Jon eyes widen, he stares at her for a second and he knows the look on his face frightens her because she clutches his arm.

‘What does she mean by that?’

He knows exactly what she means by that, ‘I don't know.’

‘Tell me.’ 

‘I think… I'm not sure.’ He is completely sure, ‘I think she may be talking about the Lannisters.’

‘The Lannisters?’ She asks. 

‘Can I see the letter?’ 

She nods, gets up and pulls it from a shelf near her table.

_  
My dearest sister,_

_I hereby send you my deepest condolences and my most devoted prayers. May you find guidance in the light of the Seven. Do not forget the lion. Guard your door with ice and fire, wolves and dragons. I hope to see you as soon as soon can be._

_Rhaenys, Princess of house Targaryen_

‘Is she a little bit crazy?’ Sansa asks while he reads it, ‘It does run in the family.’ 

‘No.’ Jon says and he clutches the letter in his hand, ‘She's not crazy. She is many things, not all good, but crazy is not among them.’ 

‘But you never liked her.’ Sansa says.

‘I respect her.’ Jon says, which is more than he can say about any other member of his family. He walks over to the fire and throws the letter in it.

‘She was always nice to me, when she was here.’ 

The queen was nice to Sansa too, if he remembers correctly, why was she? Why would she not be? Why did he not think of this before. He knows she was responsible for pushing Bran out of the window, he remembers every word she ever spoke to him, never kind. Cersei Lannister is the most hateful woman he has ever known in his life. Catelyn was right, they are dangerous, the Lannisters, and it is Jon’s duty to stop them from doing more harm than they already have. He has to protect his family, he has to protect Sansa.

‘I’ll write back to her.’ He says.

‘What will you say?’

He looks at her for a moment, her hair all loose and dangly, her eyes sleepy and her eyebrows knit in a frown. 

_I hope to see you as soon as soon can be_

He knows what Rhaenys is telling him, as much as he wishes he didn’t know he understands perfectly, ‘I need to speak with my father.’ Jon says.

‘I think you have to write him, not Rhaenys, if that is what you want.’ 

Rhaenys is telling him to come home. Why he doesn't know but he's convinced that if it wasn't necessary, she never would've written. 

He smiles, ‘I know, but I need to speak with him, not write to him.’

Her eyes widen, ‘No.’ she says, her voice a shaky one, so soft he can barely hear it, ‘No you can't.’

He realizes what she means and he grabs her hand, ‘You can come with me.’ He knows that for sure, maester Luwin says she is healthy, and he can see it himself, she could travel, he could take her with him, like he promised, he would never leave her behind again. He can show her the capital, she always wanted to see it, he would like to see the look on her face when she first does. He could bring her with him, maybe that way he wouldn't mind going back as much. They won't have to stay, just for some time, so he can speak to his father and his sister in person. They could attend Viserys' wedding, he could even say he's there because of the festivities. Sansa can see everything she always wanted to see so badly her whole life, the knights and the ladies and the throne room, some tournies, all of that. It may cheer her up, do her good. She’ll like the weather too, maybe she’ll start embroidering again once she gets a hold on all the fancy silky dresses they have in the south. 

‘With you? To the capital?’

‘Yes,’ He grabs her hand, ‘I won't go without you.’

‘B-but… you hate the capital.’

‘I really do,’ he says, because he really does, he hates it more than any other place in the world, ‘But if I go there with you, maybe I can manage.’ 

‘I don't know.’ She says and he can hear the great doubt in her voice, ‘Your father wants you here, at Winterfell, mother just came back and Robb needs you…’

‘Your mother can help him, he doesn't need me as much anymore.’ He says, saying it stings because it's not true exactly, no matter how much Robb may need his help, he doesn’t want it anyway.

‘And Bran..’

‘Your mother, she’ll take care of him and Rickon, both of them.’

She seems very troubled by the certain prospect of leaving Winterfell, as if a change of plans can only mean bad things, being home right now must give her a feeling of security, a feeling she may need right now.

‘You can see your father and Arya.’ He says and she nods, he knows she’d like that, ‘We can attend the wedding of my uncle and aunt. I think it would be good for you to get out of here for some time.’

He really hopes he’s right, he thinks he might be. Fresh air, warmer climates, distractions, new things, new places, pretty things, knights, ladies, the court and it's splendor, music, dancing, feasts, tournaments and good food... beautiful landscapes when they're traveling. The place she has always wanted to go to... King's Landing after dark.

‘We could spend some time together away from everyone else, just you and me.’ He'd like that, he knows she'd like that even more. Just leave everyone behind and be with each other without the constant eyes on them.

She presses her lips together, looks at him through her eyelashes, then smiles and he knows that getting out of Winterfell will do her good, ‘How long will we have to travel?’

‘We can go by ship,’ he says, ‘It will be much quicker without a wheelhouse, we could be there within two, maybe three weeks.’

'And Ghost?'

'What about Ghost?'

'Will he stay here? Will we leave him behind?'

He doesn't quite understand why she cares about Ghost, he had not thought about it, but he just shrugs, 'We'll bring him, he can come.'

‘Is this really what you want?’ she asks. 

‘Only if you want to, I'm not going anywhere without you and I won't force you to go if you would rather stay here.’ 

She nods ands thinks about it for a moment, then she asks, ‘You agree with mother then? The Lannisters pushed Bran?’ 

‘I need to speak to my father.’ Jon says, that's all he knows, ‘And Rhaenys, I need to speak with Rhaenys too.’ 

Sansa nods, ‘Okay.’

‘Yes?’

‘I never expected to need convincing to go to the capital.’

He smirks, ‘I never expected to try and convince someone to go, least of all you.’ As he says it he knows how twisted this is, he shouldn't bring her, he swore he would always protect her, bring her to the capital always seemed to be the most dangerous thing to do, but somehow now, it feels like the safest place for them. 

_Don't forget the lion._

The lions are never sleeping, they are watching them every move, Jon knows it. They are dangerous and silent and they would prefer to see him dead or gone or both.

_Guard your door with ice and fire_

‘What does she mean by ice and fire?’

‘I don’t know.’ He says but he does. Ice and fire, wolves and dragons both, together. Guarding his door. He needs to protect his family, all of them, but Sansa most. She is his responsibility, he can never fail her again. 

 

 **Sansa**

Sansa quickly realizes how much she hates traveling. She really truly does. Traveling itself, that is. The time spend on horseback is awful, she never liked it much before, and she finds out that, when she does it all day, it can be painful too.

Jon was right however, it does her well to be away from Winterfell. She never left it ever in her life and leaving it feels like the ultimate freedom. She longed to see the world for so long that now when she finally does, it feels like invisible chains have dropped.

What she likes most about traveling is that it's just them, she and Jon. And their small party with Sir Malckom too, of course, that man from the king's household who was the only one that stayed stayed behind with Jon, to be his guard. He is tall and handsome, yet encredibly boring and never speaks, often she forgets his presence entirely. 

It is the first time since their marriage that they get to spend together, just the two of them, with no one watching them, no one asking them questions, telling them what to do, disturbing them, listening to their conversations. She gets to spend all day, every day, with him.

She likes having him all to herself, it makes up for all the discomfort. She likes the way he talks all day, tells her where they are, what happened at that certain place two hundred years before and why and how. 

He points his finger in one direction and says, ‘Can you see that road? If you take it you’ll end up at Riverrun, the Tully castle, where your mother is from.’ Or ‘At the other side of that river is a forest and behind it are the Frey towers, we don't need to cross that thankfully, the Freys are a nightmare.’

‘Did you know that Walder Frey proposed marriage contracts to my father four times? Once for Robb and three times for me?’

‘Yes,’ he says and he doesn't seem very pleased about her bringing it up, ‘I knew that.’ 

She misses her mother, they were only reunited for barely two moon turns, she wasn't very willing to be parted from her this soon. She feels a little guilty for leaving Rickon because she knows how abandoned he feels, same goes for Bran, but she keeps reminding herself that her mother is back now, that they don't need her as much as they did. 

As for Robb- she knows he didn't want them to go, she knows he and Jon fought about it. She knows Robb has grown to rely on Jon a lot, perhaps a bit too much and she also knows Robb's afraid to grow lonely, but he has mother now and Bran, Rickon and even Theon. She knows it's not the same. She knows Robb told Jon to leave her behind and that Jon refused, she knows they fought about that too. She knows Jon feels bad about it and it makes her more than anything wonder why going is so important to him. 

Jon was angry when Robb told him he refused to let Sansa come with him, she had to listen to lots of ‘Who does he think he is?’ and ‘He doesn't get to tell me nor you where to go!’ And, ‘We don't need his approval!’ and she likes that it angers him so much, if anything because being told what to do by Robb makes her feel like a little girl, that little girl Robb thinks she is. 

Yet Sansa knows Robb put up a fight because he’s afraid to be the lord of Winterfell without Jon's advice, he’s angry about maester Luwin’s failure to foresee and prevent her miscarriage, who, despite that, is now his main advisor left. Robb still doesn't believe their mother has fully recovered from her fragile mental state and he’s scared. Sansa knows Jon doesn't think Robb’s capable of doing it on his own and he would never have left for King’s Landing if Catelyn hadn't been back. He doesn't say it exactly, but she notices. 

She knows Robb worries about her, she remembers the way he clutched her blood covered hand in his, she will never forget the look on his face, anguish, terror and apprehension. She knows he won't forget. She knows he can still hear her weeping and she knows he blames Jon for not being there, far more than she ever did. She still feels like she slept all through it, she remembers it like a vague nightmare, as drugged as she was. Robb was never under the influence of any painkiller, she can imagine his memory is not at all vague.

She knows how Robb tried his best to make Jon feel guilty, she knows he succeeded, it can't have been difficult. She tried to be angry about it, but she couldn't, because she understands. 

As much as she misses her family, she still loves it to finally be rid of them. Nobody’s watching her, nobody's judging her or comments on her, naggs to her, ignores her, makes fun of her, mocks her or snap at her. She does not even have a maid with her, she has to get dressed on her own, brush and braid her own hair and ready her own bath.

She likes sleeping in a tavern, where no one knows who they are and she can eat things she has never seen before. She will listen to the people around them, to their conversations and the tales they tell. She sees people dressed in fine clothes, dressed in racks, people talk with accents from the other side of the realm or in languages she cannot understand.

Jon is constantly watching her, to make sure she is doing alright, but also because he still worries about her. She tries to let him, she understands why he does it. She worries about him too, even while he sleeps, she always worries, she has accepted that she always will. She doesn't worry about him the same way he worries about her, however. His worries trouble him and she knows he doesn't tell her all about them. 

She knows better than to ask. Instead she lets him introduce his family to her in his own way, for the second time.

‘Tell me what Rhaenys is like.’ And Aegon, and Myrcella, Tommen, Joffrey, Daenerys, his father, all of them. He already told her moons ago, but she needs him to tell her again, now that she’ll spend time with them in their home, she feels like she needs to be more prepared, she needs him to prepare her the way he wants. She needs him to know that she trusts him and listens to his advice, she won't question his views again.

The snow disappears completely, it melts and the green colour of grass turns brighter. She can shed her furs and let the sun tickle her bare skin. Freckles appear on her cheeks and the number of villages grow. 

Sansa feels so in love with him, more than ever before, as if it hits her in the face, drives her crazy. During their travel she feels happy again, the feeling surprises her because there was that moment where she did not believe she would feel it again. She can't stop staring at him sometimes, she feels like a fool kitchen maid, but he is so handsome and she loves the way he moves and speaks. 

It feels almost strange to make love to him in a room that is not hers. Her room at Winterfell was their special place, where they could hide from all those people telling them what to do and who to be. 

They don't need to hide anymore, they don't need a room, a special place. 

She wondered at first if he'd still think she’s pretty, after what happened, after the way she looked when he came home, she saw it in his eyes, the way her appearance shocked, maybe even scared him then. She doesn't dare to ask so she hopes that his words are as sincere as his eyes.

Sir Malcolm hates to travel with them, she knows it. He frowns at them a lot, she can see him roll his eyes twice. She doesn't care, she understands, but she doesn't care. She can't help herself, she has one extremely handsome, wonderfully sweet and clever and perfect husband and she loves him so much, no one should blame her. 

He is afraid to touch her at first, afraid to hurt her. But it doesn't hurt, it feels as amazing as it always did, even better maybe. It feels like they belong together, like touching each other is what they have to do all day. If only they could, she would like that very much, he always tells her they should and it makes her giggle and she says that maybe one day they will, when no one can notice. 

She loves telling him she loves him, especially when he is inside of her, even more when they lay there, naked and so vulnerable, and she’ll wonder when they’ll make a child again, how long it will take them. She never did that before, but now all she does it dream of a child, one that is hers, one she can hold and protect and sing to sleep, one that looks like him.

The gods will give her a baby when they believe she is ready, it's what her mother said, but Sansa feels ready. All she wants is to give him a child, a son because men care about that so much, she wants to see him hold it, in the crook of his arm. She fantasizes about what a child of theirs may look like, what the colour of the eyes would be. Hopefully blue, she knows Jon would like that. What would they name it? They never discussed names before, not for a girl nor for a boy. She knows he would like to give it a northern name, not valyrian, like the Targaryens always do. 

Fantasizing about a baby makes her both exited and extremely sad. They had one, it could have been born, it lived, what would it have looked like if it had not died? Her little girl, in Sansa’s imagination she has red hair and grey eyes and her skin is pale and she smiles and she's happy and bright and kind, good and sweet.

She wants her belly to grow the way it never did, to feel something inside her move, she knows that you can when they are bigger, you can feel a foot or a hand. She wants to be a mother so badly, not because she believes she is destined to be one, but because having a family of her own seems like the most wonderful thing. She always believed she was destined to give birth to silver haired children with indigo eyes but she is not. She is destined to have children with sweet smiles and gentle hearts, brave boys and good girls.

She doesn't really tell him because she knows he'll be worried, maybe he’ll think that she only wants him inside because she wants him to put a child in her belly. She could never let him think that. She knows that he probably doesn't think it's a good idea for her to get pregnant right away, so soon after, when they are going to King’s Landing. She doesn't care what he thinks, not about that, she knows that all he thinks about is her health, and she is doing well, he worries too much, he really does. She knows why he does. The story of the lady Lyanna dying in a bed of blood seems so much less like a dramatic and tragic ending of a great love story and much more like a haunting truth when she is your husband’s mother, even more so after you’ve lain in a bloodstained bed yourself.

Jon turns twenty years of age in a tavern and Sansa is rather sure it's the best night of her life. They just eat and get slightly drunk together and he finally seems a little happy again. She needs him to be happy because, if he's not, nor is she. There is not a big feast and no music, no people either but that's so great because it means he can lift her up, pull her over his shoulder and bring her upstairs without anyone seeing. When they fall down in their bed the blankets are not made of silk and the pillow below her head isn't feathery but it's all clean and soft and when she takes all her clothes off and feels his bare skin pressed to hers it is as if the whole world doesn't exist and it's just them, in that room they've never seen before, no clothes, no nothing, just nakedness and vulnerability.

'I like this the most.' She says, her arm around his torso, head on his chest, her ear on his beating heart, steady and rhythmic, his fingers playing with her hair and his lips to her forehead.

'Hmm?'

His sleepy voice makes her smile, 'Laying here, with you, I like that the most.'

'Compared to what?'

'Compared to everything else in the whole wide world.' It's a bit of a childish response but it makes him laugh and her ear to his chest hears it roll in his lungs and she turns her head to look up at him, 'I like being naked when you are too.'

'I'm awfully glad you like that.'

'And I like laying here, being naked and warm and I'll feel safe and happy, and I'll... I'll wonder if we've made a baby.'

His smile slowely fades from his face and when he opens his mouth to speak, yet closes it again right after, she wonders if she said the wrong thing, if maybe she should've kept that to herself, that dream, the fantasy that clouds her head with the loveliest pictures.

She turns around a little and she still lies in the crook of his arm but with her back towards him and she takes his hand in hers as he turns to press his front to her back. His breath warms her neck before he kisses it and then snuggles in the crook, 'I don't think I... I don't ever want to see you in pain again.' He says then.

She smiles and with his hand in hers she kisses his palm before she places it to her breast, to cup it and lay it over her own heartbeat. Her breasts are her most feminine part, she's skinny and dangly, like a child, but her breasts... they're round and firm and when she lays his hand over them it helps to feel like a woman grown, 'You will,' she says, 'Unless I die tomorrow or you die tomorrow or we could both die tomorrow... you'll certainly see me in pain again, if we both grow old, and I mean to see to it that we will.' 

That makes his wide grin return, 'I am twenty now, I'm growing old already.'

Sansa giggles, 'Yes you are, getting less pretty everyday.'

'You can be pretty for the both of us.' Jon decides.

She turns around again and scoops one leg over him that he grabs with his hand and she grins when she presses her nose to his, 'I want to.' She says, 'I'll give you a son, if you'd like, it will be my birthday gift to you.'

'It's not a birthday gift when you don't give it to me on my birthday.'

She sits up, astride of him and still grins, hoping that he will too, 'We can make it on your nameday though, try our best to.'

'We just did.'

'We can try again.' She says and when he moves to get up towards her she pushes him back in the bed, which finally returns his smirk.

He hides his face behind his hands and sighs but immediately pulls them away again when she starts moving and the look in his eyes is one she has never seen before. She's not really sure what it is, she can't name it, nor see what it may mean, all she knows is that, in that moment, she's not a girl to him but a woman, and that's what she has wanted so badly all this time.

She knows that she should press the subject of what they may be making a little more, tell him how much she wants that, how she desires it, but then he moves his hand down and she really doesn't want to say anything at all.

When they travel by ship she hates traveling even more, because once you get on a ship and it sails, you can't get off.

She doesn't feel very well the first couple of days, the way the ship moves makes her feel almost as sick as when she was pregnant, except this time it's not only in the mornings, it's every time she tries to walk or looks over the rim of the ship, down at the moving water.

Jon tries to keep pointing at places while they are on board, ‘That’s Cracklelawn point.’ And ‘You wondered about Dragonstone didn't you? It’s over there.’ And ‘Look, there are the Fingers!’ she’s not feeling well enough to complain about how it makes no sense to call the fingers the fingers when they don't look like fingers. 

It’s when they trade that godawful ship for their horses in the harbor of Duskendale that she feels like crying again. She wants to kiss the safe, unmoving ground and thank the gods on her bare knees for their wonderful invention of gravity. 

‘Swear to me I won't ever have to go on one of those things ever again.’

Jon just grins, her discomfort amuses him far too much, ‘We can put you in a wheelhouse when we go back, be on the road for moons.’

‘Yes. Please, that is what I want.’ 

He just laughs. 

The town of Duskendale spreads out around the harbor and has cobbled streets. On horseback they enter the city and when they ride through the gatehouse that opens to a market square Sansa realizes that this must be the world she has always dreamed of. She is in the south, in the crownlands, only a few days of riding away from King’s Landing, it should feel like a dream come true but somehow all she wants to do is clutch Jon’s hand and find a room where she can sleep. 

The castle of House Rykker, who take their Seat in Duskendale, overlooks the port and is named the Dun Fort, a squat stone castle with a square keep and big drum towers.

They don’t stay at the castle, Jon doesn’t want to bother the family and it will take them much longer to be properly presented and everything around it. She wants to ask why he didn't mind doing that in White Harbor, where they stayed at the Manderly castle, but she decides against it because it really is just much simpler to stay the night at the largest inn, which is called Seven Swords. 

When they lay in bed that night Jon lays his head on her stomach and she moves her fingers through his hair while he can't stop telling her stories, ‘South of this town is a rocky headland that shelters the harbor from the storms of the narrow sea and north of it are amazing chalk cliffs, I saw them up close once, they are amazing. There’s also a road that runs beside the shore between the grey-green sea and low limestone hills- that’s where Fishing villages dot the road for miles.’

She falls asleep without telling him she has stopped listening and she may do that on purpose because she likes falling asleep to the sound of his voice. 

The next day they take Rusby road towards the capital. She knows the story about the Rusby’s, how King Halleck Hoare conquered their lands, making the Rosbys vassals of the Kings of the Isles and the Rivers. Then, during Aegon’s conquest, they yielded peacefully to Rhaenys, Aegon the conqueror's youngest sister-wife. Her dragon was named Meraxes and according to Jon the skull of that dragon is one of the biggest to decorate the throne room. 

Aside from Aegon’s conquest Sansa knows that Rhaenys Targaryen was responsible for the rule of the six; a man can only strike his wife six times, no more, when she has been unfaithful, one strike for each of the gods, not including the stranger. Sansa has never seen her father beat her mother, he striked Robb and Jon a hundred times, when they were little, doing something irresponsible, she can still remember them running around, away from Ned, through the courtyard, screaming, sometimes laughing when it became a game to them, to run away and hide. 

She can't imagine Jon ever striking her either, she’ll make him regret it if he tries. Maybe it’s because the rule of the six is a law for the followers of the seven. Jon and her father pray to the old gods.

She reckons that the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen she met has very little in common with the Rhaenys who rode a golden eyed and silver scaled dragon when she brought the Dusby’s to their knees. Just like the Prince Aegon Targaryen she knows has nothing in common with Aegon I, the man who conquered all of Westeros. 

Jon often calls the dragons ‘those monsters’, says all they ever did was burn cities to the ground and force peaceful lands into wars and brought them to surrender for no reason but power hunger. He says it's a good thing they are all gone. 

Sansa notices how he wants to arrive at King’s Landing late, she thinks it’s because that means they can go to bed first instead of face his entire family dressed in riding costume, with sore backs, wary hair and heavy eyes. She doesn't think it’s quiet the proper thing to do but she decides to do this entirely his way because she knows how difficult it is for him to go back.

He does tell her they arrived at the harbor of duskendale instead of King’s Landing’s harbor because he wanted to avoid a welcome party and she tells him she doesn't want that either, which is true because she can only try to comprehend how nerve wrecking that idea must be to him. 

The night before they arrive at their destination they both sit upright in their bed, their hands together playing a thumbgame and the way he watches her makes her blush. 

‘Don't look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like... like I'm about to break- like you want to... I don't know.’ 

‘You’re not about to break.’

She shakes her head, ‘No.’

He looks at their hands and she feels the urge to sigh, to say something, ask him something, force him to talk to her. 

‘Jon?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You and I are okay, right?’ 

‘Of course we are.’ 

She nods and tries to hide an odd relieve that takes over, ‘You’ll talk to me? When we get there? I want you to tell me things, I don't think I can bare being there with you keeping things from me.’

He looks at her and she can seen a great deal of resistance in his eyes, then he nods, ‘I’ll talk to you.’ 

‘Will you?’

‘I will.’ 

She nods, ‘I want to help you.’ 

‘I want to help you too.’ 

‘I'm doing alright, you know.’ 

The way he looks down and slightly smiles at that comment makes her feel funny things, he looks very beautiful and cute and she suddenly suffers the urge the ruffle his hair, squeeze his cheek or just rip all the clothes of his body, ‘I know that, I'm.. I'm so glad.’

‘Are you alright too?’ 

‘I think I am.’ 

She nods because she knows what he means, ‘There is nothing to forgive, you know that, don't you? If Robb-‘

‘It won't happen again.’ He turns her hand so that it lays in his palm and he rubs the back of it with his thumb, ‘It won't.’ 

‘If Robb said anything-‘

‘He didn't.’ 

‘Good.’ She thinks that maybe it's not good at all, maybe his silence was the worst part. 

‘Are we going to tell each other everything?’ 

She wants to promise, but she already knows she won't be able to do that. He worries too much, she doesn't want to make him worry even more, there are things she doesn't want him to know simply because he will never understand, not even if she tries to explain, yet she also knows that if she nods now, he'll talk more to her too. So she nods and he starts telling her things. 

He starts telling her about the teachers he used to have, people he met, the room he used to sleep in, the parties he was forced to attend. He tells her about his relationship with Aegon, which is a first.

'Aegon loves men.' He says and when she asks him what he means he looks a little uncomfortable but tell her still, 'He loves men like I love you. He loves men like... like he should love women.'

'He falls in love with men?' She asks and he nods, 'Is he ill?'

That question seems to pain him and she regrets asking it instantly, 'No,' he says and he sounds convincing enough, 'No, he... he's not the only one. There are more men who... it happens. Some men just do, and they're not ill, they just... can't fall in love with a woman, no matter how hard they try. Love is not a sickness, but it is... it complicates matters quite a lot. Aegon doesn't want to... like we are together, he doesn't want to do that, so he doesn't want to marry, for many reasons, but especially that.'

'Because he won't love his wife?'

'He won't be with her.' Jon says, 'He'll never be with a woman and I suppose... I suppose in his way, it's honorable not to marry one when you'll never be a proper husband.'

'But he has to marry. He is the crown prince!'

Jon nods, 'He will, eventually he will, just not... he likes to be difficult, he never does what the king tells him to do, he always does what he likes. Aegon doesn't care about anything.'

Sansa nods and realizes why he chose to wait so long with telling her this, she doubts she would've understood if he'd explained it to her the moment she first asked. Then he tells her about Rhaenys.

'Rhaenys pretends she doesn't care but she cares too much.' Jon says, 'But she's the smartest person I know. But... you shouldn't listen too much to what she says though, she says some weird things sometimes, she likes to be... she can be rude. Especially to Joffrey, she hates Joffrey more than I do. She hates Cersei most of all. She likes so say something shocking just to get people out of their comfort zone and she'll feel like she's in control.'

'What do you mean, shocking?' Sansa asks.

'I don't know, it's hard to explain... I think she... I think she has a habit of saying things everyone is thinking but doesn't dare say out loud.'

'I never noticed, but it sounds fun.'

Jon grins, 'trust me,' he says, 'You don't always want someone to say the things no one wants to hear, there is a reason for people not wanting everything to be mentioned. It can be amusing, but sometimes it's tiring and... she's really the most tiring person I have ever met, she can be exhausting.' 

'So you don't like her?'

'I don't like any of them, but I trust her, and... she'll probably be nice to you, you can trust her too, I think, just don't listen to all he things she says.'

Sansa nods to let him know she understands, though she doesn't really.

'But Cersei I dislike the most. She always wanted to have me beaten when I was younger, sometimes for little reason. It never happened, none of us were ever beaten, my father prefers other ways of torture, words mainly, or the lack of them.'

'So I can't trust Cersei?'

Jon shakes his head, 'Don't trust any of the Lannisters, not even uncle Ty, he can be a little... you shouldn't listen to what he says either. He can say some disturbing things that you're far too innocent for.'

'Innocent? What do you... oh.' Sansa shakes her head, 'Don't call him uncle, he's not.'

'He was fun though, growing up, he made me laugh, suppose he still does. And he gives some peculiar yet good advices.'

'But you said don't listen to him.'

'Yes no, please don't, he's... his advices are not good for you.'

'What do you mean, advices?'

Jon grins, 'When we got married he adviced me not to fall asleep before you did.'

Sansa doesn't understand what's so peculiar about that but she shrugs it off because she doesn't want him to stop talking, and he doesn't. He tells her about Tommen and Myrcella, says he loves them but Cersei never lets him see them, hides them away a lot, 'But they're good and decent children, which is against the expectations, really.' And then he mentions his uncle, says Viserys is 'Really just completely nuts.' and adds how sorry he is, that his aunt, who he doesn't call Daenerys but 'Dany' has to marry him. It's as if now he finally started, he can't stop. He talks about everything and everyone, except his father. She needs to ask after his father and he hesitates when she does.

'And the king?'

'The king is a good king, the best king, and I admire him greatly for his work and his... all he does. He is an honorable man, and wise and smart. But... he is the worst father.'

'He does not love you?' She never asked that so specifically, but she has knows he feels that way for a very long time.

Jon only shakes his head and the look in his eyes makes her feel so sad, she wants to hug him and pull him against her and tell him she loves him though, she'll love him more than any father ever could.

Some of the stories he tells terrify her a little, mainly those about Joffrey, and she can never begin to understand how lonely he must've felt for so long. He takes the excitement away from seeing King’s Landing, in fact, she dreads their arrival a little. 

Long before she lays her eyes on the capital for the first time she can smell the stench of the city's waste. When she complains about it Ser Malckom mocks her, 

'Smoke, sweat, and shit. King's Landing, in short. It smells like an old whore. If you have a good nose you can smell the treachery too. You've never smelled a city before?'

'I have been to White Harbor.' 

That makes the knight laugh, 'White Harbor is to King's Landing as The imp is to Ser Gregor Clegane.'

Sansa has never met Ser Gregor Clegane so she doesn't quite understand what he means by that but she saw his younger brother, Sandor Clegane and he was a very big man, nothing like the queen's dwarf brother. She reckons that perhaps she should have expected the smell and it was stupid of her not to. 

'Oldtown is the only city to rival King's Landing, which is larger in area but less populous.' Jon tells her after giving Ser Malckom an angry look behind her back, thinking she must not be able to see it. 

The walls around King's Landing are huge and they have seven gates, the sacred number of the Faith. Apparently each is protected by portcullis, heavy doors, and armed guards. They don't enter the city through the Iron gate, even though this is the gate the Rusby road leads them to. Jon and Ser Malckom agree they should avoid flea bottom, when she asks why, Ser Malckom opens his mouth to speak, 'We wouldn't want my lady to interact with-'

'The streets are very narrow.' Jon interrupts him, 'The buildings stand so close to each other, they are almost touching.' 

She nods and tries to avoid Ser Malckom's frown. If there's one thing she won't miss about travelling, aside from the lack of comfort, it is his company, she will definitely do perfectly well without it.

They don't enter through the Iron gate or the old gate and instead choose the Gate of the Gods at the western corner of the wall. Jon tells her it’s prettier than the other three and she can imagine that's true. 

There are detailed carvings on the gatehouse and over the portcullis with eyes that make her feel like they can actually see her. The gatehouse has a windowless guard room, decorated with stone gargoyles with dragon heads. 

'If we'd not arrived here by ship we would have entered through this gate as well, The Kingsroad enters King's Landing from the North at the Gate of the Gods.' Jon explains and all she can do is nod. 

Sansa's father said the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but in her dreams it has been immense, an endless stone maze that seemed to shift and change behind her. In reality it really is smaller than Winterfell, and different in all the ways castles can differ. 

Aegon the Conqueror commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel saw it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress, he vowed. 

'There is one thing I want to tell you about the capital, Sansa,' Jon says, as she can see the Red Keep grow in size right in front of them, 'Everyone there is a liar, if they don't lie to you they're lying to someone else, you can trust only yourself.'

'And you?'

'And me.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter was a friends episode I'd call it 'the one where Jonsa finally have their well-deserved honeymoon'.  
> Last week I finally gave the first thing I ever wrote for this story a chapter, finished chapter 22. Quite some things happen ten chapters from now and it's sometimes a bit weird to realise you guys are 'ten chapter behind' or something. So, next week I am going to introduce you to Rhaenys, a character I loved developing.  
> Please let me know what you think!


	13. A Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room is filled with lordlings and their ladies, all watching him either with disapproval, displease or curiosity. Once he was used to that, now their stares feel itchy and everyone is way too quiet for his liking, he prefers it when they're all mumbling and whispering behind their hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I forget, I know that I said Rhaenys has a husky voice, but while writing this I couldn't help but hear Claire Foy's Elizabeth II voice in my head.

**Jon**

When Jon wakes up he is startled to see Sansa's wide blue eyes staring at him. She sits upright in the bed, pulling the silky duvets up to her chin, her hair all loose, framing her happy face. She seems exited and for a moment he has no idea where they are. 

'Why are you awake?' He yawns and he sits up as quickly as his still unconscious body allows him to, 'Why are you staring at me?'

Her eyes twinkle enthusiastically and she smiles broadly, 'Because you look pretty when you're sleeping.'

'Don't be silly.' 

She giggles and moves to lay on her back, 'You hardly ever look that peaceful when you're awake.' She says as she welcomingly stretches her arms out towards him, 'I was interested.' 

He knows she sees him sleep often enough, it may not happen very often that she wakes up before he does but at night he's always the one to drift off first, no matter how hard he tries to keep his eyes open. He knows she sometimes even reads a bit before she goes to sleep. 

He wants to groan when he looks at the window and the bright light that shines through it, 'I don't want today.' He declares as he lays down, on top of her, borrowing his face in the crook of her neck. 

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and giggles some more, she started doing that again since they left Winterfell and, apart from a short break when they were on the ship, continues doing so. 

'What's wrong with today?'

He just shakes his head, still hiding his face from the world and yawns again, 'I don't want to see them.'

'I highly doubt they want to see you.'

He looks up, his face close to hers, and grins, 'I could use some sympathy.' 

'You were the one who wanted to come here.' She reminds him. 

'Are you going to tell me that every time I complain?'

She smirks and strokes a curl from his face, 'Perhaps.’

'No compassion?'

She pretends to consider it and then shakes her head, 'No.'

'You don't even pity me?'

She laughs, 'Especially no pity.' 

‘You think this is funny, don't you?’

she denies it but the smile on her face is too big and too real to believe a thing of what she says. He loves happy Sansa, he has missed happy Sansa. He missed having her in his arms laughing at his stupid jokes and hiding her face behind her hands whenever he says something improper.

Sansa likes having sex in the morning and he's not sure if that is because they hardly ever do that and she likes to make the most of having him in her bed when she wakes up or because she has the tendency of being all cheerful for the rest of the day after. 

It's only a few minutes later that she stiffens in his arms and presses her hand to his mouth even though she was definitely being the louder one.

He rolls his eyes and knows there is no way she's ever going to ignore a knock on the door on their first morning waking up in his old bedroom in the Red Keep but ignoring the odds he decides to try anyway, 'He'll go away.' 

'Jon!' She hisses when he presses her to her stomach in the bed and moves down to place kisses down her spine. Her back arches into him, she shivers and lacks the power to push him away, 'N-no.' She starts protesting more violently when the man knocking on their door calls his name.

Fuck that man, fuck whatever he wants, fuck King's Landing, fuck this room and especially everyone outside that door, fuck Sansa most of all.

She tells him to stop again, though she laughs while saying it and her gasp is too breathless to not make his head all fuzzy. He grips her neck with his hand and pulls her head close, her ear to his lips, 'I'm gonna stop after you come for me.' 

She gladly accepts the challenge as she grins at him, turns around and pulls his head towards her by his hair.

The man knocking on the door is long gone when she kicks him against his shin, 'Don't ever do that to me again!'

He grins as he presses his face in his pillow, 'If I'd opened the door with you lying in bed looking like _this_ ,' He puts an extra emphasis to his argument by making an arm gesture at her, 'I can assure you it would have been unforgettable.' 

She grimaces at the harsh truth, drops her head down and sighs, 'Still, we can't do that again.' 

He's just glad she chooses the word ‘we’. He grabs her hip and pulls her back against him, 'What part exactly?'

'You're disgusting.’ she says as she avoids his kisses with a smile widely spread across her face.

Sansa falls asleep again and after allowing himself to gaze at her for a while he drags himself out of bed. He knows they probably expected him to sleep alone, they gave Sansa a room of her own, he wonders if maybe it would be super clever to pretend she is actually going to sleep there. 

He considers visiting the king without her, but he knows how improper that would be, he knows how they’ll whisper about it, how they’ll talk about Sansa behind their hands, wondering where she is, their imagination running wild. 

So he urges her to hurry up with getting dressed, while he sits on the bed and watches her, receiving multiple side eyes from her new hand maiden, who seems like a foreigner, and not at all someone Cersei would want to be at court. He forgets her name the moment she tells him and she seems to know that, she seems to really dislike him for it. 

He has never before seen Sansa look as insecure as she does now, standing in front of a mirror, Ghost laying at her feet watching her intently. She looks at herself from every angle, pulling at some loose strands of hair, lifting the skirt of her heavy velvet dress up.

‘I look like such a northerner.’ 

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘We’re in the south.’ 

‘There's nothing wrong with knowing where you come from.’ She doesn't look nearly as northern as he does, with the hair and everything. 

She doesn't seems to agree, not really, ‘Moping about it won't make it any better.’

. 

Jon looks at his father, sitting on his throne, rubbing the side of his index finger with his thumb. He sits upright, but at the same he doesn't, not really. The king sits on that thing the way he always does. Dressed in black, the crown that belonged to the mad king before him on his head, a thoughtful look on his face.

‘Your grace.’ He bows and in the corner of his eyes he can see Sansa make her perfect little curtesy. 

‘What a sight to behold, our favourite prince has finally decided to bless us with his presence.' 

He used to really hate it when Cersei calls him that, but all he can do now is smile broadly as Ned gets up and hugs him with a broad grin across his face that somehow reminds him a little of Sansa's. 

Ned takes her small head between his hands and places a gentle kiss to her forehead that makes Jon feel a little proud, he doesn't know why exactly.

The throne room looks different somehow, he can't explain to himself what looks so different, maybe it's Ned's presence or maybe it's just that he hasn't seen it for over ten moon turns. The iron throne still looks uncomfortable, the dragon skulls are as impressive as ever and Cersei seems to have managed to be more displeased with everyone in the whole world than she already was when he last saw her. Maybe he is the one who has changed.

The room is filled with lordlings and their ladies, all watching him either with disapproval, displease or curiosity. Once he was used to that, now their stares feel itchy and they're way too quiet for his liking, he prefers it when they're all mumbling and whispering behind their hands.

'Your grace.' He says again, this time with a bow of his head. He probably should've waited with the enthusiastic uncle and father-in-law reunion, he would have if he believed Rhaegar cares. 

The king nods, 'I wanted you to be there this morning. During the small council meeting.' That comment, thankfully and unsurprisingly, makes most people mumble.

'My apologies your grace.'

'They told me they were not capable of waking you.' The mumbling stops.

'I did not notice them trying.' 

Some people laugh. His father clearly doesn't believe him and he's glad because he would not want the king to be an idiot. Rhaegar doesn't push it however, 'I expect you to be there tomorrow.' 

'May I ask why, your grace?' It seems like a logical question, he has never attended a meeting of his father's most important advisors before, he never thought he ever would, really. 

'I hear you visited the wall, perhaps you can enlighten us with what you encountered there.' 

'I already wrote you all about it.' Jon says.

‘I read it.’

Maybe his father wants a thank you for that, ‘I was only there for two days.’ 

His father decides that the best way to end the discussion is to stop it altogether by just changing the subject, giving his words to someone else he has in all likeliness never spoken to before, ‘Welcome to court lady Stark, we are pleased to have you here.’ There is not one soul in the room who hears sincerity in his words, yet Sansa smiles as if she believes him, nods and makes another tiny curtesy, not by far as deep as the first.

‘Thank you, you grace.’

After using her to change the subject he shoots his attention back to his bastard son, ‘My brother arrived this morning, ahead of the upcoming wedding there shall be a jousting tourney outside the city walls.' 

Jon really wants to ask when there has ever been a jousting tourney inside the city walls, 'Very exiting. As long as I don't have to go on a hunt.’ Some people laugh again, ‘I'll do anything but go on a hunt.'

His father doesn't even frown, 'I expect you to participate.' 

At second thought he is not willing to do anything but go on a hunt, Sansa eyes him for a fraction of a second when he says, 'I- erm, I left my squire in the North.' He did not even do that on purpose, bless him.

'You have Ser Malckom.' 

'Ser Malckom is an anointed knight.' He won't like it one bit.

'You can have my squire.' Ned offers. 

'I didn't bring my armour either.' 

'Who doesn't bring his armour when he comes to the capital to attend wedding festivities?' Cersei looks at Rhaegar to check if he finds it as ridiculously feather headed as she does. 

'Thankfully you are in the capital, plenty of armour to choose from.'

'If you win, you can crown your wife the queen of love and beauty.' Cersei's eyes scare him a little but not as much as her words do. Twenty years ago another Stark lady was crowned queen of love and beauty. Jon wonders if that tourney is the most famous tourney in the Seven Kingdoms or if he simply heard of it so often because he is who he is. Everyone is the throne room is dead silent, as if they're holding their breaths.

'Perhaps.' Sansa would love that, he wonders how many people would make comments about history repeating itself. Images of Sansa in a bathtub filled with her own blood appear in his mind for a second and he really hopes he'll never crown her queen of love and beauty, ever. 

'What took you so long?' Rhaegar places his eyes at the girl next to Jon and scans Sansa. 

'I was asleep.' Jon says, there is some laughing, and even though he's confident no one believes him, he doesn't really know what else to say.

'Asleep?' Cersei smiles and it's one of the ugliest smiles he has ever seen, 'During the middle of the day?'

'We arrived late.' Jon says, perhaps a bit too loudly.

Sansa interrupts him before he can make it worse, I'm afraid travelling doesn't suit me much.' That is an understatement, ‘I wasn't feeling very well.’ 

'Perhaps you should've left her behind in the North.' 

He doesn't really understand why Cersei says that to him, with that tone, while Sansa’s standing next to him, and thankfully he doesn't have to respond to it either because his father tells her to shut up in his favourite way; he openly disagrees with her.

'It was right of you to bring her, how do you find the capital, lady Stark?'

Jon doesn't really think his father cares one bit about how Sansa finds the capital, but she smiles just as sparkly as always, seems completely not taken aback by Cersei’s rudeness and since the honest answer to the king’s question is that she mostly thinks it stinks Jon can't help but smile when she says, 'I’m enchanted by it.' 

'Perhaps we ought to dine together tonight.' His father suggests and Jon can't say he's surprised, he knows how much his father loves it to sit around a dining table and make everyone in his presence feel uncomfortable, ‘With the family.’

'I'm sure everyone will love that.'

'Good.' His father gets up, nods at the people nearby and leaves the room while everyone bowes. 

Ned walks over to Jon and pulls him with him on his arm, away from Sansa, ‘Can I ask you something?’ He asks and he adds some force to his words, his eyes careful. 

'Of course, anything.'

Ned looks away and seems to decide how to phrase his question properly, 'Did you gift Arya a sword?'

Jon gulps, feels his cheeks blush, turns around to see if his wife can hear them and then decides to plea, 'Please don't tell Sansa.' 

Ned frowns at him, seems to think about what to say for a moment but then laughs and the sound warms Jon's insides. 

 

**Sansa**

Sansa doesn't know if she's bubbly because she had a very pleasant morning or because she is finally in the place she has dreamed of for so long. The Red Keep is beautiful, everyone here is beautiful, her rooms are beautiful and the gardens are too. The weather is nice and the sea is a wonderful sight once you're not on a ship trying to survive sailing it. She likes how new this place is, how real it is, how it's the city she read about since she learned to read her first words.

She visits her father in the hand's tower, where he and Arya both have their rooms. She's glad she won't be staying there, after a mere moment in Arya’s presence she's reminded of how she should not have missed her as much as she did. 

After being reunited with her dear friend Jeyne she's unpacking when the door opens and Prince Aegon stands in her bedchamber. 

Her eyes widen at his sudden appearance and she sinks down in a deep curtsy, 'My prince.' 

He smiles and his white teeth blind her. He is terribly handsome, ridiculously attractive, 'It is an honour for me to welcome you in the capital, milady.'

'Thank you.' She says and she bows her head. She's not quite sure where to keep her hands so she clutches them together. In the corner of the room Ghost gets up and watches the prince with suspicion, as far as wolfs can do that.

'I was wondering if perhaps I could escort you to my sister's rooms? She invites you over for tea.' 

'I-I would be honoured my prince.' 

He smiles again, 'Good.' He says and offers her his arm. Sansa looks over her shoulder at Jeyne who grins broadly and it makes Sansa feel almost as uncomfortable as all the questions she started asking as soon as they sat down. Jeyne Poole is such a child. 

‘Where is my brother?' Aegon wonders aloud, 'I have not seen him yet.'

'I'm afraid I don't know.' Sansa answers, she didn't really worry about Jon, perhaps she should have. 

'Afraid? Please don't be, we can't have that!' Aegon says and he squeezes her hand that rests on his arm, she can feel all the rings on his fingers as they dig in her skin, 'You must be so terribly exited to be here, such a vast contrast to where you are from.'

As much as that is true she doesn't like the tone he uses, 'Very exited.' 

'Your family was so hospitable during our extended stay, we can only try our very best to make yours here as comfortable as ours was over there.' 

She's not sure if he enjoyed his time at Winterfell as much as he claims, she has never spoken to him like she is doing now, she remembers how it always felt like he pretended she was a gust of wind, someone not quite important enough to even look at. Maybe he regrets that, maybe he wants to be friends. 

'I'm sure my stay will be very pleasant, thank you, my prince.' 

He continues to smile, it looks nothing like Jon's, he doesn't narrow his eyes, it doesn't reach any part of his face but his lips and it never seems to fade nor falter. He wears his smile like other people may wear a hat, he takes it off just as easily, it must be his least favourite piece of clothing. She remembers what Jon told her about him, she knows he told her not to trust him, not to trust anyone. Perhaps she should not want to be his friend. 

He delivers her to Rhaenys's doorstep, bows his head, still smiling, and walks away while Sansa tries not to stare after him.

Rhaenys smiles too, her smile doesn't reach her eyes either but at the same time it's not at all the same, it doesn't look as plastered to her face and it disappears as quickly as it appears, it may not be a happy smile but at least it is somewhat real, somewhat human. 

'I've been looking forward to introducing you to my aunt, the princess Daenerys.'

It's only Daenerys who is present and it surprises Sansa because Jon told her about Rhaenys' teaparties and he always made it seem like a get-together of a handful of beautiful, highborn ladies dressed in silks with ribbons and rubies adorning their hair, gossiping and giggling about their knightly suitors. 

It's still odd to know princess Daenerys is an aunt to the king's children when she is also at least three years Rhaenys's junior. People used to say she looks at lot like the late queen Naerys and if that is true Sansa is disappointed. She is very beautiful indeed, but not beautiful like Rhaenys and Sansa wonders if that is perhaps the result of their different demeanour. 

Rhaenys looks like a queen, she dresses like one and looks at everyone around her as if she owns them and everything _they_ own too, including the ground they stand on. Daenerys is a stark contrast to that. She looks meek, timid and docile with little confidence or self-esteem, most of all she looks frail and unhealthy with a fine, pale, porcelain skin, near translucent. Rhaenys has the exactly same skin but she makes up for it with her piercing eyes. Jon's aunt is a fine and delicate beauty, almost unworldy and the moment she sees Sansa, her shoulders roll forward.

Jon told her about Daenerys, he is fond of her apparently, he isn't often fond of people that come from the south so she supposes her own impression may be just that, a first impression. For all she knows Daenerys could actually be good company. 

Sansa starts to recognise different shades of purple in the eye colour of Jon's family. She knows the king's eyes are a dark indigo, like Aegon's, but Rheanys' eyes are almost blue with just a strike of lilac. Daenerys' eyes are very clearly violet and they have a frightened gleam in them. 

'The weather must be nice for you, don't you ever grow tired of the cold? Was your travel comfortable? How do you find your rooms? Did you sleep well?' 

Sansa wonders why Rhaenys asks so many questions, all she ever used to say to her back at Winterfell were the obligatory courtesies. 

'My rooms are lovely, thank you.' 

Rhaenys nods and watches her carefully, 'How long are you planning on staying?' 

'We haven't discussed it much.' Sansa admits, at least for the wedding festivities, they agreed to that, hopefully a little while longer, but that will probably be it. Maybe she’ll be homesick by then and happy to go home. 

'Rhaenys narrows her eyes, ‘So my half-brother discusses such matters with you?' 

Sansa tries not to stammer at the question, 'I-I'm sure he'll inform me when he has made his decision.' 

Rhaenys nods and seems pleased with the answer, 'Well you must make most of your stay then, I'm sure you'll attend the jousting.' 

'Jousting?'

'There will be a tournament, it's part of all the wedding festivities of course.'

'Oh yes,’ half a year ago she would’ve never believed it if anyone told her she’d forget about a tourney she is actually going to attend, ‘I suppose I will, yes.'

'To champion your husband.'

'I'm not sure he'll take part in it, he did not bring his square.' She wonders if Jon did that on purpose, it seems like something he would do. 

'I'm sure a solution to that problem can be found, what do you think, dear aunt?'

It really is weird that Daenerys is an aunt, 'Of course.' 

Sansa wants to smile at the girl but she's afraid the gesture may break the princess and she consciously decides not to, 'I'm sure he is looking forward to it already.' 

Rhaenys smiles again, then her smile drops and she takes Sansa's hand in hers, 'I was informed of the horror that occurred to you not long ago, I understand if you wish not to speak of it with me but I do want to give you my sincere condolences once again.'

Rhaenys' hand is cold but soft, it helps freeze Sansa's body to the bone and she wants to jump away from the touch. The comment comes so suddenly and unexpectantly that it is a cruel and harsh reminder of a constant pain she still feels in her heart whenever her mind drifts of or when she has a moment alone to let her thoughts run miles.

Sansa opens her mouth to say something but there are no words on the tip of her tongue, her throat is frozen like the rest of her body though her eyes burn as she soundlessly prays for the strength not to cry. 

Rhaenys simply squeezes her hand and presses that glorious smile on her face again, 'The mother shall grant you a son soon, I'm sure of it. It has been some time since our family could greet a new member.' She looks at Daenerys who appears almost as uncomfortable as Sansa feels, 'I do think infants can be terribly hard to look at, all bald and screaming constantly, red-faced and angry. Tommen looked almost disfigured, so ugly, you cannot imagine, he ended up surprisingly well, though he has not yet lost his infant appetite.'

Sansa supposes she can indeed not imagine, 'I think all baby's are beautiful in their mother's eyes.' She says. 

Rhaenys looks at her for a second, 'I suppose that's true.'

'We'll raise our children at Winterfell. If we'll ever have any.' Sansa tells her, as if she wants to inform her that she won't have to fear the presence of more disfigured creatures. 

'Will you? I suppose you will.' Rhaenys says, 'Did you enjoy a pleasant childhood, lady Stark?' 

'I did, my princess..' Sansa says. 

'It's lovely to hear that.' Rhaenys says, 'How lucky you are.' 

'I am.' Sansa looks from Rhaenys to Daenerys and back, 'I really am.'

'A happy childhood is the foundation for a positive and mature adult life.’ Rhaenys takes a sip from her tea before she add, ‘Or so I've been told.' 

'Yes.' Sansa says simply, 'That must be true.'

'Though it makes people naïve.' Rhaenys goes on, 'Unaware too, of certain things, if they're not careful.' She looks at Daenerys again, 'Don't you think so, dear aunt?'

Sansa wishes she'd stop calling Daenerys her dear aunt, 'I wouldn't know,' Daenerys says, 'I've never participated in the upbringing of any child.' 

Rhaenys nods as if that is a very well supported comment, 'I believe religion is important, too.' She says, 'Don't you think?'

'Y-yes.' Sansa has no idea, truly, the gods are there for all of them, for those raised under the stars and those with a golden spoon in their mouth.

'I suppose with your plan to raise your children in the North and with Jon praying to trees your sons and daughters will be faithful to the Gods of the children of the forest?'

They are not just the Gods of the children of the forest, they are the Gods of the first men and the Starks have worshipped them long before the Valyrian dragonlords crossed the narrow sea to conquer Westeros, 'I have not really thought about it.' 

'Haven't you?'

'I always preferred the faith of the seven.' Sansa admits, 'My mother's Gods.' 

'Is that so?' Rhaenys seems slightly exited at the news, 'And your brothers?'

'We pray to all the Gods.' Sansa answers, 'All of us, it differs from time to time but it's better to pray to as many as you can, keep all of them happy.'

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow at her, 'I see.' 

‘I would love to see the sept of Bailor.' Sansa says, 'I can't wait to go there.'

'Yes,' Rhaenys seems to have lost whatever it was that exited her and she leans back in her chair again, 'It is a formidable building.' 

She falls quiet suddenly and Sansa notices how the conversation is dead without Rhaenys keeping it going, 'I love you dress.' It seems like a safe comment to make, 'The details, the colours and everything it is- very pretty.'

'Thank you dear,' Rhaenys says, 'I'm afraid I am not much good at making my own, but thankfully other people are gifted.' 

'You know where to find them.'

Rhaenys looks at her for a second, 'We can express ourselves by the way we dress.' If that is true Rhaenys must be expressing her desire to actively challenge queen Cersei. 

'I love your pin, too.' Sansa goes on, Rhaenys responds well to compliments so she better keep them coming. 

'It belonged to my mother.' Rhaenys says and it's only then that Sansa can see it's a brooch in the shape of sun. 

'Your mother had good taste.' 

'She did.' 

'My mother taught me how to sew, I'd love it if you would let me embroider something for you.'

'Would you? Well then I will certainly let you.' 

'I haven't done it in a while.' Sansa hopes she didn't loose some of her skill, she hasn't embroidered since she lost her baby. 

'Well then you must definitely make something for me, it is always a waste to neglect our gifts.' 

'I'm not very good at dragons, I'm afraid.’ Sansa admits, ‘But I'm not sure how feminine they are anyway.’ 

‘I'm not sure how feminine I am.’ Rhaenys says, she doesn't smile, but still Sansa knows it's a joke, a peculiar one but still, it breaks the ice, finally. 

‘I think I'll manage some suns.'

'I'd like an embroidered sun.' Rhaenys admits.

'Well, that's settled then.' Sansa finally feels like she is gaining some control over the conversation when Rhaenys looks at Daenerys and says, 

'Perhaps you could look at the wedding dress, I shall never forget your own, it was so very lovely.' 

'I'm pleased you liked it.' 

'Snowflakes? You are certainly skilled at embroidering snowflakes.' 

'I embroidered many of these.' Sansa says, 'But the dress was especially splendid because the silks were so precious.' 

'Were they?'

'A gift from the queen.'

'Of course.' Rhaenys says and her eyes suddenly grow cold again.

They sit there for a couple of seconds in silence when the door opens and Jon walks in, looking extremely strayed and in that moment he feels like her saviour. 

'Hey.' He says, almost stupidly, and he seems incredibly relieved to see her.

'Jon.' Rhaenys simply says, as if she wants to acknowledge that she knows who he is. 

Daenerys looks at him and there is an excitement in her eyes that Sansa did not expect her to be capable of, 'Dany!' 

He only sees her after a couple of seconds during which he's checking Sansa and he seems happy to see his younger-than-him-aunt. He walks over to her and kisses her cheek. She smiles at him too, it may be the first time she smiles, she has a pretty smile, all Targaryens do apparently, 'You look well!' 

Sansa frowns. Jon is supposed to be a bad liar and he cannot possibly believe she looks well. Sansa hopes he’s lying because if he's not she doesn't want to know what Daenerys may look like when she is unwell. Maybe he's only a bad liar to Sansa.

'Thank you.' 

Sansa looks at them and tries not to press her lips together. She's not sure what it is she doesn't like, Daenerys on her own, the fact that Jon likes it so much to see her or Jon liking any woman who is not Sansa, even when it's his aunt, who seems to like him back and is blindingly beautiful as well as of Sansa's age. 

She knows there is something she does not like and it has everything to do with the king's sister. She's weird, not like all the Targaryens who are a bit odd, just weird, extraordinary in an uncomfortable way. 

Rhaenys gestures to him that she wants him to sit down. 

Sansa hopes he can see the plea in her eyes and she presumes he can because he sits down next to her and pecks the top of her head. She feels the urge to drop her head on his shoulder and hide in his arms but can easily contain it when Rhaenys continues her small talk. 

'We were just discussing the tournament.' 

Sansa was under the impression that they left that subject for some time now but she's happy to go back there if it means she won't have to think about how to properly shape her future brood. 

'Yes.' Jon just says, 'Is that why you wanted me to come here?'

'Of course not.' Rhaenys says simply but she doesn't explain why she did ask him to come, ‘I’m glad you are here, I expect you to stay for as long as you need to.’

‘As long as we need to?’ 

‘Oh yes, you know I will tell you when that happens.’ 

Sansa feels confused and Jon looks positively angry now. For the first time that day Sansa can actually feel Daenerys’s eyes on her, as if Jon’s aunt expects her to stop it, do something about it. Sansa wouldn't dare, she knows better than that.

‘Was it your idea to make me joust in that tourney?’

‘Gods no, I’m afraid you won't be able to blame me for that, and you will actually have to do it too, poor you.’

'I need to find myself some armour first.'

'I'm sure that won't be much of a problem.' Rhaenys says and she moves her hand to squeeze Daenerys' shoulder, 'You look tired, perhaps you should retreat, take a moment to rest, the next couple of days will be exhausting for you.' 

Daenerys doesn't seem very eager to leave but everyone knows Rheanys' suggestion was never a suggestion so she gets up, makes a proper curtsy and leaves the room.

'Poor Dany,' Rhaenys sighs once the door falls shut behind her, 'She was always in love with you.' 

'Don't be ridiculous.' 

Rhaenys looks at him, almost offended, 'You're being ridiculous for telling me I am.' 

Sansa suddenly realises why she doesn't like Daenerys and she wonders if she now finally understands what her mother means when she says that 'women simply see some things men don't'. 

'She is our aunt.' Jon says and he looks at Rhaenys and it seems like the mere sight of her tires him.

'And a trueborn, full-blooded Targaryen, can you imagine.' She shakes her head and smiles at Sansa as if what she just said is not at all uncomfortable, 'I didn't invite you here to discuss unanswered feelings.' 

'I'd be disappointed in you if you did.' 

Rhaenys ignores that comment and then changes the subject entirely, 'I suggest we tell every person who asks or wonders that you are both here because I personally invited you.'

'Why would we do that?' She can tell Jon has trouble keeping his voice down, she has hardly ever seen him this annoyed.

'Because nobody needs to know why you are truly here.'

'And why are we truly here?'

'If you'd not know the answer to that question you wouldn't be sitting here, but then, it is one of your fortes to ask stupid questions.'

'Stupid questions?'

‘Questions you can answer yourself, I mean.'

'Why do you always have to do that?'

Rhaenys finally loses her armour of self-control and rolls her eyes at him, 'Do what, Jon?' 

Sansa feels completely out of place suddenly and it has been a long time ago since she last saw her husband look this tense, 'Pretend like you're all mysterious and give vague answers to to all my questions.' 

'You can answer your own questions. The only reason you're asking them is because you need a simple confirmation and you do know how much I hate simplicity.’ 

'I don't need confirmation,' Jon says and he leans forward, 'You send me a letter that tells me we are threatened by lions, somewhat force me to leave my home, travel to this place of shit and then you propose to lie to everyone about the purpose of this visit and demand me to stay as long as it pleases you. I don't need a confirmation, I need an explanation.’

Sansa frowns and suddenly feels extremely confused. When did Rhaenys ever force them to come? She is still under the impression that Jon wanted to come here, that he is the one who made the decision for them. And when did she demand they’ll stay for as long as she wants them to?

Rhaenys narrows her eyes but doesn't move away from him, instead she stares right back and declares, 'The queen forms a threat, not just to me, to Aegon and our father too.'

'I don't understand what that has to do with me.' Jon says and the way the both of them look at each other confirms something Sansa has not for a moment before believed to be true, she doubted it ever since she saw them both that day in Winterfell's courtyard, when she was still a maid. Jon and Rhaenys are as much brother and sister as siblings can be.

'You know,' Rhaenys says, 'You _know_ or else you wouldn't be here Jon,' her voice sounds pleadingly now, 'You are in danger too.' 

'Am I?'

When Rhaenys nods at Sansa she not only reminds Jon of her presence, Sansa feels suddenly very aware of herself too, 'And so is she.' 

'Is she?' If there is a Targaryen in him, it's coming out right now, ‘If you want to tell people that I am here because of this damned wedding then why didn't you actually just do that; invite me for the wedding?’

She raises an eyebrow in amused mockery, ‘As if you would’ve travelled all the way to the capital if I'd done that.’ She shakes her head, ‘Besides, I'm not the sort of person to invite people for a wedding and then make them find out later on that it is not going to be one great party after all.’ 

Jon doesn't tell her she's wrong, Sansa knows she's right. She can actually remember Jon telling her about the engagement and adding that he hoped his father wouldn't make him come to be present at the ceremony. Now he is here anyway, and his father didn't even force him.

‘Why are we in danger?’ Sansa asks.

Jon looks at her with a look on his face that she can't quite make out, ‘The Lannisters don't like us very much.. They don't like Rhaenys, or Aegon.’

‘They don't like us one bit.’ Rhaenys ads and Jon angrily glares at her. 

‘What does that have to do with me?’

‘Nothing.’ Jon says, ‘They simply can't be trusted, you don't have to worry.’

Sansa wonders if he actually expects her to believe that.

Rhaenys looks at Sansa suddenly and Sansa feels like she is calculating something which makes her feel awfully uneasy. Her eyes are worse than the many comments about danger, especially worse than what she said about Daenerys, 'We need to discuss the tournament.' 

Jon finally leans back in his chair again and sighs, 'What about the damn tournament?'

'You'll have to participate, wether you'll like it or not.' She raises her cup to her lips and takes a sip.

'I'm aware of that.' 

'You have to get out of it as soon as you can.' Rhaenys says, 'Drop off your horse, pretend you're shoulder is dislocated again, it doesn't matter, just don't give yourself the opportunity to get properly hurt.' 

'I can't _fake_ a dislocated shoulder.' Jon spits at her.

'Then fake something else, I don't care, as long as you don't get _speared_.'

He raises an eyebrow at her, 'You're lucky that I know you well, else I'd think you're worried about me.' 

'Not you in particular.' Rhaenys admits and the look in both their eyes makes Sansa shiver.

'I could fake a headache.' Jon says. 

'I don't care, just loose, it can't be too difficult.' 

'Is this about the tournament of Harrenhall?' Both Rhaenys and Jon look at her in surprise, as if they'd both forgotten she is still there, hearing everything they are saying. 

'What do you mean?' Rhaenys asks, Sansa believes she tries to hide her annoyance but somewhat fails.

'Nevermind.' 

'It's not about the tournament of Harrenhall.' Jon says and he tries to sound reassuring even though she knows he still doesn't really understand why she brought that up.

'With you father, I mean, what happened, after what the queen said-'

'No.' Rhaenys says, 'No it has nothing to do with the tournament of Harrenhall.' 

'I don't understand.' Sansa says.

'You don't have to, we don't always need to understand everything.' 

Jon glares at Rhaenys again and then presses a smile on his face when he looks at Sansa, he places his hand on the back of her chair and says, 'Rhaenys doesn't want to insult people, a baseborn is usually not allowed to harm princes.' 

Sansa understands that, she knows that, septa Mordane taught her, she nods and looks at Rhaenys again, 'It was very kind of you to send us your condolences.' 

'They were sincere.' Rhaenys repeats again and it's as if it is important to her that they believe her when she says it. Sansa wishes Jon could believe that but she doubts he can and after some time in Rhaenys' company she starts to understand why. 

'It was one of your finest letters.' Jon says, he still has his hand on the back of her chair. 

'I expect you burned it.'

'I did.' 

'Good.' Rhaenys looks at the trays of food in front of her, 'I was told you like lemoncakes, perhaps you should have some?' She picks up the silver tray and holds it out to Sansa.

'How do you know that?' Sansa asks, eying the tray in front of her nose. 

'Rhaenys knows everything.' Jon snorts. 

'If only that were true.' 

'I don't want lemoncake, thank you.' Sansa says. 

'Please, it's very good, I ordered it especially for you when I knew you were coming.' 

'That's very kind but I'm not hungry.'

'You don't need to be hungry to have lemoncake.' Rhaenys says.

'Another time perhaps.' 

'I insist.'

Jon pushed the tray away with his hand and Rhaenys almost drops it, 'She says no.' 

The gleam of purple in Rhaenys’ eyes suddenly seems to brighten and Sansa knows she feels insulted, 'Another time then.' She drops the tray loudly back on the table and Sansa feels her cheeks redden. 

'I have lost my appetite for them.' She says quickly, 'I ate too much of it when your family visited my home but I do appreciate the gesture very much.' 

'I can understand that.' Rhaenys says, 'They are so sugary.' 

Sansa smiles at the both of them in the hope to calm some nerves, 'You are being ever so kind, all of you, I feel very welcome.' 

'Good.' Rhaenys smiles again while Jon continues to eye her and she continues to ignore that, 'It is all I want.' 

'I can imagine all the arrangements for the wedding must be tiring.' 

'They are.' Rhaenys admits, 'You can't expect the Lannisters to participate, I suspect they are dreading it.'

'Don't they always.' Jon says.

Rhaenys takes a piece of lemon cake and pops it in her mouth while she looks at the both of them, one by one, until she gulps it down, 'I can assume father invited the both of you to dinner?'

'You can.' Jon says and Sansa looks sideways at him to get some extra confirmation.

'You can meet our uncle Viserys.' Rhaenys tells Sansa, 'You won't like him very much I’m afraid, no one does.' 

‘You can't just say that.’ Jon says.

‘Can't I? I believe I just did.’ She looks at Sansa, her eyebrows raised, ‘I have a tendency of saying the things everyone else is thinking.’

‘Yes, you're awfully brave.’ Jon says.

‘I wouldn't call it brave.’ Rhaenys says before taking a sip from her tea. 

‘It's not.’ 

Rhaenys puts her tea cup down and leans back a little, though she doesn't loose the elegance in her demeanor and Sansa can do nothing but be impressed by that, ‘How would you call it, Jon?’

Jon doesn't respond.

Rhaenys turns to Sansa again and tells her, ‘You see, when a Targaryen is born the Gods toss a coin up in the air-’ She makes a movement with her hand as she throws a coin up, ‘-and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. There is a taint in the blood of the dragon, Targaryens have always danced close to insanity. I'm afraid my uncle is an unfortunate man.’ She moves her eyes to her plate and takes another sip from her tea before she adds, ‘He’s mad.’ 

'So I've been told.' Sansa says. 

Rhaenys looks at Jon for a second and keeps on doing so when she asks, 'How much are you told exactly?'

'I couldn't tell you.’ Sansa says, ‘One cannot be aware of things they are unaware of. I can only hope I know enough.' 

Rhaenys never stops looking at Sansa when she tells Jon, 'Your wife is clever, far too clever for her own good.' 

'He did tell me that.' Sansa says and when Rhaenys smiles she thinks it must be the first true smile she has ever seen on Jon's sister's face.

 

**Jon**

‘You protect her too much.’ Rhaenys says the moment Sansa’s gone. 

‘How do you know?’ 

‘I'm not blind, dear brother.’ 

‘I don't need your advice.’ 

‘You don't know what you need.’ 

‘You told me to guide my door with dragons and wolves.’ 

She lifts up a finger, ‘I told _your wife_ to guide her door with dragons and wolves.’ 

Jon rolls his eyes, ‘Sansa's door is my door.’

‘I would call that very lovely and gallant of you if I were a romantic.’ 

‘You are not.’ 

‘I have been called many things but romantic is not among them.’ A fake wide smile spreads across her face when she mocks him, ‘You can be the romantic for the both of us.’ 

‘Just tell me what it meant.’

‘I'm not explaining that, if you can't make it out on your own it's simply not worth explaining.’ 

‘I don't need dragons to guide my door.’ He decides. 

‘You don't know what you need.’ She says again. 

‘But you do?’ 

‘You're half wolf, half dragon, who else should you-‘

‘I'm not half dragon.’ He cuts of her off, ‘If you think so you're mistaken.’

She only smiles at him in that way he hates. 

‘I don't want to get involved in your feud with Cersei.’

‘Feud! You really have been gone for quite some time.’ 

‘I mean it Rhaenys,’ he says, ‘Don't drag me into this, I don't want nothing to do with it.’

‘Do you think I want anything to do with it? That is life Jon Snow, we have to concern ourselves with matters we’d rather-‘

‘Don't tell me what life is, stop acting as if you know things I don't know, stop pretending like you are all-‘

‘You _do_ know nothing, dear brother.’ She says, ‘The only thing you know is that you _don't_ know.’ 

‘I am not you dear brother.’ He gets up and moves over to the door. 

‘Perhaps not.’ She says, not at all hurt by the comment.

‘If you ever tell Sansa that she's in danger again you can forget all about my support.’ He says before he opens the door.

‘What makes you think I need your support?’

‘Why else would I be here?’ 

‘Because you need my support.’ She says and he gives her one last glare before he leaves and aggressively shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start updating twice a week because this fic is going to have a whole lot more chapters than I originally planned (whoops) and I'm currently writing chapter 26, so I think I have plenty of head start. Also, in case this goes even more out of hand I really want to finish it before season 7 starts because that season will probably be the end of me.
> 
> So yeah, new update days are sunday as usual and wednesday I think. So see you this Wednesday and as always please let me know what you think! X


	14. A Sacred Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys and Jon have at least one thing in common; they are both good storytellers. Sansa doesn't necessarily always knows what Rhaenys is talking about, but that doesn't make it all less entertaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty long chapter this time, originally it had 10,000 words! Brought that down a little, thankfully.

**Sansa**

Just when Sansa believes she has seen the worst of the Targaryens, she meets Viserys. 

It is obvious how he looks down on her and he openly insults Northern traditions and makes some embarrassing and rude comments about the way she dresses that make Sansa feel like crying. Then he starts a rant about the advantages of slavery in the free cities, complaints to Rhaenys about the rooms they gave him because his old rooms belong to her now, starts a lecture about some vague new religion he is intrigued with (which seems to surprise no one), yells at Daenerys once about something Sansa doesn't quite understand and is as rude to the servants as Sansa has ever seen a man be rude to servants.

‘My uncle has neglected the faith of the Seven.’ Rhaenys says as she leans towards Sansa so no one can hear, ‘Apparently, a foreign priestess converted him.’ 

‘A foreign priestess?’

‘Yes, a new religion of fire and one lord. Can you imagine? One God? Who ever believes there is only one God? He has lost it.’

Sansa just stares at Viserys for a second as Rhaenys moves away. 

‘One fire god.’ She mutters, shaking her head in disbelieve, ‘As insane as the Ironborn.’

Sansa looks sideways at Jon in the hope he heard all of that but he only stares down into his almost empty cup. 

Viserys looks like a true Targaryen, more than Rhaenys and Aegon, especially more than Jon, but much like his sister, and betrothed, Daenerys. 

Sansa doesn't understand why they all have to dine together, nobody wants to be there, except for maybe Joffrey and Myrcella, the former because he seems to enjoy discomfort and the latter because she finds all these different people together in a room terribly interesting, or so it seems. 

Sansa wants to listen to the different conversations that all pass by but as she sits between Rhaenys and her extremely tense and agitated husband she can't stop focusing on Jon’s clenched jaw, the plate of lemon cakes in front of her nose, the clicking of Rhaenys’ heel under the table and the singer in the corner who keeps dedicating songs to the warrior.

Rhaenys and Jon have at least one thing in common; they are both good storytellers. Sansa doesn't necessarily always know what Rhaenys is talking about, but that doesn't make it all less entertaining. 

‘My family from Dorne is coming for the wedding, I’m terribly fond of both my mother’s brothers, but the elder never leaves the Water Gardens, so it’s only Uncle Oberyn.’ She says and there’s and excited glitter in the extraordinary beautiful deep color of her eyes that makes her seem so much more human, suddenly. 

’One could argue there is no such thing as ‘only uncle Oberyn’.’ Rhaegar says and Sansa notices the way Rhaenys bats her eyelashes at him, takes a sip from her pomegranate wine and returns to her smiling with no proper response, as if her father’s words were never spoken.

‘Have you ever been to Dorne, lady Stark?’

‘No, I'd never left the North before I came here.’ Sansa says and she hurriedly adds, ‘But I’d love to go there sometime.’ 

‘If this is your first time below the neck I believe you'd better visit other places first before you set a foot in Dorne.’ Rhaenys says and again Sansa doesn't quite understand why she says that but she doesn't believe it's meant to be mean. 

Rhaenys watches Viserys for a second and then says, leaning closer to Sansa, so only she can hear, ‘I never understood why people always say family is more important than friends, you can avoid your friends, have you ever tried to avoid your family? It is a real test, I'd say impossible.’

‘W-why would you want to avoid your family, my princess?’ 

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow at her, ‘I’m vastly confident that you'll understand exactly why by the end of this very week.’

‘Rhaenys stop being clever.’ Jon tells her through his gritted teeth. 

‘Perhaps you should try being clever once, that might be entertaining.’ It would be funny if she didn't actually mean it and Sansa presses her lips together. 

Jon and Rhaenys both watch Viserys for a moment during which they say very little and then Jon whispers to his sister, ‘Is there any way to shut him up?’

Rhaenys grins, ‘I could look into it, perhaps we can behead him.’ then she sighs and shakes her head and tells Sansa, ‘The endless talking is _very_ overrated.’ 

'He's very good at pretending he knows everything about everything without being an expert on anything.’ Jon says and Sansa frowns at the choice of words.

‘Oh well,’ Rhaenys shrugs, ‘I cannot blame him for that, it has never stopped me before.’

‘Still, his small talk is very small.’ No one can accuse Rhaenys of being bad at small talk, Sansa thinks. 

Rhaenys snorts, ‘I really don't believe I could stand a poet in the family.’ 

They both snigger at that and Sansa watches them in astonishment. As much as she is glad they are bonding, she's not sure if she likes it they're bonding over a mutual hatred for their uncle, that seems rather wrong. 

‘Aren't you hungry, little dove?’ Cersei asks at one point, ‘You have barely eaten a thing.’ 

‘What?’ She looks at the queen and feels all the eyes on her burn her skin, when did they all stop talking? ‘N-no thank you, your grace, I seem to have lost my appetite.’ 

‘Most people do when they dine in this room.’ Aegon says and he smiles at his father, who glares at him, as if he’s defying the king. 

‘You don't like the food?’ Cersei asks. 

‘She said she does not have an appetite.’ Rhaegar says, without looking at his wife. Sansa figures he does that a lot, talk to people without looking them in the eye, especially with Jon, he can never look at Jon. 

‘I like the food very much, thank you, your grace.’ 

‘You look a little tired, little dove.’ The queen says.

‘We have travelled for over a moon’s turn.’ Jon says, ‘Anyone would look a little tired- and don't call her _little dove_.’ 

Cersei narrows her eyes, ‘In that case I phrased myself incorrectly, or perhaps you misunderstood...’ There's a nasty little smile across her lips, ‘Your wife looks drained.’ 

Jon opens her mouth but Rhaenys doesn't give him the opportunity, ‘Sansa dear, if I may give you one good piece of advice... At court, the number one rule is to never complain nor explain.’ 

Aegon laughs but everyone else either frowns or looks uncomfortable. 

‘I feel perfectly alright.’ Sansa says, her voice too soft. 

'That's not a very moral advice.’ The king tells his eldest daughter. 

Rhaenys smiles at her father, ‘Don't let the High Septon hear you say that, he _thrives_ on immorality.’ 

Aegon is again the only one who laughs.

‘Perhaps she’s bored.’ Joffrey says and he eyes Sansa. She has thought of him very little after he left Winterfell. He has not smiled at her, not once, not like he used to do when he was her father’s visitor. All he does is glare and Sansa suddenly feels a little guilty. He was attacked by Arya’s wolf and she had never cared to ask how he was doing, if his arm properly healed. That was terribly impolite of her, no wonder he dislikes her now. 

‘I am not bored.’ She insists and she can’t help but play with the end of her braid as she goes on, ‘A little weary, perhaps, you must forgive me if my behavior is objectionable to you, I did not mean to.’ 

‘No,’ Cersei says, ‘Not objectionable at all.’

'You look bored though, or is this just how you always look?' Joffrey’s face is red when he looks at her and it makes her feel as if he’s about to attack her and pull her hair out.

Sansa sees Jon grab his knife in his fist but Rhaenys speaks first again, 'Joffrey, shut up.'

'Yes, Joff, shut your shitty mouth.' Jon says, louder than Rhaenys, who frowns sideways at him.

Sansa feels her face heat up as Joffrey glares at both Jon and Rhaenys, 'You can't talk to me like that!'

'Is that a challenge?' Rhaenys asks and Sansa swears she can see a smile around her lips, 'I don't mean to be rude but I truly can't believe you have the vocabulary to match mine.'

'You always mean to be rude!' Joffrey yells.

'That's rich.' Jon tells him, 'I think you're the rudest little loon I've ever met.'

'Here's one thing that will never be up for debate.' Rhaenys says and she leans back, a clear smile on her face now, as if Joffrey's red and angry face is amusing to her.

Aegon is broadly grinning as he looks from one person to another and as Joffrey breathes in to respond Rhaegar slams his fist on the table, so hard the table shudders and Sansa feels the urge to roll up like a ball. Jon stiffens, Aegon stops laughing, Joffrey pouts and Rhaenys removes her smile.

'That is enough!' The king glares at his fighting brood and when Joffrey opens his mouth to speak Rhaegar cuts him off again, 'Not one more word, don't you dare!'

'He said I had to shut my shitty mouth!' Joffrey turns to look at Cersei for support, but Cersei only pouts the same way he does and then Aegon starts sniggering again and Myrcella hides her giggle behind her hand.

'What part exactly don't you understand about _not one more word_?' Rhaegar asks, 'Is it so hard for you to behave for a change?'

'Forgive me, father.' Rhaenys says calmly but Rhaegar ignores her apology.

Sansa takes a sip from her cup and closes her eyes for as long as she believes she can. She’s not necessarily tired, it’s energy that she lacks but it can't be helped by sleeping. She feels restless and uncomfortable and the heavy smell of the spiced food makes her feel lightheaded. 

They are all fascinating, one by one. Viserys, with his long face and lilac eyes. He constantly looks at Daenerys, as if he’s checking on her, but not in a good way, not the way Jon checks on Sansa, it is not because he wants to make sure she is alright.

'Sansa, your mother must be so sad you left, with both her daughters gone now.' Rhaenys breaks the silence and Sansa looks at Jon to see if it's save to answer but he's too busy glaring at Joffrey so she clears her throat and nods.

'A little, but she understands why I had to go. My place is with my husband.'

Rhaenys plasters a wide smile on her face, 'Naturally!'

'My brothers are all with her still, she's not alone.'

'Well, I'm sure that must be a consultation price.'

'I thought you were supposed to stay in Winterfell? I thought you'd stay there, everyone was happy to never have to see your face again.' Joffrey tells Jon.

'Father told you to not speak one more word, are you disobeying him or have you already forgotten?' Rhaenys asks, and the look in her eyes is one of plain hatred. Though she tells Joffrey to keep his words to himself, she doesn't deny what he says, no one does, and it makes Sansa feel sick to the stomach. The thought of Jon's family telling him they were happy to be rid of him makes her feel the urge to cry and she wishes she could grab his hand.

'You-'

Jofrrey gets interrupted by Aegon, 'We don't want too many Starks in the capital, apparently, they melt in the South, would be one humid Red Keep.'

Just when Jon opens his mouth to respond Viserys throws some soup in a servant’s face, 'This is cold! I can't have cold soup, I am a _dragon_!' 

‘Viserys!’ 

Sansa shrieks again at the bellow of the King. Everyone sitting at the dining table falls silent and stares.

Sansa feels cold at the sound of the king’s voice, as if it goes through her skin and finds her bones. Viserys leans back all red-faced and angry.

Rhaegar's head is not as red as everyone else's, but his eyes... his eyes are shooting fire bolts and the glare he gives Viserys is mayhaps the most terrifying thing she has ever seen, 'Bring the soup away.' He demands, his voice as calm as the steadiest river, then he turns to look at Cersei and with the same voice he tells her, 'And tell your son to behave.'

Tommen looks as scared at Sansa feels as Myrcella leans forward to see what's happening, Rhaenys hides her face behind her hand, Jon stares into his cup and Aegon looks at the ceiling. This is truly the most awkward of dinners Sansa has ever been part of and she wonders how many more she'll have to live through.

'Joffrey dear, we must be pleasant to our guests, what must your brother's lady wife think of us?'

Rhaenys doesn't put any effort in hiding her eye roll and Aegon gives her a look that Sansa describes as a warning, as if he's telling her to keep whatever she wants to say in.

'What's unpleasant about the truth?' Joffrey wonders.

'Nothing in the whole wide world is as unpleasant as the truth.' Aegon mutters.

'Headaches are unpleasant and you're all giving me one.' The king tells his sons and Sansa wonders how much Rhaegar hates it to have so many of them. Four. Four sons and all but the youngest are glaring at each other. Tommen is probably his favorite. 

Rhaenys leans over towards Sansa again and this time whispers, ‘The second most important advice is to always smile, nod and approve. Never give anyone the impression that you disagree with whatever it is they're doing.’ 

Again, Sansa would laugh at what Rhaenys says if she was actually joking. 

Daenerys looks at her food, at Rhaenys and sometimes at Jon but never says a thing, not one word. Jon should be careful not to get drunk, he’s drinking more than he usually does but she doesn’t feel like she has an opportunity to tell him.

Strangely it is the king who keeps saving her from the queen’s endless questions, Viserys’ rudeness and Aegon’s skeptical comments. 

‘Let the girl be.’ 

She doesn't quite understand why he does it, she never believed he liked her much, he never talked to her, never smiled or even looked at her for longer than the time it takes a king to nod at a lady. 

The Targaryens fascinate her as much as they anger her, all of them. Growing up at Winterfell she learned some things about fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. What she encounters at the red keep is worse than what she saw of it when they were all at Winterfell, it is much worse.

Family are people that are supposed to love you unconditionally, Jon's family does not even seem to love each other conditionally. 

When she lays in bed that night and he comes in he is drunk. She wants to be irritated, but she can't be. 

She wants to call him her poor sweetheart and wrap her arms around his shoulders, pull his head close to her chest and hold him like a child. That is, however, not what he wants from her. 

‘Sansa…’ he says, tugging on her nightgown after he lays down next to her, still fully clothed, ‘Sansa you’re so perfect…’

‘What? Jon don't...’ 

She turns on her back and wants to push him away but he tries to reach for her so he can tickle her and she squeals while they frolic and he laughs. She loves that, she feels young and happy when they do that, she loves it most how he is clearly so much stronger and still lets her win sometimes. He lets her cheat by using both her hands, pulling on his hair, kicking with her legs and it will only make him laugh. 

'You're a sweet little dumpling.’ He groans and she pretends to be offended as she kicks him in his sacred parts. 

‘Take that back!’

‘No, never.’ 

She tries to kick him again but he grabs her foot and just laughs. 

‘Sorry, sorry… Sorry!’ 

He moves to lay over her but she pushes him away, too gently perhaps, and that is on purpose, 'I think you’ve been drinking a little bit too much.’ She says, cupping his face between her hands. 

‘Have I? No I haven't.’ 

She giggles, ‘ _Yes_ … You’re drunk.’

‘Am I? Yes I am.’ 

She giggles some more and he moves her nightgown up so he can place some openmouthed kisses to her thigh. 

She sighs in contentment and moves her leg up to give him better access, places it on his shoulder, ‘I wanted to tell you to stop but you seemed to need it.’ 

‘I don't need anything.’

‘You don't?’

‘Just a great deal of self-control and you.’

She smirks, ‘Me?’

‘You.’ He repeats, ‘I really need to fuck you.’ 

She places her hands in front of her face, ‘Jon! Don't say that.’ 

‘It's true.’ 

‘You don't have to say it.’ He never really says it, perhaps he lost some of his self-control. She definitely rather has him lose it in their bedroom than in that dining room with these people.

‘I really do.’ He smirks, ‘I really love it how you’re all embarrassed when I say that.’ 

She kicks him with the leg he still holds, his hand wrapped around her calve, and he laughs, ‘Stop it! don't laugh at me!’

He just laughs some more, ‘I don't laugh at you! I never do.’ 

She grabs his tunic in her hand and pulls him towards her, ‘How am I supposed to believe that?’

He’s still smirking, ‘I'm just laughing because you make me happy.’

She knows she does, he makes her happy too, he has never said it like this before, he never says things like that, ‘I’m glad.’ 

He moves away from her and turns her around somehow, down in the bed before he moves over her and whispered in her ear, tugging on her hair, ‘Can I fuck you now?’ 

‘Please.’ She says and she gasps when he enters and moans without trying to hush herself. She tries to move with him but it's impossible, he’s drunk and there’s no rhythm in his thrusts the way there usually is, it’s sloppy and rough and she loves it. He’s saying all sorts of things, things that make her bite her lip and moan and pull his hair, dig her nails in his muscles, so deep she knows it must hurt. 

She tells him to go deeper and he does, filling her up as much as he can and she sighs in content, it’s a good ache, one that makes her eyes roll back in her skull, an ache that soothes her longing and resembles the incontrollable need she feels in his touch.

'You’re so pretty.’

‘You don't have to say that right now.’ 

‘I want to.’ He says, ‘I want you.’

She wants to tell him she wants him too but every thought blinks and she can do very little but gasp, writhe and pant.

There is no gentleness in his hands, he’s clumsy and gawky yet not at all awkward. It's obscene, how good he feels, his body meeting hers. They should make love like this more often, she decides, she really should let him fuck her as much as she wants him to, it makes her feel like a woman, not at all proper, not well-behaved, hardly a lady, but a woman. It makes her feel beautiful, wanted, desired and powerful, not like men want to feel powerful, not like that, a different sort of power. It makes her feel like she has the power to be whatever she wants to be. 

Sansa tries to keep her eyes open as she touches, feels, pulls, kisses, nips, teases, caresses, holds and lets go.

It's all as amorous as always, but rousing and steamy and so titillating. Everything is lascivious, lecherous and raw. Mostly it's real and it feels right.

‘Are you good?’

‘I'm alright. It's good.’ She feels his breath against her lips before she sucks on his lower one and she tries to memorize the grin on his face because it may be his most handsome one yet. 

What Sansa likes most about this is that she has started feeling like they are moving together, as one person, one body, one mind. Together. 

‘I'm glad you’re my wife.’ He says afterwards when she's sprawled across him, her eyes closed in the afterglow of her bliss as he lets her fingers play with his hand. 

She looks up in amusement, ‘You don't have to remind me, not after all that.’

He grins, ‘Shut up Sansa.’ 

She laughs, ‘I’d be happy too, with me as my wife, can you imagine ending up like your father? Married to a _Lannister_.’ 

’Not just a Lannister, _Cersei_.’ He stills grins, ‘You don't necessarily need to like your spouse to be happy in life, I know that. Ask Rhaenys, I’m sure she knows quite a few couples who are terribly happy and haven't spoken in years.’

Sansa laughs, ‘Rhaenys is quite the…’ she doesn't really know what Rhaenys is.

‘You can say it,’ Jon says, tugging hair behind her ear, ‘She's not here.’ 

‘She reminds me of you.’ Sansa admits.

That is apparently not at all what he expected her to say, ‘ _How_?’ 

Sansa shrugs, ‘I don't know, you just do. Though I have to admit her wit is stronger.’

Jon's grin is surprisingly wide, ‘Undeniably so.’ He says.

‘We will never be like those couples Rhaenys knows.’ Sansa says, ‘I don't want to be happy without you.’ 

‘Don't you worry about that.’ He tells her hair, 'It’s still really weird don't you think? It's surreal. You are a little surreal to me sometimes.’

In that moment Sansa knows that he may never tell her this if he was not drunk on a combination of wine and the aftermath of their lovemaking, ‘Me?’

‘You.’ He says as if he expected her to know that, ‘I can still remember you when you were six, all fat-faced and sparkly and-’ 

She kicks him and he laughs, a bit too loudly so he hides his face in the pillow.

Then he looks down at her and says, ‘Back then you felt so much more important than me.’ 

‘How can you say that?’ She asks and his words make her feel almost sad.

He looks up and shrugs, ‘I don't know Sans, it just feels surreal. Especially now that we’re here, in _this_ place.’

‘This place...’ She repeats softly. 

The smile fades from his features, ‘I hated it here.’ 

‘I know you did.’ 

‘It was awful, Sansa, you cannot begin to imagine.’ 

She feels suddenly so miserable at the sound of his voice, it trembles a little, not because he is about to cry, but because the memory makes him angry, it makes her angry too, ‘It’s over now.’ She says, ‘That time… it's in the past.’ 

He nods, ‘I’ll always be grateful to him for giving me you.’ 

His words give her shivers and she closes her eyes to take them in. Words like these are rare from Jon, he's not good with sweet words, he's not like the noble, romantic knights from her favorite poems. She thinks he always simply presumes she knows, and she does know, but that doesn't make it less special when he actually says it out loud. Maybe it makes it all the more special.

‘It wasn't him,’ she decides, ‘The Gods brought us together, They have their plans, The meant for us to be us, because we belong together.’ 

‘You really believe that?’

‘I don't believe our marriage is just a pawn on their board game.’ 

‘Of course it isn't.’

She nods, ‘Then it must've been the Gods.’ 

‘You saved me.’ He says, his voice so soft she can barely hear him, all gawky and hoarse, ‘You married me and loved me, for who I am, you saved me. I nearly went to wall… I would have died there, died hating myself and the world, the Gods and life.’ 

She shivers again and now she is certain he would never say this with a sober head, it may not be the wine speaking but it is the wine that gives him the words to use and the push to open his mouth, ‘You saved me too.’ She kisses his lips softly, ‘I would have been so dreadfully unhappy, married to Aegon.’

He smirks and she knows there is hardly anything she could've told him that would make him as happy as this, ‘Hopefully not as dreadfully unhappy as he is.’

‘He really is, isn't he?’ She could see it, in his fake smile, his dark eyes and in the way he sometimes stares ahead of himself, thinking of another place, other people, a time where he could be who he wants to be, himself. She pities him, ‘Dreadfully unhappy.’ 

‘I never noticed properly.’ Jon admits, ‘I never noticed how unhappy they all are, not just Aegon, Rhaenys too and the queen… My _father_.’

The king matches his eldest son in his hopelessness, he keeps it to himself perhaps a bit more, he spares everyone around him his unnecessarily rude opinions but his _eyes_ , they are just as dark. These eyes remind of her of Jon’s, when her gaze found his in the Great Keep of Winterfell, sad and miserable, lonely most of all. She pities him too, though she wouldn’t admit that to Jon. 

‘But now I do. Maybe I never noticed because I was just as unhappy as they were.’

‘Maybe.’ She traces the top of her finger over his bottom lip and looks at his mouth for a second before she says, ‘It is sad.’ 

He doesn't respond immediately, perhaps because he disagrees or because he doesn't know how it makes him feel, ‘You really were perfect.’ He says suddenly, ‘The way you talked to Rhaenys today, the way you speak to the queen. She hates it, she hates how perfect you are.’ 

‘I’m not perfect, stop saying that.’ 

He pulls her down with her head in the crook of his neck, ‘You were, my father… he doesn't even hate you.’ 

He starts kissing her face which makes her giggle, ‘Doesn't he?’

‘How can he?’

‘Joffrey hates me.’ 

He stops the kissing and looks at her, his gleeful eyes seem to be much more awake suddenly, ‘Joff?’

She trails her hands down his chest, ‘He doesn't like me.’

‘Why would you care?’

‘I don't.’ That is a lie and she can't lie to save her life. 

He sighs, ‘Sans, Joffrey’s a dangerously violent idiot.’

‘Yes.’ 

‘He’s reckless, viscous, cruel and sadistic. Once he cut open a kitchen cat because the thing was pregnant and he wanted to see the unborn kittens inside. He showed one of the dead kittens to our father who was so shocked and angry that he hit him in his face.’ 

That is truly the most disgusting story she has ever heard.

‘Some think Joffrey behaves like a true dragon, but he’s not. He doesn’t have the Targaryen madness, it’s something else.’

There is the madness again, and the dragons, what is a dragon even? What does being a dragon mean? That your soup can't be cold? ‘The Targaryen madness?’ 

‘Aye,’ Jon sighs, ‘It won't change anything. Aegon’s the crown prince, no matter how badly Cersei would like to see that changed.’

‘What about your uncle?’ Sansa asks.

‘Viserys? What about him?’ 

‘Is he a dragon? With the Targaryen madness?’

‘Some say he is.’

‘Do you agree?’

‘My father doesn't.’ Jon says, ‘I hope he isn't. For Dany’s sake...’

She looks up from the crook of his neck and raises her eyebrows at him, ‘Daenerys? You never told me she’s in love with you.’

‘That’s because she isn't.’ He quickly says. 

‘Rhaenys said she is.’ 

‘You shouldn't listen to what Rhaenys says.’ 

‘Never?’ 

He avoids her eyes then because he knows what she means, ‘She's paranoid. About the queen, I mean. She doesn't trust her and she has good reason not to trust her but she shouldn't scare you like that.’ 

‘But mother still thinks the Lannisters pushed Bran from his window.’ Sansa reminds him. 

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘But we don't have proof. We're perfectly safe here, there is no reason to assume they would ever want to harm either one of us. I’m only a bastard, Sansa, nobody cares.’

She rubs her cheek along his chest, ‘You’d tell me if there are things, wouldn't you?’ 

‘I would.’ Jon says and his voice makes her believe him. She then decides to bring the subject back to something she is not quite finished with. 

‘Rhaenys is right about one thing.’ Sansa says and she lifts herself up on her elbows so she can properly see his face and trace her fingers over his freshly shaven face when she says, ‘Daenerys is in love with you.’ 

‘Rhaenys always says stupid things.’ 

‘I say she is.’

‘Sansa please-‘

She quickly moves forward to press a kiss to his lips, as if she presses her signature to his skin with her mouth, ‘It’s true. I can see it, women see such things.’ 

He looks at her in disbelieve even though he says, ‘I'm sure they do.’ 

She grins and moves her hand up to his hair and wraps a curl around her finger, ‘Daenerys has good taste, I'll give her that.’ 

‘It's not like that.’ Jon says, he rubs his eyes and sighs, then takes a breath before he tells her a short story with a drunken voice, ‘We were both unhappy when we lived here, I was the bastard and she was… Well, Viserys treated her like shit and my father did nothing about it… Cersei was jealous of her and Rhaenys wasn't much like the person she is today. We were both lonely and we used to dream of a better place together.’ 

‘That sounds awfully romantic.’ She doesn't mean to sound so scornful, but she feels a little left out because he’s never told her this before. 

‘It wasn’t, we were children.’ 

‘And then what happened?’ 

‘My father made them both move to Dragonstone and I hardly ever saw her after that.’

’Did you miss her?’

‘Terribly.’ He admits. 

’Were you in love with her too?’

‘I may have wondered at a certain point. I thought perhaps… I thought if father legitimizes me I can marry her and she won’t have to marry her brother. I always knew he’d never do that, of course so... I was lonely, and she was nice to me. She wasn’t the ugliest woman and she was… but I don’t think I was _in love_ with her, I now know I wasn’t. She was always very… She was good at feeling sorry for herself. She didn’t exactly brighten my days.’

‘But you did… You cared for her? Did you know she was in love with you?’

‘I think I knew, yes.’ He waits a moment during which she frowns at him and when he looks down at her face he chuckles, presses his lips to her nose and says, ‘I kisses her once, when I was sixteen. That’s a _long_ time ago. It has been at least two years since I saw her before coming here with you.’

‘Yet you never forgot her?’ She finally manages to mock him without a glint of jealousy. 

‘But I did.’ Jon says, ‘That is the point. I sometimes remembered but not like she does, I don't think so.’ 

'Like she does?’ 

‘You know what I mean.’ 

‘I truly don't because I choose to believe you when you tell me she is not in love with you.’ 

He looks away, smiling and takes a strand of her hair in his hand, ‘She dreamed of sailing across the narrow sea and never looking back… I dreamed with her but it wasn't what I wanted. I just wanted to go home.’ 

‘To Winterfell.’ 

‘Aye, to Winterfell.’

‘But she did want to go?’ 

Jon yawns and closes his eyes for a moment as if the subject makes his tired, ‘I don't know, I think that the difference between her and me was that I had a home, I was far away from it but it existed. Daenerys has never felt at home anywhere.’ 

‘So she wants a place to call home?’ 

He looks at her for a while, his hand still holding a strand of her hair, his eyes soft and sleepy but she can see so much affection in his eyes when he says, ‘Home doesn't necessarily have to be a place, sometimes it’s a person.’ 

That makes her smile, ‘So she’s looking for a person?’

‘Maybe.’ 

‘Will she ever find that person?’ 

‘I don't- I hope so.’ He says and he sighs, ‘Be nice to her? For me.’

She nods. 

‘Thank you.’ 

‘She’ll look so beautiful at her wedding, I heard Rhaenys talk about her dress.’ 

‘She’ll look miserable.’ Jon says. 

‘I looked miserable at our wedding.’ Sansa says. 

‘You were the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen.’ He says, ‘Up until that point, at least.’

She smiles and despite thinking it's a load of nonsense the comment still makes her blush, ‘Everyone in King’s Landing is so beautiful, all the ladies wear such pretty clothes. I look like a northern savage compared to them.’

‘You really don’t.’

‘I feel like I look like a Northern savage.’ 

‘You really shouldn't.’ 

She turns over to lay down on her back beside him, ‘I don't know, I feel I should make something new. No one here makes their own dresses, mine are all so different in style.’ 

‘The southern style is a stupid style.’ Jon yawns, ‘Everyone dresses either like the queen or Rhaenys and they both dress to challenge each other.’

‘I didn't think you'd notice that.’ She says. 

‘Everything is a game here at court, even the way they all dress, for women, it's especially the way they all dress.’ 

‘I could dress in the color of my house, I could embroider it with snow, dragons _and_ wolves and I'd give it pretty wing-like sleeves with gold embellishments.’

‘Sounds like quite a piece of art.’ 

‘What do you think?’ 

‘I think I like you best dressed in as little as possible.’ He says.

‘I can't go to the wedding naked.’

‘I'll pretend you are during the ceremony to get myself through the damn thing.’ 

She laughs and hides her face behind her hands again, ‘Please stop it, you’ll make this all unbearable.’ 

‘For you maybe,’ he laughs and pulls her hip towards him, to spoon her in the position she likes so much falling asleep in, ‘You being here is the only reasons any of this is bearable to me.’ 

 

**Eddard**

‘It is better than the songs.’ Sansa declares and she beams at him before looking back at all the splendor of the tournament. 

Ned watches his eldest daughter as she admires the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind… and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. 

She is dressed beautifully, in green, it reminds Ned of Catelyn because of the way it brings out the red in her hair. She does that more often lately, remind him of Cat. The way she walks, smiles, talks. Especially the way she looks at Jon.

It fills his heart with relief to see them together, the way their heads move close when they say something in each other’s ear, the way he kisses her temple, how she blushes when he whispers to her. He is good to her, as good as Ned expected him to be, even better. He raised Jon to be an honorable man, aware of his duties, but when he is with his wife, Jon Snow does not treat her like a duty. He respects her and appreciates her in a way Ned could only have hoped he would. 

They watch the heroes of her songs ride forth, each one more attired than the other. Ser Gregor Clegane thunders past them like an avalanche and Sansa gasps. 

‘They say his armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic ruins that ward him against harm.’ Sansa tells Poole’s daughter, ‘But it’s not, his father had it crafted two summers ago, it’s the third replica.’ 

That surprises Ned, Sansa never used to be the person who tells a story that does not sound like a song, especially not when it is a false story, ‘Who told you that?’ 

‘What?’ She looks up as if she had forgotten his father was there.

‘About the armor?’ 

‘Jon did.’ She says before looking away again, almost irritated at her father’s question, taking her focus away from the truly important things. 

He expected Sansa to be miserable, at least a little sad and perhaps she is, perhaps she is good at hiding it, maybe she doesn't want her father to see, but she seems so _happy_ , happy in a way he’s never seen her look happy before. She beams at him, she beams at Jon, she is excited and looks as beautiful as ever, not like a girl, there is little childlike left in her. It is not just in behavior, but in her eyes too. The high cheekbones seem more evident, her face a little skinnier and her figure less so, she is still tall but that part of her that had been a little gangly is gone. She looks like a fully blossomed woman grown and he sees the way the men at court stare at her, their eyes ready to devour her. Jon sees it too.

‘Why can Frey’s bastard’s bastard participate but Jon can't?’ Sansa asks when two of Frey’s sons enter the field.

That question makes him frown, ‘But Jon is participating.’ 

‘Yes.’ She says, as if she’d forgotten, ‘He is.’ 

‘Where is he anyway?’ Ned asked. 

Sansa leans forward as if she may see him if she gives herself a wider look of the field, ‘Not down there, he’s not.’ She says. 

He frowns at her, as much as he is convinced she cares for her husband, he wonders why she lacks so much interest in his whereabouts, though he instantly realizes, that Sansa must be used to seeing little of him during the day. 

Ned feels utterly out of place, taking part in the tourney is not an option for him, he is simply too old, despite the participation of Ser Barristan, but Ned is not Ser Barristan and as he looks across the field, where the King is seated with his brother, sister, eldest daughter, queen and their three youngest babes, Ned wonders if the king feels a longing to be down there, on a horse, with a spear in his hand, too. 

When prince Aegon appears Ned decides the king must feel the same way his Hand does; too old, and glad to not have to deal with all the fuss. Aegon looks so much like his father, it is baffling. His golden armor is adorned with rubies and they are covered in iron dragon-like scales. He seems invincible and mighty and as large as a man of his seize can look. There is a determination is his eyes that reminds Ned even more of the king, but apart from his appearance and the look in his eyes there is a clear difference between the Rhaegar of the past and the Aegon of the presence, it's not a lack of insecurity but more the exuberance of it. He is also quite clearly not a good horseman, no matter how much he and his squire try to hide it.

‘He looks like a Targaryen.’ Sansa decides and Ned has to agree, but he notices the way admiration is missing from the way she says it. Sansa seems almost indifferent about Aegon, and that is new to Ned as well.

Jory, Alyn and Harwin ride for Winterfell and the North, just like Jon, the King’s bastard. Ned discussed it with him the night before, ‘It is where I live, where else should I ride for?’ Ned agreed, only because he knew there was little else Jon can ride for, the boy would rather fall dead from his horse than wear a red three-headed dragon on a background of black. Jon is no Targaryen bastard, he is the Lord of Winterfell’s nephew and the son of a lady of house Stark. 

Jon is dressed perhaps not as extravagantly as Sansa would probably have liked but he looks handsome all the same and the sight of him makes her blush. 

When Jon is on a horse it is the only time he reminds Ned of the king. Unlike Aegon, Jon’s a good horseman, Ned wonders how he could not have been, he remembers how people used to call Lyanna a centaur. 

The way Jon sits upright, the way he steers his horse, holds the reins, looks around from the height, down at the world as if he cannot be beaten even if a thousand men strong army come at him, all at once... it is a sort of pride, a sort of attitude none of Rhaegar’s other children possess, not like that, not as impressive, not this natural. 

He doesn't get knocked off his horse, he seems to jump off it, avoiding the pointy end of Ser Gregor’s lance. His horse calmly keeps galloping his pace. Jon doesn't even fall down, the moment he gets off his horse he ends up on both his feet, let’s go of his horse and walks away, as if he planned on doing it this way. It wouldn't surprise Ned if he did, he never wanted to participate, he hates jousting and he hates his father telling him what to do. All Rhaegar’s children seem to hate it when he tells them what to do, the only difference is that, in the end, some always listen while others never do. 

Ned can see Viserys whisper something in his betrothed’s ear and point at Jon. Daenerys moves away from him as far as she can and leans over to Rhaenys, to repeat Viserys’ words. 

The jousting lasts all day and into the dusk and Septa Mordane compliments Sansa for her composure while Jeyne repeatedly covers her eyes and screams. 

The compliment doesn't seem to please Sansa as much as it once may have, somehow Ned believes the septa is annoying her and he doesn't quite understand why. 

Sansa does yelps when the mountain rides up his lance and kills a young knight from the Vale by striking him in the neck, through his throat, he falls only a few feet from where Ned is seated and he feels Sansa’s hand gripping his. 

Jeyne Poole weeps until Septa Mordane finally takes her off to regain her composure but Sansa makes no sound, one hand in her father's and the other in her lap, watching with an odd fascination. 

‘I ought to be crying too.’ She tells him, ‘Perhaps I have used up all my tears.’ her remark makes him hold her hand tighter in his, mayhaps this is the first time she takes off her mask, or the blood on the ground reminds her of a nightmare that should still be fresh in her memory. 

They shovel dirt on the spot to cover up the blood and the fighting continues. 

After ser Loras presents his daughter with a red rose and calls her beautiful Sansa seems to have shaken off her sadness and when Ned looks up, Petyr Baelish is standing behind them. 

‘You must be one of her daughters,’ he tells Sansa, ‘You have the Tully look.’

Sansa looks up at him, ‘Forgive me, my lord?’

It does not seem to bother Littlefinger that she doesn't recognize him.

‘This is lord Petyr Baelish, Sansa,’ Ned tells her, ‘Of the King’s small council.’ 

‘I knew your mother,’ he tells her and Ned feels a shiver run down his spine at the way he looks at her, ‘You have her hair.’ 

If the man makes her feel uncomfortable, she hides it well, ‘Did you? It is an honor to meet you, my lord.’ 

Littlefinger looks at Ned and as soon as he appeared he disappears. 

‘Was that Littlefinger?’ Sansa asks and Ned nods, ‘Jon told me about him.’ 

‘He grew up with your mother because he was your grandfather’s ward.’ 

‘She never mentioned him.’ Sansa says. 

‘Didn't she?’ Why would she, there was nothing about the man that should be of any concern to Sansa. 

It is getting late and the moon is high up in the sky when the king decrees to fight the last three matches the next morning, before the melee. 

The court moves to the riverside to start the feast and Ned takes Sansa with him. Before he knows it, she walks through a small crowd, straight to Jon, as if she senses where he is. 

‘I wish I could congratulate you on your brave fighting, dear lord husband, but I am not a liar.’ 

Jon just grins and kisses her hand, ‘I hear Ser Loras has a keen eye for beauty.’ 

Sansa looks down at the cup in Jon’s hand, ‘Don't drink too much.’ She tells him and the two of them share a look that makes Ned feel utterly uncomfortable. 

‘I expected more from you.’ Ned tells Jon but he smiles.

‘Hopefully his grace, my king father, will not be too disappointed.’ Ned knows Jon doesn't give a damn about his father’s disappointment. 

‘Hopefully.’ 

Usually Ned would have tried to keep an eye on his daughter, if only because Cat would expect it of him, but he doesn't feel like he needs to. There is a difference of night and day between Jon and Sansa as the way they were when he last saw them and now. 

The servants keep the cups filled all night and the feast reminds Ned of Robert and the memories make him sad. He looks at the crown prince and feels a knot in his stomach. The Baratheons are noticeably absent, as they have been for two whole years now. Ned can imagine Renly would have done a marvelous job at the jousting, quite nearly as good as the knight of flowers, but the chances of him ever participating in any tournament in the nearest future are non-existent. 

Ned has watched Aegon from afar in these past months as the hand of the king, and he is truly the unhappiest prince he has ever seen. Aegon drinks too much, but he never seems to get drunk, his eyes turn gleeful but that is all, he keeps his demeanor and he always walks upright and straight. People are sitting around him, laughing, girls bat their eyelashes at him and giggle when he speaks. He expected Sansa to behave the way they do, but the reality is very different. 

When Rhaenys beckons Sansa, Ned tells her she doesn't have to sit there, she can sit wherever she likes. 

‘Oh no, I don't mind sitting with Rhaenys, I like her, she makes me laugh.’ 

Ned frowns as Rhaenys gives her the seat next to her, a place of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the king himself sits beside his queen. The princess whispers something to Jon and squeezes his shoulder, to which he nods. 

The relationship between Jon and his half-sister the princess Rhaenys fascinated Ned the moment he saw them interact back at Winterfell. They don't seem to like each other one bit, yet there is a sort of mutual respect between them that Jon does not share with any of his other siblings.

Singers sit before the king's pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler keeps a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. The king’s own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, dances about on stilts, all in motley, making mock of everyone with such deft cruelty that Ned wonders if he is simple after all. Some of his jokes make Sansa almost spill wine on herself. 

Jon’s courteous to her, to his wife, he talks to her all night, introduces her to people and seems proud when he does so, he makes her laugh, she makes him smile, her hand in his as he plays with her fingers. 

Rhaenys seems to have taken her under her wing too, when Jon leaves the table for a moment Rhaenys talks to her in a way that reminds Ned of the way she speaks to the princess Daenerys. She carefully points at people and is obviously sharing the juiciest court gossip with Sansa who seems comfortable in her company. Rhaenys indeed makes her laugh.

Daenerys looks uncomfortable, she always does really, she seems as sad as ever while prince Viserys never allows her to leave his side. He treats her like a lapdog, like a personal possession, and nobody seems to do a thing about it. It is cruel to make them marry, but it is the way the Targaryens have always done it. Ned knows that when Aegon gets married and has his own babes, they will have to marry the silverhaired sons and daughters that will be born from Viserys’ line, a line that will be pure, to maintain the blood of the dragon. It is tradition.

There is a fortune teller that predicts the future of all the maidens at the feast. The woman has big dark eyes and long, skinny fingers. She’s dressed in a velvet dress, as black as night with seven pointed stars decorated all over it. Ned wonders how the Gods truly feel about predicting the future. 

Daenerys refuses the woman when people tell her to take the place and Ned is glad no one pushes her, they push her enough as it is. 

Then Joffrey loudly proclaims he wants Sansa’s future to be predicted and Jon glares angrily at him for all the court to see. 

‘She won't have to, if she doesn't want to.’ Rhaenys says.

‘Why wouldn't she want to?’ Cersei asks, she has been pouting during the entire feast. 

‘Leave the girl alone.’ The King tells them. 

‘I don't mind.’ Sansa says. 

‘Well then!’ 

‘I am sure many others will want to go, I’ll let them.’ Sansa decides when she sees the look in Jon’s eyes, but it's too late.

‘Nonsense!’ Joffrey calls loudly and he personally escorts her to the woman, who calmly watches them approach.

Ned shares a look with Jon and Ned smiles reassuringly, what could ever be dangerous about it? The woman is either an imposter or insane, you had to be, to believe the future is as set as the past. There can come no good from knowing the future, it always makes people fearful, it is better to be unaware.

Ned moves to stand closer to the fortuneteller and Sansa. ‘Is there anything you'd like to know sweet girl?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ The witch doesn't seem to believe her, ‘Are you sure my child? They always know exactly what it is they want to know, always the same.’

Sansa doesn't respond and the witch raises an eyebrow. 

‘Give me your hand.’

Sansa’s hand is steady when she places it in the witch’s claw. 

‘Smiling faces, smiling children, stories, songs, cold weather, red trees, a long summer... Your childhood home was a happy one.’ 

Sansa looks at her father and Ned smiles, it can't be hard to ‘predict’ that, he thinks.

‘I see so much red. Fire and Blood… poison, eyes, leaves... A ship in de darkness, waves that will guide you back… a dragon awakening amidst the cold and a bleeding star. I see Snow.’ The audience laughs enthusiastically, ‘So much snow it builds a castle, it raises from the ground, fierce, strong.’ Again the room laughs, ‘I see tears, tears of happiness, tears of sorrow, tears of hatred, tears of pride. I see hands. Good hands, evil hands, small hands, big hands. Wolves... I see death during the night and a weeping child, crying for her mother.’

The witch stares at Sansa intently and Ned notices how next to him Jon seems frozen, if her future truly contains dragons Ned is sure he doesn't want to know. 

‘I see a warm cloak around your shoulders, an undying love that will always protect you.’

Sansa shivers as the witch places her last free hand on Sansa’s bare shoulder, and Ned hopes the witch won't make it as humiliating as Joffrey would like. 

‘I see two people, reaching out, a wall between them. I see unbearable yearning.’

Sansa is definitely blushing now.

‘You will have to long for a presence, a presence that shall come home to you. But I see betrayal, hurt and aching, constant pain. So many tears, I see so much tears. I see loneliness, isolation, I see a filled castle. You will give away your dearest possession and it feel like a dagger pressed through you burning, throbbing heart, but you won't lose it. You shall hate, you shall mourn, but loving you shall most. I see love over it all, protection… love… _family_ and _home_ will be your greatest token.’

At that people clap. 

‘What vague nonsense!’ Some lord yells, ‘tell the girl how many grandchildren she shall grant the King!’

The witch, still holding Sansa’s hand, clasps it and Ned can imagine it hurts, she stares at Sansa’s face as if she can't see her properly. Ned can clearly notice Sansa’s discomfort and he wonders what will happen if the answer is a disappointing one. 

‘I see marriages.’ The witch goes on, ‘The white one, yes, but there will be a red one, a purple one, a wedding that should not happen, one wedding that may never happen, not all of them yours, but they will haunt you... many marriages… I cannot see how… I can only say that one is unquestionably fruitful, the others… I can only see _that one_.’

The witch looks away, finally, at the audience watching them, and Ned has not felt this nervous in moons, they all seem so excited to see what her worth may be. 

‘I believe… I cannot say for truth… It is all unclear to me but I see… I see an aching womb but…’ The woman closes her eyes, as if she enjoys the suspense, sighs and shakes her head before she says, with a great amount of certainty in her voice, ‘I see five daughters and three sons.’

People clap and Ned looks at Jon, who doesn't appear as pleased with the news as he probably should be. A smile creeps on Sansa’s face, she seems happy with the prospect of five daughters and three sons, she really, really does.

The witch closes her eyes again and almost looks as if she's in pain, ‘One is already lost, left before it ever got to lay in her mother’s arms, taken by thieves.’ She nods as if that’s one thing she’s sure of.

Sansa’s smile fades, the comment is more terrifying than anything the witch has said to her before all combined and Jon shovels at his spot. 

The witch opens her eyes suddenly, ‘And another one...’ she waits a second and drops Sansa’s hand, who lets it fall into her lap, ‘Another one growing, perfectly safe, protected by a mother’s body. I see a womb containing the outcome of a sacred vow. A child… A child will be loved… loved and wanted by all… by _both_.’

Sansa beams when everybody starts clapping. She looks at her husband, who tries to grin at her, his face rather flushed.

‘Thank you.’ Sansa tells the witch who does not smile nor respond.

Sansa walks down the steps, to her family, where she takes Jon’s hand and lets herself be escorted back to the table. 

Everyone seems either very pleased or extremely displeased after that. Sansa cups Jon’s face with one hand and kisses his cheek for everyone to see and then happily enjoys her baked apples fragrant with cinnamon. 

‘What a day.’ Septa Mordane sighs and Ned has to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was that. Hope you liked it! Thank you all so much again for all the support and things, it makes writing so much more satisfying and knowing how much some of you actually love what I type down really makes my day. See you Sunday!x


	15. Watermelon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘The king?’ Sansa feels her throat tighten, ‘Why?’ 
> 
> Both Pycelle and Rhaenys look at her in disbelieve, ‘Because he is the king.’ Pycelle says stupidly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, I had a rough weekend (in a good way though), hopefully in some places in the world it is still Sunday!

**Sansa**  

Sansa will always remember what Jon once said about heirs. He said he has no need for them. She disagreed back then, she still does, and she’s fairly certain everyone else in the Red Keep does too. She wants to have so many babies, more than that witch could ever have promised her.

Sansa lays in her bed the morning after the tourney, her hands on her belly, staring at the ceiling, as all these words dance around in her head. 

_Another one growing, perfectly safe, protected by a mother’s body. I see a womb containing the outcome of a sacred vow._

She can't be. It's too soon, it took them twice this long the first time, and she lost it. Sansa has dreamed of it, yes, every time after they finished, she laid her head on his chest, listened to his heartbeat and wondered if this time, _this time_ they finally made a baby again. 

The bed is cold at the other side, Jon’s gone. She doesn't know where he is, with her father perhaps, or with one of his siblings, maybe he had to go to the small council again, perhaps he’s there. She hopes not, he doesn't like it much. 

Sansa didn't sleep a wink last night, staring sideways at his sleeping figure, as he looked as peaceful as Jon Snow is ever going to be. He didn't like the things the witch said very much, he said so much, and when she asked why he told her that simply no one can predict the future. He said it's not like the past, it's not written down with ink on parchment. He told her to forget everything the woman said. 

But Sansa can't, she keeps thinking of the five daughters and three sons and imagines what they may call them. When? Soon? Right now? 

_A womb containing the outcome of a sacred vow._

It's too soon, far too soon. She has not been sick! Not at all tired, not like last time. Her back does not hurt and she has not been bad-tempered, not at all. Perhaps that’s all coming, and she _was_ sick on the ship, but lots of people were and it lasted for a few days, not weeks. 

Sansa gets up from her bed and moves to stand in front of the mirror. It's so big, she can see herself from the top of her head to her waist. Her hair is a mess, uncombed and unbraided, and her eyes wide, she rubs them with her knuckles.

Sansa used to stare at her own face so often, before she got married, lately she never does that anymore. Perhaps that is, why she missed it all, why she did not see, has not noticed… but she can see it now. Sansa lifts her nightgown up with her hands, slowly and prudently. She’s wearing nothing under it, she never is, and when she moves it all the way up to her chin she can see her naked body in the glass reflection. 

She has never done such a thing before and it's terribly confronting. Her legs are no longer as skinny as they used to be, they are still long but her hips and thighs especially are fuller, _wider_. Her arms are the same as they always have been, like her hands, but her breasts, they have grown, even more since she was last pregnant. They are round, downy, firm and stand upright.

She lets go of her nightgown with one hand so she can cup her own breast. When she touches them they are tender and tingle and they feel big, so big… when did that happen? It used to fit entirely in her hand, but it doesn't anymore. It's heavy, perky and sensitive and the tip looks different for some reason. 

Sansa constantly feels tired but she doesn't _look_ tired, her eyes are sparkly and wide, they stare at her face in disbelieve, with a hint of excitement. Her skin is flushed and plump but it glows- Sansa feels like she's glowing. 

She turns around to her side and looks at her belly in the mirror, moves her hand from her breasts to her abdomen, there where she can see a small, tiny curve. 

_It can't be._

She feels tears in the corners of her eyes. _How?_ She remembers what septa Mordane told her those many moons back, she told Sansa to watch herself. She has not really done that, and no one else has done it for her. 

The door opens and Sansa immediately drops her nightgown. 

Her chambermaid stands in the door opening, she looks down at the floor, ‘I am sorry my lady, I believed you to be up.’

‘I am up.’ Sansa says. 

‘I thought I’d bring you your dress, for the tourney.’ 

‘Yes.’ Sansa says and she wants to walk back to the bed and sit on it but she stops herself, ‘No.’

The maid doesn't hide her surprise and says nothing nor walks further into the room. She holds Sansa’s green dress in her hands.

‘I'm not going to the tournament.’ 

The maid frowns at that, ‘If you don't want to, my lady.’ 

‘I do- I…’ Sansa finally walks over to the bed and sits down, ‘I think I would like to see a maester.’ 

‘Is something wrong my lady?’

‘No.’ Sansa says and she feels a tear run down her cheek as she look up at the girl, who must be no older than sixteen, ‘No I feel perfectly alright.’ 

After the girl leaves Sansa is alone again and she feels Ghost press his nose to her hand. She kneels down the bring their eyes on the same level and scratches him behind his ears, ‘Ghost…’ she whispers, ‘Ghost what if I am?’

Ghost doesn't have an answer but leans his head to one side and makes his whiny sound as h his beguiling eyes watch her. 

They send the Grand Maester of the Red Keep to her, Sansa has seen him all but once before and never too a proper look at him nor have they exchanged any words. He is not the Maester that travelled with the King to Winterfell and Sansa can see why. 

He smiles gently down at her from the foot of the bed, where she sits upright, her blanket pulled up to her chin. 

Wispy strands of white hair fringe the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. His Maester's collar is no simple metal choker such as Maester Luwin wears back home, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that cover him from throat to breast. The links are forged of every metal Sansa knows: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorn the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby. 

It doesn't seem to bother him that she disregards everything he says, and that alone, should be reason for concern regarding his mental state.

‘My lady why did you ask for me if you refuse to believe my certainty?’

‘I don't understand,’p>

‘You are the epitome of health.’ Sansa feels like the epitome of health and that is exactly why this _cannot_ be true. 

‘But I… last time I felt so sick, so awfully nauseous all the time, I was constantly tired and my back- you cannot imagine the pains in my back.’

‘That was last time, my lady.’ 

‘There is none of that now, nothing.’ 

‘Yet you missed your bleeding and your belly is swelling.’

‘I can't be.’ She simply says. 

‘If you do not wish to believe me, then perhaps you can believe your own body.’ 

Sansa places a hand to her belly, ‘I don't understand.’ She says again. 

‘It differs, one child can bring us more discomfort than the other, I'm afraid it starts when they’re only just growing inside their mothers.’ 

She hates it that he says that, with every fiber of her being, she hates it, ‘How long?’ 

‘I’d say you have been carrying for at least ten weeks, mayhaps twelve.’ 

‘ _Twelve_?’ They were still at Winterfell back then, they conceived this child in their home, when she was mourning and crying herself to sleep. 

Every day they were on that road she lied down in his arms dreaming of a child, she dreamed of something she already had. It can't be, the Gods are never this good, she doesn’t believe that anymore. 

‘How big is it?’

‘The child?’

‘The crops outside the castle walls… _of course_ I mean my child.’ 

The maester doesn't give her a fruit but holds his index finger and thumb apart and shows her how big it must be, it seems like the seize of a peach. That is big, so much bigger than a drape. 

'That big?' She stares at him in disbelieve and the man laughs.

She clutches the fabric at her belly again, it feels very flat now that she is lying down, but it is not flat, it has been growing, the way she dreamed it would. Sansa prayed for it so often and with so much passion, so much weakness, fear, desire and faith. She is supposed to have a child, it is meant to be, as much as she and Jon are, her belly should contain this life. It is the way it should be, the way it would have been had she been more careful. Her arms are made to hold this child, this baby of hers that is going to live. She vows to protect, to cherish, love and raise it to be brave, gentle and strong. 

She wants to swear, she hardly ever does, she’s not good at swearing. What word would Jon use? 

_Seven hells._

That’s what he said in the godswood, after she told him. He would swear with that right now as well, she figures. 

‘I hope you are happy my lady, the Gods have blessed your marriage.’ 

Sansa feels like crying, she weeps tears of utter joy and ignores the awkward silence that arises. 

It is then that the door opens and through her watery eyes she has trouble seeing who stands in the opening. 

‘What is going on? What have you done?’ 

Sansa looks up at Rhaenys who picks up her hand and holds it, the grand maester stammers a bit but she’s not listening to him. 

‘Sansa, tell me what happened? Why are you upset?’

Rhaenys doesn't understand, Sansa is not upset.

‘I have done nothing!’ 

Sansa has not stopped crying yet and squeezes Rhaenys’ hand, ‘He didn’t, I did, I mean, I haven't!’ 

‘What?’

Sansa wipes the tears of her cheeks as Pycelle loudly states, ‘Lady Stark is with child!’ 

‘Is she?’ Rhaenys looks down at Sansa with knitted brows, ‘She does not appear to be very happy about it, does she?’ 

‘She refuses to believe me!’

‘I am h-happy!’ Sansa pulls her hand back and clutches her stomach with both her hands, ‘Terribly h-happy!’ 

‘Grand Maester, I think you better leave us.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘Yes my princess.’ He says, ‘If you may forgive me, I ought to tell the king.’ 

‘The king?’ Sansa feels her throat tighten, ‘Why?’ 

Both Pycelle and Rhaenys look at her in disbelieve, ‘Because he is the king.’ Pycelle says stupidly. 

‘But Maester Luwin- our Maester at Winterfell, he told us to wait, until- until my belly starts growing.’ 

‘But it has been growing.’ 

'Yes.' She looks from Pycelle to Rhaenys who has a small smile around her lips, ‘Yes it has.’ 

'It is custom that I inform the king.’

‘Do you want me to go and get my brother?’ Rhaenys asks and Sansa is still trying to process how that may go when the door falls shut behind the maester. 

‘I'm afraid I've angered him.’ Sansa says. 

‘Please don't concern yourself with that.’ Rhaenys tells her, and she moves to sit at Sansa’s bedside, ‘Why are you crying, sweetling?’

‘I don't know.’ Sansa says. She knows, but at the same time she feels like she knows so little she can't possibly understand her own tears, not anymore, ‘I think I-‘ she stops herself because she remembers how Jon told her not to trust anyone, she should not trust his family, she can still vividly remember the last time she did. 

She looks at Rhaenys, all beautiful and queen-like, her pale blue eyes and her light hair a constant reminder of who she is. Usually she looks so serious, so proud and powerful, now she frowns and despite her promise to Jon, Sansa trusts her, she can recognize honest concern in her sister-in-law’s eyes.

‘I’m frightened, that’s all.’ 

‘I believe that must be common.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘I suppose it is.’ 

‘Do you want me to go and get my brother?’ she asks again.

Sansa doesn't want her to leave, to be alone in this room, in this bed, with the door closed and the sounds of twittering birds and a sleeping Ghost as her only company, ‘I’m sure he’ll be here any moment now.’ Sansa says, ‘When he hears I’m with the Maester.’ 

Rhaenys’ eyes soften and she smiles, ‘He is with the king, I imagine, and I can send someone for him just to be sure.’ 

Sansa would like it if she sends someone for him, so with a small nod, she agrees. 

Rhaenys sends Sansa’s maid away when she comes back in.

‘leave.’ The way she says it, just that word nothing else, no politeness in her voice, she does not even look at the girl when she says it, somehow impresses Sansa, Rhaenys impresses and fascinates her. 

Sansa gets out of her bed and lets Rhaenys help her get dressed. She doesn't say much but her cold hands are soft and gentle and they comfort Sansa and calm her most of all. 

Sansa thanks her and Rhaenys tells her she says thank you too much, Sansa smiles and says Jon tells her the same thing all the time. 

‘He’s right.’ Rhaenys agrees and then adds, ‘I suppose even he is sometimes.’

Sansa turns around, ‘He's not as stupid as you think he is.’ 

‘What makes you think I believe he's stupid?’

Sansa frowns. She could reason basically every single thing Rhaenys ever says to him. 

She likes Rhaenys but it's hard to grasp her. She's undoubtedly wise and extremely salty, but strongminded and manipulative too and though Sansa can't help but admire her, nevertheless she also feels a little intimidated. 

‘I have not congratulated you yet.’ 

‘You can do it now, if you like.’

Rhaenys smiles, ‘My congratulations.’ 

‘Thank you, my princess.’

‘Rhaenys, please, call me that.’ she says, ‘Sansa, I’d like it for us to be friends.’ 

Sansa looks up and finds herself a little speechless, ‘You don't like my husband.’ It's not a question. 

‘There are plenty of people I don't like, some of them think they’re my friend.’ 

‘I think it's difficult not to like him.’

‘I don't dislike him,’ she then says as she fastens the buttons at Sansa's sleeve, ‘I just don't like him which is not at all the same.’ 

‘That sounds rather contradicting.’

Rhaenys grins the grin she uses whenever she says something Jon calls ‘clever’, ‘Well I _am_ a woman, aren’t we assumed to be contradicting?’

Sansa can feel a smile creep on her own face now too. 

Rhaenys’s grin fades and she looks up at Sansa’s eyes, ‘He came here when he was a boy of ten and two, he hated all of us, the idea of us. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to like us or be one of us. They had torn him from his home, he distrusted and chose to dislike everything and everyone- including me.’ 

‘He still does.’ Sansa says, ‘All of you. I mean, he still doesn't trust any of you.’ 

‘I'd say he’s clever not to.’ 

‘But he is your brother.’ 

‘Don't I know it.’ Rhaenys says, ‘But so is Aegon.’

Sansa wants to ask what Aegon has to do with it but she doesn't need to, Rhaenys already tells her and Sansa wonders if Rhaenys is glad that she can tell her this, tell anyone.

‘My father has these certain expectations for all of us. Prospects, visions, hopes for our potential… whatever you wish to call it. They are all different, but nevertheless equally and evenly heavy on the shoulders.’ She has finished closing Sansa’s sleeve and holds her hand and looks at the palm of it, ‘Somehow the Gods are cruel enough to have blessed us all with gifts and traits that would fit perfectly in the shoes of others, but not in the ones we are expected and demanded to wear.’ She smiles a little, ‘Except for Joffrey, of course. There are no shoes anywhere in the world that could perhaps fit his feet.’

Sansa wants to understand and she thinks she does but she can't quite figure it out in the way she would like to.

‘We are all somehow a disappointment or a letdown to him, a disillusionment. There is never an opportunity for us to forget it, and I fear one dislikes the other for being the way they are supposed to be themselves.’ 

‘You ought not be jealous of your brother,’ Sansa says, ‘A brother is family.’ 

Rhaenys grins her grin again, ‘The problem with our family is that there is just so much of it.’

‘I have a big family too, I'd say we are not at all the same.’ 

Rhaenys’s grin drops once more, ‘Family can mean many different things.’ 

‘It means that you love each other.’ 

‘I think it means that you always look out for one another, take care of each other, protect all you can protect.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I’d like for Jon to trust me and I hope that when the time comes and he must, that he will.’ 

‘I'd like it for us to be friends, too.’ Sansa says.

Rhaenys drops Sansa’s hand and smiles at her, ‘You are going to be the mother of my kin Sansa, that makes us family and it means that I will try to protect you with all the power that I have- that is what sisters do.’ 

‘Protect me from what?’ Sansa asks. 

Rhaenys places her hand on Sansa’s upper arms, ‘From our enemies.’ 

‘Who are our enemies?’ Sansa whispers.

Rhaenys can't answer because the door opens and Jon stands in the door opening. 

‘I asked for you.’ Rhaenys tells him and she drops her hand back to her side, ‘What took you so long? Were you taking a trip down the Kingsroad?’

Jon doesn't look at her, he stares at Sansa, who can see a gleam in his eyes that is not at all happy and it frightens her a little. 

Sansa takes Rhaenys’ hand in hers and squeezes it, ‘Thank you for your help, perhaps you could give us a moment?’

Rhaenys looks at her, then nods and walks over to the door, before she closes it behind her.

Jon walks over to her with big strides the moment she's gone and presses her close against him, ‘Are you alright, how are you feeling?’

She smiles in the crook of his neck and takes in his scent with her eyes closed, ‘I feel fine, perfectly fine.’

He takes a step back and lets her go, somehow he still looks unhappy.

Sansa presses her brightest smile on her face and tries to stop her hands from fidgeting now that he's moved away from her, ‘They have informed you?’

‘I would have preferred to find out because you informed me.’ Jon says. 

‘Yes,’ Sansa wonders if that makes him this upset and she feels guilty, ‘Things are done a bit differently, from the way they are at Winterfell.’ 

‘Are they?’ There is a certain sarcasm is his voice that she doesn't like at all. 

‘A-are you not happy?’ She feels like crying again and this time it’s not because of joy. 

‘Are you?’ 

‘Yes.’ She breathes, ‘Of course I am.’ 

He nods and finally his frown disappears but he doesn't touch her and his frown is still as deep as any and he looks like he is fighting an inner battle with his thoughts, ‘I don't understand.’ He says. 

‘We are having a child.’ She says, but despite her hopes that comment only seems to bother him, ‘Why are you upset? What did I do?’ 

‘Why didn't you tell me?’ 

‘When should I have told you?’

‘As soon as you could have.’ 

He doesn't raise his voice at all but she’s still shocked by the harshness she hears and she takes a step back from him, ‘I couldn’t, Grand Maester Pycelle was set on telling the king! It is custom he said.’ 

‘He told me you are… He says you are as far as you were last time when you- you cannot mean that you only found out today?’

She finally understands what he must believe and it angers her a little, ‘Do you truly think I would keep that from you? Why would I do such a thing?’ 

‘We would not have come here if you’d told me. You should not have travelled.’ She realizes he feels guilty for bringing her in that danger but it only makes her roll her eyes.

‘The Maester said I am as healthy as a horse, the travel did not do any harm.’ 

‘We still would have stayed.’ 

‘Why does it matter?’ 

‘Why do you think it does?’ He asks and he glares at her, ‘We can't leave now, we are stuck here in King’s Landing because you won't be able to travel for the next year or so, you’ll have to deliver here, in the Red Keep, far away from Winterfell where our children should be born-‘ 

‘How can you feel so bothered by all that?’

‘How can you not be?’ 

She has not even thought about all these things, it was not at all what first popped up in her head when she heard the news, she was so happy, gloriously happy and she expected him to be too. 

‘Why didn't you go to a Maester sooner? After what happened last time, you should be so careful, I don't understand-‘

‘I didn't know! I never thought I could be-‘

‘How? With the- last time you knew instantly, you said women know these things!’ 

‘It was different last time!’

‘How was it different?’

‘I don't know Jon, everything! Everything was different, I felt horrible back then, we weren't traveling and we weren't in a completely new place, meeting all these new people with all these new customs and all the different food-‘

‘What does food have to do with it?’ 

‘Nothing! Everything! I don't know!’

‘You can't be telling me you didn't know, how can you not have known?’ 

‘I just didn't!’

‘But there are- women do… I thought you have your ways.’ 

‘Our ways?’ 

‘With blood.’ 

She understands when she looks at his highly uncomfortable face and it is extremely annoying, she wondered why she has not felt annoyed with him like she did last time, this conversation is making up for it and she is not planning on apologizing after, ‘Blood?’

‘Were you not bleeding?’

‘I suppose I wasn't.’ 

‘Then _how_?’

‘Do you think I was concerning myself with all of that while we were on that ship? When we were on horseback for weeks? Away from my home and family?’

‘I can't understand how you never noticed.’ He insists. 

‘What's there for you to understand? _You_ are a man!’ 

‘Aye I am a man! That doesn't make me a fool, it’s been at least ten weeks Sansa, ten weeks! We were still at Winterfell ten weeks ago, I should never have brought you here, it was a mistake, you could've been hurt, or sick or anything, anything could have gone wrong.’ 

‘It would have been a nice excuse for you not to go.’ 

‘An excuse for me? I came here because of you!’

‘Why?’

He stares at her for a second, it is the first time he has to think about what to say, ‘It was irresponsible of you not to keep an eye on your own body, you are the only one who can, I can't do it for you.’ 

‘I never asked you to do it for me.’ 

‘Well I wish I had now!’ 

‘I always keep an eye on myself! I don't know how this could have happened, I never expected it, how could I have seen this coming? You tell me that I should watch my moonblood but the last time I was bleeding I lay in my own bed and it wouldn't stop, there was blood everywhere, on the sheets and between my tights and my baby was dead!’

She can see his face soften as the angry frown disappears but then he bites his lip and looks away, ‘That has nothing to do with this, this baby is not that baby.’ 

‘It has everything to do with this! I didn't think it could be this soon, how could it have been this soon? I never expected… Last time I was so sick I thought I was dying, now I haven't felt anything.’

He still doesn't look like he believes her and she can't be angry with that, she has trouble believing herself. Perhaps she doesn't believe herself. Perhaps he is right, she could've known, she should've known, maybe she knew, maybe she only could not believe it. 

‘I didn't think it could, how could I have believed it? After everything… I was scared, I could never have thought.. How do you think I was supposed to see it?’ 

‘I don't know.’ Jon says, ‘You told me women know, I am not a woman.’ 

'I didn't believe it.’ She says again and she wonders how often he’ll make her repeat it, ‘I didn't think I could be, that is what I told grand Maester Pycelle.’ 

‘Yes, grand Maester Pycelle told us the same, he’s not very happy with you.’ He says it with his mocking voice and his brows crease again.

‘Then how can you believe I kept it from you on purpose?’

‘I don't think that, Sansa.’ He says but his voice is cold and she can hear some obvious annoyance, ‘Can't you see how this could've gone so wrong, how lucky you are that nothing happened. With the food on the ship, and all the traveling… You could have fallen from your horse. Can you imagine what might’ve happened if you'd fallen from your horse?’ 

Would she have been lying in a bed of blood again? Would she have lost this child too? Would they tell her again that ‘nothing could've been done’? Or would it be different, would it really be her fault? Would they admit to it this time?

She can see the terror of the possibility in his eyes, ‘Nothing happened, you don't have to worry about that.’ It is stupid of her to tell him he shouldn't worry, it's useless to say it and it's his habit now, that is both endearing and ridiculously annoying. 

‘You should have seen me stand there, in the damn throne room, looking like a complete idiot, with that asshole complaining about you, Cersei looking like a snake ready to burst from her skin, Aegon all smug, it was horrible.’

The mention of these people and their response irritates her, she doesn't care about them, all she wanted was for him to be happy, she assumed he would be, never considered him not being, ‘I can imagine, the news must have been terrifying to you.’ 

'In that moment it was.’ He admits and she wants to fling something at his head but instead she straightens herself. 

‘Forgive me, I don't believe I have the capacity of feeling sorry for you right now.’

‘If you’d watched yourself we could be in Winterfell in this moment and we wouldn't have to-‘

‘I didn't watch myself because I didn't think I had to.’ That was the last time she’d say it, she swears it to herself, whether he was going to believe her or not. 

‘I think that maybe you should’ve.’ 

‘I should have? Who are you to tell me I should have? You can't tell me that.’ 

‘Can't I? It's your duty to look after yourself, to make sure you-‘

‘It's my duty? What is your duty Jon? To do your thing every night and expect nothing to happen? Scream at me when things do without you taking the possibility into account?’ She feels a tear run down her cheek and it surprises her because she was not feeling the urge to cry, it is a tear of anger much more than a tear of sadness. He is not going to make her sad, not now, no one can, ‘You can’t scream at me, you have no right!’

The anger is his eyes disappears as quickly as a snowflake in a warm hand, ‘Sansa I didn't-‘

‘Could you please go?’

He moves towards her but she pushes both his hands away, this is too late, far too late.

‘I don't… I don't want to talk to you anymore, you’re ruining it.’ 

He always feels sorry when she starts crying, she wishes he’d feel sorry because he listens to what she’s saying, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn't have-‘

‘Don't!’ If he isn't leaving she is, she should leave before the urge to punch her fist against his nose grows out of proportion, ‘Just don't.’ 

She walks over to the door and he doesn't stop her nor say anything else when she opens it, moves through it and shuts it loudly.

She looks up right in the eyes of Jaime Lannister’s smug face. Dressed in his King’s Guard armor, one eyebrow raised and his hand on his sword. He must've heard, he must've heard every part of it, every yell, every remark that broke her heart into pieces. How embarrassing.

‘Lady Stark.’ There is a faint hint of a smile across his lips that makes her feel cold to the bone.

She nods her head and walks away from him as quickly as her skirts and heels allow her without running. 

There is only one person in this Godsforsaken castle she can go to and she doesn't realize she is running to him until she bursts through the door of his office and looks at him and the queen. 

She stands in the opening and feels her fingers tremble and she takes a few steps back,’I-I… forgive me your grace.’ 

‘Sansa…’ her father says, ‘What is wrong?’ He walks over to her and cups her face between his hands as if she is still his little girl and for once Sansa doesn't hate it. 

‘I never meant to disturb you.’ She tells him.

‘You are not.’ 

‘I believe we are done, lord Stark?’ 

Ned pulls his hands from Sansa’s face and turns to the queen as if had already forgotten her presence, ‘Yes, thank you, your grace.’ 

Cersei looks pleased with herself when she quickly moves her eyes down and back up Sansa’s body, she makes a pouty smile that gives Sansa chills, and leaves.

‘Odious woman.’ Ned says and takes Sansa by the hand towards his desk, sits down in his chair and pulls her in his lap. 

Sansa starts sobbing the moment she sits down, she should not be crying, how can she be crying? She feels like crying is all she does lately. 

‘why are you crying? Are you not happy?’

‘H-he’s angry with me!’

‘Who is?’

‘Who do you think?’ She lays her head on her father’s shoulder, ‘The witch was right! All there is for me in the future is crying!’

‘Now, sweet girl, I don't think you should believe a word of what that woman said-‘

‘It will be, married to him!’

‘Jon?’

‘Who else am I married to?’ her voice is desperate and melodramatic and she knows her father tries not to snigger.

‘I haven't seen you this upset about it in a very long time.’ 

_I haven't been this upset about it in a very long time_.

‘I hate him.’

‘I know we haven't discussed it much but I don't believe that for one bit.’

‘He’s angry with me.’ Sansa says again.

‘How can he be angry with you?’

‘He’s not happy.’ 

‘There is a difference between being angry and unhappy.’ Her father strokes her hair and rocks her a bit, ‘We’re all a bit unhappy sometimes.’

‘Not today.’ Sansa says and she rubs her cheek to the leather of his doublet to wipe her tears away, ‘He should not be unhappy today.’ 

Her father kisses the top of her head and sighs, ‘I cannot believe he is unhappy about _that_.’

‘He is, father!’ She hiccups a bit, ‘He really is.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Very sure.’ 

‘My sweet girl,’ Ned says, ‘You two have to talk to each other, and don't just speak, listen as well.’

‘I can't listen to him, all he tells me is what I should do differently.’ 

‘Well, tell him that.’ 

‘He won't understand, he never understands, he doesn't even try.’ 

‘You know that's not true.’ 

Sansa just weeps a little while she hides her face in the crook of her father's neck, ‘I'm really angry.’ 

‘I'm sure he deserves it.’ 

‘But he does!’ She leans her head up and looks at her father, ‘You wouldn't believe me if I told you what he said to me!’

‘Try me.’

‘H-he said…’ Sansa shakes her head, she doesn't know how to repeat it, frankly, the whole argument is vague to her, just a faint memory of anger and desperation. How she'd dreamed of his happy face, the way he'd hold her, lift her up in his arms, kiss her face, tell her how much he loves her. She wanted him to place his hand on her belly and tell her this is real. She wanted him to want this as much as she wants it. But he doesn't want it, not at all. 

‘What did he say?’

‘Lots of things.’

‘And you did too?’ 

‘He doesn't think it's the right time.’

‘I can tell you from personal experience there is never a right timing for a man to become a father.’ Ned says. 

‘I never expected him to be angry, never.’ 

‘Sansa he won’t be for long, he isn't, not _really_ , he is worried, that is all.’ 

‘ _Worried_?’ 

‘I fear that's all he does.’ 

‘You shouldn't fear it you should dread it.’ 

Ned laughs, ‘When your mother told me you were coming I was worried too, and afraid. There was the uprising in the iron islands, I thought I should maybe have to leave her and your brother or bring her to Riverrun, where she would be safe with her family. But then you were on your way, suddenly, and I couldn't make her travel, I couldn't risk anything happening to you. I didn't think it was the right timing.’ 

‘But you say there is never a right timing.’ 

‘No there is not, as your mother told me. And when I rode back from the battle, the Ironborn defeated, I came home to Winterfell, it was one of the first days of winter and you were only three days in this world. I saw you, with your little wisp of blonde hair and your blue eyes-‘

‘Blonde hair?’

‘Yes!’ Ned smiles, ‘Your hair was strawberry blonde, curly and stood upright, you already had more hair back then than I have now.’ 

Sansa smiles, ‘You never told me that.’ 

‘I have never been so happy as that day. Except for the days your brothers and sister came, they were just as happy.’ 

‘I wanted Jon to be happy. I expected he would be.’ Sansa admits. 

‘He will be, I promise you.’ 

‘He doesn't want it to be born here, at King’s Landing, he said we should never have come here, he said he wouldn't have brought me if he knew. He told me I was stupid for not knowing, he said I should've known.’

‘Could you have?’

‘Perhaps.’ Sansa admits, ‘But I didn't think… I never expected it. I dreamed of it, father I dreamed of it so much, constantly, but I couldn't believe the gods would grant it to me so soon, not after…’ she shakes her head and lays her head back down as her father pulls her tighter to his chest. 

‘I can understand.’ Ned says. 

‘Maybe I knew.’ She did not expect to admit it this soon, ‘If I knew I wouldn't admit it because I was afraid.’

‘It is normal to be afraid.’ Ned says. 

‘I don't want to be afraid, I want to be brave.’ 

‘You can't be brave without fear.’ 

‘I feared disappointment, I think.’ 

‘You want it that badly?’

‘I have never wanted anything this much.’

‘I think you should tell him that, tell Jon how happy you are.’ 

‘I don't want to talk to him.’ 

Her father sighs and she feels the leather of his clothes move against her cheek, the leather is soft, so often has he worn it, and the smell makes her feel safe, ‘You don't have to do it now, I think you can wait until the two of you have calmed down, thought about it, taken it all in.’ 

‘I want him to apologize.’ 

‘Will you accept it if he does?’

‘Maybe.’ 

Ned laughs again, ‘Don't be too hard on him, he so much tries to do his best with you, he truly does.’ 

‘He shouldn't say stupid things.’ 

‘He shouldn't.’ Her father agrees. 

‘He can't help it sometimes.’ She decides, ‘That's just the way he is.’ 

Ned laughs, ‘I don't think you should want to see it differently.’ 

‘He should not have assumed I kept it from him.’

‘Didn't you?’

Sansa looks up and she wants her words to sound angrily when she says, ‘Of course not! I did no such thing, I wouldn't do that, I could never, even if I wanted to.’ 

‘Have you talked about this before today?’

‘No.’ she says and she looks down because she suddenly realizes she should have, her father is right, they need to speak to each other, she can't expect him to tell her things when she keeps her heart’s desires from him, that is wrong too. They promised. He promised he'd talk to her and she promised she'd talk to him. Why didn't she? 

‘Why not?’

‘I…’ Sansa closes her eyes that have already started aching, her eyelashes still salty with tears, ‘I think I was afraid he wouldn't want it as much as I did.’ She sighs, ‘He would have told me it would not be a good idea.’ 

‘It doesn't matter anymore.’ Ned says, ‘You are going to be parents now, it is a gift from the gods, something to be thankful for, not fight over.’

Sansa sniffles a little and wipes her face with the back of her hand, ‘Will you be angry with him for treating me this way?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘I think so.’ Sansa says and she looks at her father's face, so much like Jon’s, the same eyes and the same nose, kind and good, worried mostly, worried because they love her and they want to protect her, she knows that, but it can be tiring, they don't always need to worry about her, sometimes they have to put faith in her ability to take care of herself, ‘Not really, no, I don't.’

Ned smiles, ‘I’ll be angry with any man who makes one of my daughters cry.’ 

‘He has made me cry a couple of times now.’ Sansa admits, ‘But I always forgive him.’ 

‘That's nice.’

Sansa nods, ‘Thank you father.’ 

'It is alright, sweetling.’ His eyes flash over her face and there is a look on his face that she has not often seen before, ‘But… he is good to you? Honestly? I have not talked to him about it and you seem so- you seem happy.’ 

Sansa blinks a few times then smiles, ‘Yes, I am happy.’

Ned nods once and she knows she needs to add it when she confirms, 

‘He is good to me, too good, I do not deserve it.’

‘You do.’ Her father says, ‘You really do and I am so glad we never married you to the prince, or the other one. You deserve someone who is good to you, someone gentle and brave.’

Sansa bites her lower lip, ‘I am glad too.’ She has never been this glad about anything and already she feels her anger slip away from her, she feels like crying again but not out of frustration, ‘Do I have to go or can I stay here?’ 

‘You can always stay here.’ 

Sansa nods and lays her head on his shoulder again, sighs and closes her eyes. In that moment she almost wishes that to be a little girl again, sitting at her father's feet as he tells her and her sister and brothers the stories from the age of heroes, and there is nothing she worries about but getting the front seat, the one in his lap.

 

**Jon**

When Jon opens the door to his bedroom he doesn't expect her to be there. She didn't seem to desire his presence at all so he figured it would be better to leave her be. He knows better than to stalk her when she’s cross with him, especially when she's rightfully cross with him. 

She lays in the bed, all still and pretending to sleep. He knows she isn't, he can hear it in her breathing. 

He looks down at her for a short time and he remembers the way he walked into her bedroom all those moons ago, when they'd just been married, had exchanged a total of two short conversations, of which one at their wedding feast. She lay atop of the furs, her white nightgown moved up to uncover her legs and the sight almost made him run away. 

She was so breathtakingly pretty back then, so innocent and precious and the most beautiful thing that ever belonged to him, surreal and unreal. She still is the most beautiful thing that has ever belonged to him, will ever belong to him and he still does not deserve her, if anything he proved that today. 

He loves watching her sleep, always has. The way she curls up, the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheek, the way she rubs her cheek to the pillow or to his chest. It reminds him of that first night they spend together, and it makes him feel so amazed about how he doesn't recognize the Sansa she is now compared to the Sansa he thought she was back then. He wouldn't recognize himself either, he reckons. She has changed him and he believes he changed her too. 

He slowly undresses and makes sure to do so as silently as he possibly can. Then he leans over to the bed and lays down, on top of the furs, like she did back then. 

He wraps his arm around her middle but doesn't pull her close the way he usually does, the way he wants to. 

‘Are you still angry with me?’ her voice is a whisper, so soft he could think it was a breeze of the sea outside their window smashing against the rocks of Aegon’s hill. 

‘No.’ he says, he should never have been angry with her in the first place, ‘Are you still angry with me?’ 

‘Yes.’ Her voice is still soft but it knows a fierceness he would admire in any person, men and women alike. 

He smiles, ‘Good, I deserve that.’ 

She turns around so she can look at him and he wants to pull his arm back but she grabs his hand, ‘I wanted you to be happy.’ 

'I am.’ He says and he tries to make it sound believable but he fears he doesn't at all, ‘I want to be, I do.’ 

Her eyes twinkle in the darkness and she doesn't say she believes him like he hoped she would, instead she tells him, ‘I really wanted to have a child inside of me again. I... I didn't tell you because I knew you'd think it would be a bad idea.’ 

'I don't-‘ 

‘I was afraid you'd think I only- I thought you'd think that I only wanted to be with you to get with child.’ 

‘I could never think that.’ 

It’s only after she says that and he can feel her body relax that he realizes she was terribly tense, ‘It wasn't. Jon I... I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want this baby. Can you please be happy?’ 

He nods, he can be happy, as long as she is he can be the happiest man in the world if she asks it of him. 

'Because I am so happy.’ 

He gulps and then says, ‘I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want to protect you. When you lost it- I would not be able to bare it to see you go through that again.’ 

‘It won't be like that, I know it won't.’ 

'I would never have forgiven myself if this time you-‘ 

‘I can feel it,’ she tells him and she nudges her nose to his temple, her warm breath to his cheek, ‘Our baby is going to grow and it will be born and it shall breath and live and you can protect it and worry about it like you do with me, as much as you want.’ 

He smiles, ‘I wonder if I'll be able to bear it.’ 

‘You will.’ She insists, ‘For me, you can.’ 

‘Yes.’ He agrees, for her he can do anything, he's not sure how good it is that she is so aware of that but in this moment, he doesn't care, ‘I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot.’ 

'You are.’ 

‘I am. I don't deserve you, you should be angry with me.’ 

‘I am still angry with you.’ 

‘Good.’ 

'Get under the blankets Jon, it's cold.’ She tells him and when he does she snuggles up to him and intertwines their fingers and places his hand to her belly the way she used to do before, when there was a part of him in there, like there is now again. 

‘It’s going to live.’ She says, ‘I know it will.’ She presses her forehead to his and he can't do much but drown in the black pools that are her eyes, ‘I was afraid before but not this time, this time all will be well, I promise.’ 

'Okay.’ He says. 

‘I promise.’ She repeats. 

‘I promise too.’ He's not sure what he promises her exactly but she doesn't ask so he supposes she must know. 

‘My belly has been growing.’ She nearly glows when she says it and he feels his heart make a little leap, in that moment he wants nothing more but to kiss her so he does, just softly and he pulls back because she adds, ‘Can you feel it? It is growing, it wasn't when- but now it is, it will grow a little every day, until it has the seize of a watermelon.’ 

He grins, ‘that’s quite something to look forward to.’ 

She beams at him and he feels happy, as happy as he always feels when he is with her, and a little bit more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I was all exited about 250 kudos or something? Well I have over 600 now and it's INSANE thank you all so much I never expected so many people to love this.


	16. Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I didn’t spend three moons of my life waisting summer in that dreary land they call the North just to see you come back a year later, looking like _this_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOF chapter 16, feels like yesterday I made the rushed and awkward decision to post my first fanfiction in yearss

**Jon**

Jon stands close to Rhaenys as she hugs their aunt. His family has gathered in the Queen's ballroom before they'll head to the sept together. Viserys is not around, he's not supposed to see Daenerys and Jon wonders how much it angers him that the king clearly chose to be with Daenerys instead of him before the ceremony.

Daenerys looks as white as a cloth as she meekly straightens her light silver dress. He decides the person who ever thought it was a good idea to put someone with a skin this pale in a silver dress knows less about fashion than he does. She looks a little like a corpse, especially now that her fear drained all color from her lips. It's as if this is the last day of her life, the way her hand trembles as she grabs Rhaenys' sleeve. As if she's heading to a gladiator fight in the arena and she's not a warrior but the tiger's bait. 

Aegon crossed his arms and glares at Joffrey for a reason unknown to Jon, though he wonders how much reason one needs to glare at Joff.

Cersei is watching the king, who is leaning over to talk to Tommen. Tommen jumps nearly up and down in excitement and he and Myrcella grin broadly at their father as he seems to tell them a story that can be about nothing but the feast tonight. Myrcella already told Jon their father promised her a first sip of wine, 'No way!' He said, 'Are you sure you're up for it?' 

Myrcella enthusiastically nodded and Tommen said Rhaegar told him he could stay at the feast for as long as he liked.

'Jon... Is it true lady Sansa has a baby in her tummy?' Tommen asked then and Jon nodded. 

'Hmmhh, aye but it is super small, so it's gonna be a while until it'll come out.'

' _How_?' Tommen asked and Jon shrugged.

'I wouldn't know, it's not in my tummy. You should ask your queen mother, you were in her tummy once.'

'Really?' Tommen looked terribly shocked and it made Jon smile. He envies their innocent ebullience. They are quite unaware of Dany's complete and utter terror.

'Stop yelling! You're being childish.' Joffrey tells his younger brother.

'He's a child, he's supposed to be childish.' Myrcella tells him and it makes Rhaegar laugh. Not everyone can make Rhaegar laugh, but Myrcella and Tommen sometimes manage and Rhaegar's laugh makes Rhaenys smile.

Jon feels like floating when Sansa, happy as a child, hops towards him in a soft pink velvet dress. It's embroidered with silver stars and decorated with golden embalishments that glitter in the candle light. She lifts her skirts to show him the fabric and then leans forward to whisper in his ear, 'Why didn't you come to me last night?'

'It was way past midnight when the council dismissed me, the King's Guard brought me to my own bedchamber and I didn't want to wake you.' 

'I thought you were cross me with.'

'No, no, why would I be cross with you?'

She beams at him and kisses his cheek and as she turns to curtsy for the king and queen Jon feels Dany's eyes prick in his back. Rhaenys judges his attire with a glare but makes no comment, which he presumes is a good thing. Then he takes his wife's hand to escort her to the sept like the proper lord he's supposed to pretend he is.

He amuses himself during the ceremony with staring at his wife, who fidgets with her rosy dress as her beautiful, blue, bulging eyes follow every single thing that happens around her.

He gave her a necklace a day after they found out about the baby. He told her it was because he was so exited but he presumes she knows very well that it had much to do with his guilt. It used to belong to his mother and Sansa's wearing it now.

Jon's father gave it to him years ago and he planned on giving it to his wife when the first baby came. But then that baby died and now they're having another one and he supposed that it might give her some good luck, or anything of that sort. He likes it that she wears something that belonged to his mother, he wishes his mother could've known her cause he's sure Lyanna would've loved her, if only because Sansa makes him so happy. As much as his father doesn't give a shit, he likes to assume his mother would've liked to see him happy.

In all it's simplicity it's the prettiest piece of jewelry he ever could've given her. It's a white, rough stone on a golden band that's probably supposed to resemble a snowflake and he's pretty sure it was his own father who actually gifted it to his mother, though he doubts he did that because she was pregnant. It's now that he's expected to be so super exited about becoming a father himself that he wonders of Rhaegar has ever been remotely exited about him, for one single moment, when he was still in his mother's womb or after. He can't find any reason to think he must've been.

Sansa's dress is tight around her belly, with a satin, ruby-decorated ribbon below her breasts. They have grown and the ribbon manages to make it so obvious, even to him, which he doubts it's meant to. He presumes it is supposed to hide her belly but again it only emphasizes the small but evident swell of her abdomen. She looks like some vertile goddess in pictures of the Mother that decorate the lavish versions of the Seven Pointed Star Myrcella loves so much, 'It wasn't supposed to be so tight, but we didn't have enough time to make something new and proper that could fit a bit better. We made it before I found out and now it's just-'

'You look perfect.' He says and he feels like a lovesick puppy again. She looks amazing, the way she radiates her happiness, her joy is contagious and it's hard to rip his eyes from her to watch Viserys cloak his sister and make Daenerys Stormborn his wife.

The sept in this state reminds him of his own wedding, of how he couldn't believe she was going to be his. He still can't believe it, really. Nor can the people around them, he fears. He feels like everyone is watching them as much as the bride and groom, though Sansa doesn't seem to notice.

She looks like one proper lady, or a princess. The color of her dress is so pretty wit her hair and he can't wait to sit on the sofa in her bedchamber and watch her maid take out all the pearls and small rubies from her hair as one curl after another falls down freely to her bare shoulders.

'You're sad now, that your wedding wasn't here, with all this extravagant nonsense?'

She smiles sweetly at him and then only shakes her head before she rubs his cheek with her thumb and grabs his hand in hers.

This isn't as bad as he thought it would be. All of it isn't as bad as he thought it would be. This ceremony, the people here, his family, the Keep... everything seems so much less bad with her standing and beaming by his side. Even the feast isn't as bad.

Rhaegar was never the man unable to hire the right musicians but he takes the harp in his hands himself and Jon can't help but gaze at his own father as the music flows through the throneroom. Rhaegar may appear emotionless and unfeeling- his music is everything but that. It makes Sansa cry, though Jon tells himself it's because she's so emotional lately anyway, with the baby. She cried about everything last time as well. Though she felt miserable last time too, now all she does is giggle and blush and broadly grin at everything and about anything.

The food is nice, better than nice, and he realizes the existence of Gods is undeniable when he attacks his pumpkin cake as Sansa next to him nibbles on her piece of strawberry and orange cake.

It takes him lots of ensuring to get Sansa to dance but when she finally does, it proves to be worth the effort and he can't stop watching her as she seems to lit up the room. 

She doesn't beam anymore, her face is not plastered with a grin like Cersei’s. Sansa smile is a small but breathtaking one. It looks innocent and sweet, bright and happy. She looks like a happy shroud of sunshine in the glim and gloom of this wedding that somehow manages to be gloomier than Jon’s own was, no matter how good the food is, how beautiful the bride’s dress and how satin soft the singer’s voice. 

He nearly drops his cup when behind him he hears the voice of Littlefinger. 

‘I can just remember exactly how another Targaryen prince stared at a Winterfell daughter, only twenty years ago. Just like you are now.’

Jon looks over his shoulder and glares at the man, ‘I am not a Targaryen prince.’ He says.

‘Aren't you?’ 

Jon hates that man. Hates him. His face, his smile, the way he looks at everyone, the way he dresses and his voice. His voice most of all. 

‘She looks more like a Tully than a Stark.’

Jon can't say he doesn't have a point, ‘You would know.’ He can still remember how odd and rather nauseating Littlefinger’s relationship with that mad sister of Catelyn’s had been. He wonders if the master of coin misses lady Arryn. Probably not, he decides, the only thing littlefinger could ever miss is the reflection of his own face if they’d scatter all the mirrors in King’s Landing. 

‘Yes.’ He says, ‘I do know.’ 

He desperately wants to make that man stop looking at Sansa, he wonders if he does it often and if this is only the first time he notices, ‘Are you enjoying the feast, lord Baelish?’ Jon asks. 

‘Very much, my lord, thank you. Though I must say, I hate it when weddings are happier than the marriage. Especially with a wedding such as this one.’

Jon doesn't try to hide the crease in his brow as he gives littlefinger a look of unease, ‘Yes.’ He gets up, ‘You must excuse me I have so many people to talk to.’ 

He shoves his chair back and walks away from his place at the table. Ned probably calls Littlefinger an odious man. Jon wonders if that is the perfect word to describe littlefinger and he decides against it, creepy is honestly the only thing that lives up to the reality of Petyr Baelish’s existence, and maybe sneaky too.

Since he doesn't really have that many people to talk to, not people he honestly wants to talk to, at least, he finds himself walking around the room like Aegon always does. Perhaps Aegon always does it because he wants to avoid talking to people, it could explain a lot. 

He avoids Rhaenys' uncle who has his paramour hanging on his arm and runs into Myrcella, who makes a little twirl for him in her new dress that she got especially for the feast. She had another one for the ceremony but she likes this one better because of the fabric. 

It's red, of course it is, and she looks just as beautiful as he imagines Cersei once was, except lovelier, and kind. 

‘Look at you,’ he says, ‘You are definitely the prettiest princess in whole King’s Landing.’

She blushes a little and lifts her skirts up to show him her shoes, ‘You look very handsome too.’ 

‘I'm super glad someone thinks so.’ 

She giggles and takes his hand so he can twirl her, ‘Everyone thinks so!’ She tells him. 

‘Yes, I'm sure they do.’ When all seven hells freeze over at the same time, in the southern end of Dorne. 

'Aegon too!' She points behind him and he turns to see his brother stand there, his arms crossed, nose pointed up in the air. 

‘Yes, Aegon always looks glorious.’ 

Myrcella grins her Lannister grin at both her older brothers and Jon makes the decision that it’s safest to leave her there before Cersei sees him interact with her primrose princess. 

He places a kiss on her cheek which makes her giggle again and moves purposely in the direction that leads him the furthest away from Aegon. 

It doesn't help, somehow Aegon believes it is a good idea to follow. 

‘I have spoken to Rhaenys.’ 

‘That's interesting.’

‘She tells me she invited both you and your lady wife here.’ 

Jon makes the wrong decision when he asks, ‘You didn't know that?’

Aegon walks ahead and then goes to stand right in front of him, ‘Do you think you’re a person of importance?’

‘Not really.’ 

‘I knew I’d see you again, but I never expected it to be this soon, I'm a bit surprised.’ 

'The feeling is mutual.’ 

‘I didn’t spend three moons of my life waisting summer in that dreary land they call the North just to see you come back a year later, looking like _this_.’

 _Like what?_ ‘I’m afraid you have and I'm very sorry to say it.’ Jon has trouble looking Aegon in the eye, ‘Not as sorry as I am for you that you're stuck with me for a little longer than I originally planned. I can promise you, however, that it will be harder on me than it will be on you, I suppose that can your reconciliation price.’ 

‘It's not.’ 

‘Maybe we’ll be here long enough to see you marry the lady Tyrell, I’d love to witness it.’ 

Aegon's eyes narrow and Jon knows he thinks Jon’s mocking him, he isn't really, he tries not to but it's so easy, ‘Do you think your marriage changes things?’

_Yes, everything._

‘No.’ 

‘Good, because it didn't, you’d be wise to remember that.’

Jon wants to sigh and roll his eyes, instead he bows his head and takes a few strides away from his brother and turns away. He doesn't know where to go to get rid of Aegon without it being too obvious so he forces himself to return to the high seat where his father turns his head to him, 'Jon!'

'Your grace?'

'What are you doing here?'

'This is my seat, your grace.' Jon says stupidly, but his father doesn't frown nor laugh, he was always better at hiding his annoyance at Jon's awkward answers than the rest of the world, almost as if it didn't annoy him.

'Why aren't you dancing?'

'I don't like dancing.'

'I am aware of that.' Rhaegar says and Jon knows that what he actually means is _I don't see why that matters_.

'Nobody wants to dance with me, your grace, I dance like a Northener.'

'Obvioudly.' Cersei calls.

'I'm quite sure I remember you learned to dance at court.' Rhaegar says, 'But if you won't dance I should think there are other things for you to do but sit and eat.'

Jon gets the clear message and he nods to his king before turning around to walk over to some people that need to be amused before his father asks,

'Should your lady wife be dancing? In her condition?'

Jon turns back around and frowns at the wave of unexpected concern and shrugs, 'I erm... I don't think it's a- I think she'll be fine.'

Rhaegar turns his head to his queen, 'We wouldn't want anything to happen to the babe, would we?'

There's something in Cersei's eyes then that makes Jon feel like his own skin is peeled off, as if there is little she wants more in her life but to kill him and the way she glares at Jon is something she has never done before, it makes him feel cold, so cold it freezes his hands and head, yet he refuses to shy away. Not even Tommen would believe her when she says, 'We all pray for a son.'

Rhaegar drops his goblet to the table with so much force the table shudders but his face is as calm as a statue when he tells her, 'I'd much rather you'd pray for its health.'

The tension is so clear people are turning their heads, and Jon feels his face warm up. Cersei is the only one who can make his father lose his self-control- Cersei, and Joffrey too has managed about two, three times. Jon cannot blame Rhaegar for that, but even he has to admit that he doesn't understand what Cersei did wrong now. No one can possibly expect her to sincerely be polite to the bastard of Winterfell.

'I shall pray for its health.'

Rhaegar turns to look her in the eye then and when Rhaegar looks anyone, men and women alike, right in the eye, it's arguably the most imposing experience, 'I'll see to it that you do.'

At that the queen gets up and walks away, not ashamed enough to avoid shoving Jon as she walks past.

Jon feels an urge to run away as well and he quickly leaves, bowing his head to his father, who has already turned himself away from his bastard. He wonders where he can go to avoid the same questions and conversations he dreads so much and decides outside is the safest bet. 

He notices he shambles a bit as he walks along the terrace. After the heat and heavy smell of wine inside the cool breeze of sea air is soft and chilly to his cheeks. He smells the salty wind and closes his eyes. 

It's raining, only softly, it's barely drizzle really, but he likes the way it feels on his face. Almost like melting snow. 

‘Open you eyes, boy, when they’re closed you can't see a thing.’

Jon opens his eyes and sees his uncle and his aunt. Not the ones that got married, these ones are not even related, which makes the sight of the two of them not only rare but also a little odd, maybe even whacky, if not unusual. 

'What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast?' he asks Daenerys mostly, as she stares at him, her eyes a little wide, a little stunned, her mouth open but no sound from it emerges. 

'Too hot, too noisy, and I'd drunk too much wine,’ Tyrion tells him, 'I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother.’

Jon wants to ask which brother but Tyrion gets up from the little bench they are sitting on together and he moves towards the door Jon just entered through. 

‘However, I think I am ready again to make sure no wine goes untasted, you must excuse me, my princess.’ He makes a bow to Daenerys and then leaves them there. 

Jon looks after him and when he turns back to Daenerys she stands with her back towards him, facing the sea. 

‘I hear congratulations are in order.’ She says. 

She doesn't look at him when she speaks, all he sees in the back of her silverhaired head and the sight of the narrow sea she is staring at in front of her. The water is as black as his father’s clothes, the sky a dark color blue, with bright stars scattered among it and the moon’s light seems to create a halo around her figure. 

‘It goes both ways.’ Jon says. 

‘Does it?’

Jon walks over to her, hoping she may turn around but she doesn't, instead he goes to stand next to her, shoulder to shoulder and he lays his hands, just like hers, on the railings. 

‘I'm happy for you Jon.’ She says, still staring ahead, as if there is something she expects to see in the far distance. 

‘Thank you.’ He says, stupidly, and a sudden guilt takes over, he has not spoken to her except that one time at Rhaenys’ unsuccessful tea party. He kissed her cheek, told her she looked pretty like they taught him he has to but apart from that they have not exchanged a single word. Has he been avoiding her? Perhaps he has and he wonders for whose sake he did that. 

‘Do you remember what we used to dream of while we looked at the sea?’ 

‘Escaping.’ Jon remembers all too well. 

‘Yes.’ She breathes a smile and finally looks at him, ‘We used to dream of a ship that would take us east, to far lands where no one could find us and no one would recognize us.’ 

‘No one in that far land would suspect a thing.’ Jon adds. 

‘And everyone here would soon forget about us and we would be free.’ She finishes. 

‘No one is free.’ Jon says, ‘Only children and fools think so.’ 

She looks sad suddenly, not the sort of sad she looked all day, a different kind of sad, as if it hurts her that he said that, ‘You are free.’

‘I am certainly not.’ He insists. 

‘A thousand times more free than I will ever be.’ 

He looks away, into the distance, ‘Don't say that.’ 

‘It seemed possible once.’ She says, ‘For you and me to run away, never look back, just the two of us, in Essos or Volantis, I once believed we could do that.’

He smiles, ‘Why didn't we?’

‘Because they would have found us and dragged us back home to King’s Landing.’ 

Jon smiles a little but then shakes his head, ‘King’s Landing was never my home. I never dreamed of Essos, I dreamed of Winterfell.’ 

‘It's good you have returned there,’ she says, ‘If it is where you want to be.’ 

‘It is.’ 

‘You seem happy.’ 

‘I am.’

‘then why are you here?’ She asks, ‘It makes it all the more painful, don't you see?’

‘Dany-‘

‘I don't blame you, truly I don't, I don't wish anything as much as your happiness.’ 

He doesn't know what to say, as he stands there, he feels the rain grow heavier and tiny drops lay on her bare arms and on the railing, it’s cold suddenly, and he feels guilty.

‘We were really young.’ 

‘We were unhappy.’ Jon says, ‘I don't have many good memories from this place Dany, but the ones I do have are all with you.’ 

She smiles sadly, ‘Do you remember what you promised me once?’ He doesn't, not precisely, not when her asking is so vague, ‘That you would ask your father for a legalization so you could marry me, not Viserys, you said I would never have to see him again.’ 

He wants to smile but his cheeks hurt when he tries, ‘The queen would never have allowed it.’ 

She doesn't smile, she doesn't look sad, there is nothing in her face he can properly read when she repeats, ‘We were children.’ 

‘Yes.’ His voice is hoarse.

‘Do you love her?’

He does not need to ask who she means, ‘I do.’

‘She’s very lucky.’ 

Jon wants to disagree, he feels every sane man or woman would disagree, but instead he says, ‘I am sorry I have not spoken to you before today.’ 

‘You were busy, I understand.’ 

‘I was.’ He doesn't want to discuss what kept him busy exactly because he feels that all he's been doing is be angry with the wrong people, ‘You looked lovely today.’ It's a lie, she looked miserable, miserable and beautiful, but not lovely, not that. 

‘It's kind of you to say so.’ 

Jon wishes he could tell her it will all be right, that she need not feel frightened, but he can't. He should tell her that he felt miserable at his wedding too, and it turned out not that bad after all. But this is different, he knows it is, he knew at his own wedding that he had a chance, but Danaerys does not have a chance, she is all alone and she is lost married to Viserys, he is the way he is and every man and woman present today knows it, he won't change. 

Jon wants to leave, as much as he regrets not speaking to her sooner, he wants the conversation to be over. 

‘You must be free for the both of us, Jon.’ She says, she turns towards him and places the gentlest of kisses to his cheek.

‘I meant it.’ He says and he realises that his face may be too close to hers, he can see the eyelashes of her lids, silver too, almost invisible, ‘When I promised it, I meant it.’ 

'I know that.' She whispers, ‘Did you miss me? When you were here and I left, when they made me go to Dragonstone?’ 

_No. The only thing I ever missed was Winterfell._

He doesn't have to lie, come up with the proper thing to say, nor does he have to force himself to look her in the eye when all he wants to do is turn his face away, hide in a corner, drink too much, as much as his uncle, get just as drunk.

‘Daenerys!’

Dany takes a step away from him and it is all the proof he needs to know she was standing too close to him and the realization increases his discomfort. 

‘There is a present for you.’ 

Dany looks at Jon but he can't look back at her, seeing her eyes beg him is unbearable to him, it is as if a past he learned to forget stares right back at him when she bats her eyelashes and smiles her sad smile.

She closes her eyes for a second as if she needs to find herself again, ‘Are you coming inside?’ She asks.

He looks at her and then shakes his head, ‘I think I’m going to retreat.’ He says.

He needs to bring Sansa to bed, tuck her in properly and make sure she gets the rest she needs. 

Daenerys nods and walks away, to Viserys who stretches his hand out to her. 

‘I'm sorry.’

She stops when he speaks but she doesn't turn around nor responds before she leaves him there, alone, with only the rushing sound of the sea brushing against the shores for his company. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there, on that bench, his knees weak and his hands in fists. He knows that if he allows himself he’d be crying but he chooses not to. He is not allowed to cry, there is no reason for him to be sad. Jon has all he ever dreamed of and more. If any place can make that clear to him it is King’s Landing. He never believed he could ever feel happy here, not like this. 

‘Jon?’ 

He looks up in the eyes of Rhaenys, she seems oddly worried, the last time he saw her look that way was when their father had an ache in his chest and the maester told him to cease his working hours to stop his heart from beating as fast as it does sometimes. 

‘Why are you out here in the rain?’ 

He gets up from the bench and makes sure to look her in the eye when he asks, ‘Why did you make me come here?’

She doesn't tell him he’s here because Daenerys and Viserys got married, or because she feels threatened by the Lannisters. She doesn't even tell him he’s here because he’s in danger, or Sansa. What she tells him is much worse.

‘I don't think Sansa lost her child because mothers sometimes do.’ 

He looks at her and feels a sudden urge to hit her in the face. He doesn't want to ask what she means, he doesn't want to know. He needs her to stop talking, he wants to walk away and leave her there, run away and go somewhere else, somewhere far away, where the rain is not wet but cold and white and sticks to his curls, melts on your nose and has the color of Daenerys’s hair. 

‘Jon?’

‘I don't…’ he knows he must look as if he just saw a ghost and he wishes he had.

‘They want you dead.’ She says, ‘They tried to kill you during the hunt, when you… I know they did Jon, I know it.’

‘How?’

‘I wasn't there, I tried to find out but I-‘

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’ 

He shakes his head and turns his hands into fists, ‘you can't.’ He says.

‘Jon please…’ 

‘No!’ he shakes his head and moves to walk away from her, she pulls on his arm to stop him and her voice is desperate when she calls his name.

‘I want to help-‘

‘Why?’ 

‘Don’t ask me why.’

He pushes her hand away and feels guilty for a second when she stumbles, yet when she steadies herself and glares at him his guilt melts like butter on a tongue, ‘You can't help me, I don't want your help, I want you to leave me alone.’

She follows him as he walks away from her, along the terrace, the red walls aside from him, he can hear her heals click on the stone beneath their feet, ‘You can't leave, you have to stay at King’s Landing, you must promise me-‘

He stops abruptly and she bumps against him, ‘I must promise nothing!’ He says and adds through his grinding teeth, ‘I owe you nothing.’ 

‘Jon..’ she seems frustrated and that again is not an emotion he has often seen on her face, ‘She’ll be in danger anywhere else, here they can't harm her.’

‘ _They_?’ 

‘You know who they are.’ She says and he knows she won't say their name because she fears spies, they are everywhere, around every corner, hiding behind a gargoyle, watching them, listening, he can't stand it. 

‘ _Why_?’ 

‘You are…’ she doesn't seem to be able to make herself finish that sentence, instead she decides to assume he already knows, as she always does, ‘You know why.’ 

‘I must've forgotten how asking dumb questions is one of my fortes.’ 

She sighs and in the moonlight she is as beautiful as he has ever seen her, ‘I should not have said that.’

‘Could you write that down?’ 

‘No.’

‘I don't care what you say, please don't restrain yourself.’ 

‘Promise me you’ll stay here.’ She says, ‘Sansa will be-‘

‘Don't talk about Sansa.’ He takes a step in her direction, moves so close to her he’d press his nose to hers if their faces were on eye-level, ‘Don't talk to her, don't mention this to her, don't you dare to ever say anything about this when she can hear you.’ 

‘I wasn't planning on it.’ She says.

‘You’ve been far too nice to her.’ He says, ‘Why?’

‘Mayhaps I simply like her.’ 

‘Cersei sometimes likes me too.’ 

‘Stop it!’ She takes his shoulders in her hands and shakes him, ‘Is this all a joke to you?’ 

He pushes her hands away, ‘I hope it is a joke!’

‘It's not! I am as serious as I have ever been.’ 

‘That does not say much.’ 

She raises her hand and hits his cheek and he feels a cold burn at the skin she slapped, ‘I wrote you because I wanted to protect you, both of you.’ She shakes her head and suddenly she seems desperate, ‘You may not like it but you cannot protect her on your own.’ 

‘ _Why?_ ’ he asks again. 

‘Because they are-‘

‘Why would they ever care? Sansa, she’s… I'm only the king's bastard.’ 

‘That’s more than Joffrey will ever be.’ 

‘Joffrey?’ He spits out the name, ‘What does-‘

‘You are my brother, Jon, no matter how we are as different as the moon and the sun, you are my kin and if you think my dislike of your person stops me from protecting my family you underestimate my strength.’ 

She looks like a dragon, as fierce as any Targaryen ever has been with her light blonde hair waving in the wind. On her cheeks lay raindrops and when he blinks they look like tears. 

He shakes his head, ‘I won't underestimate your strength.’ He says and it feels like a promise, maybe it is. 

‘She is safest here, at King’s Landing.’ Rhaenys repeats. 

‘Who will protect her?’ Jon asks, ‘You?’

‘Father.’ She answers simply.

‘Why would he do that?’ 

‘Because father is as strong as I am.’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘I am a bastard.’

‘You are the king's bastard.’ 

He wants to tell her that’s worse, like he always does, but he thinks she expects him to say that and it stops him, ‘It is why you wanted me to fail the tourney.’ He says, ‘You think they were going to try to kill me again.’

‘There is a reason for your first contester to be a Clegane.’ 

‘The coin dropped and-‘

‘The Lannisters are rich, they can own every coin that is ever thrown into the air.’ 

Jon turns and looks at the opened door, ‘Why don't they simply poison me?’ 

‘Because you are at King’s Landing and our father has a taster.’ 

‘They can't have… they… why would they? I am a bastard, my children should mean nothing to them.’ 

Rhaenys sighs, ‘Look at Joffrey, look at Myrcella… what do you see?’ 

‘Children.’ 

‘’Yes.’ She seems annoyed at his apparent stupidity, ‘Children, and they belong to whom?’

The answer to that question is simple, ‘Cersei.’ 

‘True.’ 

‘What does that have to do with-‘

‘To whom belongs the child in your wife’s belly?’

‘Us.’ He says, he looks at Rhaenys and he can see some relief on her face, ‘To me, to her, to no one else.’ 

‘To the both of you.’ 

‘Say it,’ he tells her, ‘Just say it Rhaenys, tell me. I need you to tell me because I am too stupid to figure it out on my own. Safe me a headache, just say it.’ 

‘Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen belong to Cersei alone, they don't belong to our father.’ 

He wants to ask her how that can ever be possible, he wants to ask how she can believe that, but he knows why she believes it, he knows he believes it too, he can't and he doesn't want to, but still he does. How? With whom? How can his father not know? He doesn't know how to ask questions, how to phrase his thoughts and for a second he doesn't know what to say, he thinks of telling her he doesn't know what to say, but then a question pops in his head that he feels he needs to ask, ‘How long have you been thinking of this? When did you find out? When did you decide they killed my unborn child? When?’ 

‘When I heard the news of it’s death.’ 

He laughs a humorless laugh, ‘That’s a long time ago.’ 

‘I wanted to tell you in person.’ 

‘You overestimate my appreciation for your company.’ 

‘Spare me your melodrama.’ She says and she takes a step away from him, ‘You are one of the most infuriating people I have ever met, but you are my brother and you cannot die, your child cannot die, you have to trust me and I'll swear to you I'll trust you too. I am on your side, I am your sister.’ 

‘Spare me your speeches.’ He turns around and is ready to walk away and leave her there when she catches up with him and goes to stand in front of him to block his way. 

‘If you won't do it for you, do it for Sansa.’ 

Everything he does is for Sansa, she can't say that to him, ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Don't get killed.’ She says, ‘And stay here, at King’s Landing.’ 

‘I can't leave.’ He says, ‘Sansa is pregnant and she can't travel.’ 

‘Just promise me.’

He shrugs, ‘In exchange for you to trust me? You won't be able to do that.’ 

‘I will.’ She says, ‘I already do.’ 

‘Do you? Why?’

She shrugs, ‘I just do.’ 

He nods, ‘Don't tell Sansa.’ He says, ‘It's all I ask. She must not know.’ 

‘I agree.’ 

When Jon walks back inside en leaves her there he wants to walk into the throne room and yell at his father, scream at him, curse him, preferably wake the dragon, see him angry, he wants emotion and true feelings, make his father prove to him that he is a person too, a real man, not a statue on an iron chair. 

He doesn't do that, he glances at his father, who is talking to his brother in hushed tones, Viserys looks annoyed, he looks bitter and nothing near as pleased as he did this afternoon. 

While he stares at his father there's an anger flowing through his veins that makes him so deaf he can't hear Sansa approach, but when she slides his arms around his waists and presses herself against him his mind relaxes a little. 

‘Where were you? I was looking for you.’ 

‘I was just- I needed some fresh air.’ 

She looks up at him, her chin pressed to his chest, ‘You are wet, how?’

‘It's raining outside.’

She smiles a smile that looks like a glass of wine, ‘You missed quite a thing.’

‘Did I?’ 

Jon looks up from her and catches Aegon’s stare, as spiteful as it always has been but worse. 

He slightly pushes Sansa away, making sure she won't take it as a rejection. Her pupils are wide and her cheeks red, she grins a giddy grin and looks happy. He loves it when she’s happy, she deserves it so much. 

‘Yes! They gifted Daenerys dragon eggs.’ 

Jon turns around and looks at Daenerys’s place at the high table, Viserys left her to talk to the King but Rhaenys has approached her and they are talking to each other in whispers. In front of her, on the table, is an opened box that contains three eggs the seize of Ghost’s head. 

One gold, one green and one black, turned into stone by the years but that doesn't make them much less valuable. A Targaryen gift for a Targaryen princess, a gift fit for a queen. Daenerys is never going to be queen, he prays to the gods she won't be, a king Viserys is the last thing their bleeding dynasty needs. 

‘They are beautiful.’ Sansa sighs. 

‘Who gifted them to her?’ Jon asks. 

She points at a tall and morbidly obese man, with an oiled forked yellow beard, pig eyes and fat cheeks. He has a huge belly, bigger than Sansa's and for a moment he oddly wonders if the man's pregnant too, but then the man laughs and his flesh bounces vigorously and Jon realizes that comparing the man to Sansa is perhaps the greatest insult he could ever give his wife.

‘I forgot his name.’ Sansa admits, ‘But I don't think he comes from Westeros.’ 

‘No,’ Jon says, ‘He is a magister from the free cities.’ 

‘How do you know?’ 

‘He’s a good friend of Varys.’ Jon says, ‘I don't remember his name either.’

‘Should I stay away from him too?’

Jon looks down at her pretty, small head, ‘Would you like to make small talk with the man?’

Sansa giggles, ‘No!’ She takes both his hands in hers and gives him an enamored look, ‘He doesn't look like much of a charmer and he is extremely overweight.’ 

‘He is.’ Jon agrees and he only wonders for a slight second why the man felt the need to gift a Targaryen princess with little foresight to the throne three dragon eggs, especially when she is going to live at Dragonstone, where they keep the remaining fossilized eggs. 

‘Do you have an egg too?’ Sansa asks. 

‘Why would I have an egg?’

‘Because it's tradition!’ Sansa says, ‘to lay one in a baby’s crib, when it's born, they hope it’ll hatch.’

‘I was born at Winterfell, there are no dragon eggs at Winterfell.’

‘I know that.’ Sansa says.

‘And dragon eggs don't hatch, the dragons are gone, the last time they tried to hatch an egg they set Summerhall on fire.’ 

‘When your father was born?’

‘Yes, that time.’ He says and he squeezes her hand then wraps his other arm around her shoulder to bring her head close to his so he can whisper in her ear, ‘Can we go to bed?’

‘If you want to.’ The proposition doesn't excite her as much as he would've liked. 

‘Yes please.’ 

She looks around the room, at all the splendor and the pretty clothes, beautiful music, the dancing and the laughing, ‘If you're sure.’

‘Bring me to bed Sansa. I can't stand all these people, I hate all of them but you.’

She smiles again, it’s not a drunk smile but her sweet smile, the flattered one, ‘That's a lot of people to hate.’

‘Maybe I'll do better tomorrow.’

‘You don't want to wait for the bedding ceremony?’ 

He highly doubts there will be a bedding ceremony, ‘My father hates the bedding ceremony.’ It is one of his father’s finest character traits.

‘Aegon says there will be one.’

‘Aegon says he loves hunting too.’ 

Sansa laughs and gives him a quick and soft peck on his lips, ‘Fine.’ She says, ‘I don't care about that ceremony, I'm going to bring you to bed.’ 

In he end it is quite the other way around and when they arrive in his room he makes her sit on the bed while he undresses her. He asks her if she’s feeling alright and she tells him she feels amazing. She looks amazing too, she looks giddy, happy and healthy. Just the way he likes her. 

He helps her out of the laces of her dress and gets her in one of the warmer nightgowns she brought, because she complains about the cold in the room. Then he hands her a cup of milk that she gulps down all the way.

‘Grand maester Pycelle says it’ll be a while still before I can feel the baby.’ She says once they are both lying in bed.

‘how big is it?’

‘I don't know, he’s terrible at telling me and when I ask him he shrugs and says ‘bigger than the last time you asked’... He’s a cruel man.’

Jon laughs, ‘I don't like him much either.’ He strokes hair from her forehead and presses a kiss to it. She sighs and rubs her cheek along his shoulder, she’s too tired to rub his feet with her own but instead strangles his hip with her leg. 

‘He did say the baby can suck his thumb now.’ 

‘Can he smile too?’ 

‘He didn't mention smiling but he said that it can grimace.’ 

Jon laughs, ‘Maybe he already hates King’s Landing.’

She kick him and he laughs some more, ‘Maybe it’s not a he.’ She says, ‘Maybe it’s a she.’ 

‘Maybe.’ He feels his eyes grow heavy and he closes them to give them what they want. 

‘I don't hate King’s Landing.’ She admits and he opens his eyes all suddenly. The conversations he had with light haired women come back to him as fast as he pushed them to the back of his mind.

‘I know you don't.’ 

‘But I hate how much you hate it.’

‘I'm sorry.’ 

‘That’s not what I mean.’ She says, ‘I don't want you to be unhappy and I know how unhappy you are here.’ 

‘I'm not that unhappy.’ It's odd to admit it, ‘Not as much as I once was.’ 

'Truly?’ 

‘Truly.’ He moves a bit down so he can face her, ‘Don't worry about me.’ She can't know how much he means it when he says it. 

‘I want you to be happy.’ She says, ‘I am happy.’ 

He just nods, he knows she is, he needs her to be, the memory of her tears still haunt and frighten him when he’s fearing the future. 

What was is that Rhaenys asked him? She asked him to whom the baby in her belly belongs. If Rhaenys is right the Lannisters want him dead because he is a Targaryen. That means he stands in the way of what they want. What do they want? Joffrey on the throne? Only dangerously mad people would ever want that. Are they dangerously mad?

Jon moves further down so she can hold his head to her chest and he lays his hand on the small swell of her belly. She’s warm and soft against him and his hand cups what little there is to cup. The baby is small, he doesn't know how small exactly but as vulnerable as life can be. 

Rhaenys said he can't protect them on his own, she said he’ll need her, she said she’ll trust him. He’s not sure if he wants her trust but perhaps he doesn't have a choice. Did she mean it when she said she wants to help? He knows she did. They may not have gotten along very well in the past but no matter their unfriendly relationship, she has always given him that odd kind of respect. She is nasty and mean but not cruel, never that and he can't recall her ever telling him that he is nothing, that she believes everyone would be better off without him, she has never told him that she doesn't want him here. Today, she actually begged him to stay here. Because she wants to protect him, that is what she said. 

Aegon would never help him. If Aegon knows about Cersei’s attempt to murder him, which Jon suspects he does, he would never be the one to send Jon a letter to warn him. He would never ask him to come to King’s Landing and least of all he would never beg Jon to stay to make sure Sansa would be safe. Aegon doesn't give a crap about Sansa’s safety, but Rhaenys does, she took her under her wings, invites her to tea parties and tells her she wants to be friends. She called him her ‘brother’ and she didn't make it seem like it is just a plain fact to her. She must think of Sansa as her kin, she said no one can stop her from protecting her family.

He is not sure why these things make him feel the way they do. Rhaenys never felt like family, but that doesn't mean she isn't. She is his sister and he knows somehow that if this was the other way around, he would've written her that letter, he would’ve told her to come to King’s Landing, he would've begged her to stay too. He would do anything to protect her. It is not a matter of choice, he didn't know it before but now he does. He would not have come here in the first place if he didn't trust Rhaenys, he does, he has to. 

‘Maybe it's a boy.’ Sansa says when he places his ear on her belly in the hope he may be able to hear his child talk to him. 

‘Maybe.’ 

‘Do you want a son?’ 

‘Every man wants a son.’

He feels her fingers entangle in his hair, ‘I'm asking you, not every man.’

He grins and gives up, his child can't speak yet and it is likely too small to be able to make any sound at all, ‘I don't mind, I'd like a girl that looks like you just as much.’ 

‘Maybe it’s a girl.’

‘If Pycelle said it can suck on a thumb it means the baby has a thumb.’

She has clearly not thought of that yet, ‘That means it has fingers!’ she gasps.

‘Hands, it has hands too and maybe it has feet and toes.’ 

‘Maybe it has eyes!’ 

‘Maybe they’re blue.’ 

‘You’d like that, wouldn't you?’

He pulls her back against his chest, ‘I just need it to be healthy.’ And it’s true when he says that, far more true than Sansa can ever suspect. 

‘Yes, that would be the loveliest thing.’

When Sansa’s fallen asleep Jon remembers to think of Daenerys, of what her day was like. He remembers to feel sorry for her, to hope she’ll forgive him. He cares for Daenerys, he never wanted her to live like this, for her fears to become true. Viserys is cruel but he will take care of her, in the end he will make sure her welfare will be looked after. He tries to reassure himself with the thought. 

Viserys isn't raised by Eddard Stark, he has not been taught about honor and duty and he wasn't brought up in a family that was and is as happy as Jon and Sansa’s childhood home. He knows nothing of love and taking care of each other, they never taught him how to look after one another, how to be a good man, a good husband. 

Jon still thanks the Gods for his years at Winterfell, for what they made him become, for the man who raised him as his own.

If they have a son they’ll call him Eddard and Jon can be a father just like Ned. He’d like that very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in the asoiaf universe/world/time is thingy a baby is called a babe, thing is that I'm not a native speak and babe has a different meaning in my language, this is one sad excuse but yeah, I just prefer to use the word baby. Probably going to make the older people use the word babe to make them look old. How that's okay!  
> Thanks for reading, see you next Sunday and have a super good rest of the week!x


	17. Hiccups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I spoke to the maester this morning.’ 
> 
> Jon feels extremely nervous suddenly, ‘I'm sorry.’ He says and his father raises his eyebrows, ‘Sansa tries not to be rude to him, I told her not to be, but she is just nervous and he won't-‘ 
> 
> ‘It's not about your wife.’
> 
> ‘Oh.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again a super long chapter, sorry about that, at this point I'm starting to get nervous about this becoming a 80 chapter long thing and I'm not sure if anyone should want that.

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Sansa loves to see her belly grow. It feels like every day it's bigger and it's not long until she desperately needs new clothes. She doesn't fit in her old corsets anymore and the seems stretch around her breasts and stomach, the laces at her back don't meet and her maid can't get her stitched in her bodices.

When Sansa stands in front of the mirror every morning she sees her slight swell slowly turn into a full round bump. She covers it protectively with her hands and hopes she can feel a hand or a foot press against her skin.

When she feels her baby move for the first time it doesn't feel like a kick, it is a flutter, like little bubbles inside of her, nothing like what she expected. She lays on her side in her bed and when her baby jerks and jolts it's like a fish swimming circles inside of her. She tells Jon to feel it but when he lays his hand to the spot where she feels the pressing, he says he can't. She supposes he will eventually, when the baby grows even more.

She feels tired at lot, but not like last time, she doesn't feel drained and empty but more like she has exercised all day and needs a well-deserved nap. She naps a lot, at least twice a day. She likes napping, just laying down and ignoring everyone around her. She lays a pillow behind her back and one between her legs and relaxes to make her back stop aching.

She likes eating too. For some reason she likes cheese more than before, the cheese in the capital is very nice and soft. She used to have such a sweet tooth but lately all she prefers to eat is spicy, she likes fish and bread and adds lots of buttery sauces, the spiced ones preferably.

Sansa enjoys Rhaenys’s company far more now Daenerys has returned to Dragonstone. She’s glad Daenerys is gone, she has a feeling the princess doesn't like her very much and she was annoying when they were forced to spend time in each other’s company. People say Daenerys is a true Targaryen and if that is true Sansa is glad Jon isn't.

In these weeks, when Sansa saw a lot of her, she concluded that if she only had one word to describe Daenerys Stormborn she'd pick proud- the girl has a pride that can match the King’s. What other people see is her sadness and they pity her, but Sansa can't pity her, all she sees is those wide violet eyes watching her with displease and spite and she cannot feel sorry for Daenerys and she cannot trust her either.

The King values Daenerys like a brother does his only sister and Rhaenys seems to consider her a favorite confidante. Jon worries about her, calls her ‘Dany’ and asked Sansa to be nice. But he doesn't understand. It's not Sansa who refuses to be nice.

Daenerys knows she’s beautiful and she knows what  her name means, where she comes from. She rarely smiles and she’s the least funny person Sansa has ever met, she is as funny as she understands humor itself... not at all, that is. Whenever Rhaenys said some controversial thing and Sansa giggled, it was almost as if that was annoying to Daenerys.

She inherited the Targaryen stare too, the one even Jon throws at people from time to time. The stare that tells men and women alike that the Targaryen will is the law. Just a bat of eyelashes, a press of lips and the burning look of dragon fire and they make the strongest, proudest lord tremble in their armor.

It took Sansa a few days of marriage to realize that stare is nothing but a threat. At least with Jon it is, and it doesn't scare her anymore, not with Rhaenys or the King, and definitely not with Daenerys either.

Jon avoided Daenerys during her stay, Sansa is not sure if he did it for her or if he simply couldn't bare to meet the confrontation but either way she’s glad. She could see the way Daenerys glanced at him, she’ll never forget it, it was the stare her mother used to warn her about, a stare that frightened her more than Cersei ever could.

Cersei never invites her or speaks to her and Jon says it's because she knows she lost Sansa to Rhaenys. She wasn't aware that her company is something worth fighting over and Rhaenys never gives Sansa the impression that she invites her to her teaparties (far nicer with no Daenerys moping in a corner) and music afternoons for any other reason but that she enjoys her company.

She keeps giving Sansa ‘advices’, in just that way she started with them during that first memorable dinner.

‘Sansa dear let me tell you-‘ or, ‘You see, I will explain you all about it-‘ and the usual, ‘Let me give you one piece of advice that you’ll desperately need one day-‘

Though Sansa often has no idea what she truly means it's nice to listen to them because they really are awfully clever (though she doubts Jon means it as a compliment when he calls her that) and the more she hears and sees of Rhaenys, the more she looks up to her.

She seems so confident and intelligent and the king is really fond of her. She's has a seat in the small council, master of ships she is, and she knows all about fleets, ships and trade. She seems perfectly aware they call her the Dornish Queen but she doesn't seem to care, it doesn't stop her from wearing yellow dresses neither. Sansa saw her uncle and his paramour at the wedding and she decided Rhaenys looks nothing like her Dornish family. Her demeanor is different mostly, but her physical coloring too. She is the female replica of her father, though her hair is darker, not silvery but a little more golden, and her eyes aren't as dark indigo as Aegon’s and the purple strike fades when she's being kind.

Sometimes Rhaenys says things that make Sansa wonder if she's trying to tell her the exact opposite from what she actually says.

‘Sansa, what have you been doing all day?’

‘Sleeping mostly, I’m afraid.’

‘I do envy you.’

‘You could sleep all day too, if you wished.’

‘Alas, it is exactly what I do not wish.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My father sleeps about four hours every night, every day.’

‘That doesn't seem quite enough.’

‘It isn't but he has no choice, he needs every hour of every day.’

‘Would you want to sleep only four hours in the day?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I'd like it to need every waking hour of every day.'

‘I'm sorry if my questions anger you.’

‘It's not you who angers me,’ Rhaenys says and she doesn't look at Sansa when she adds, ‘Life angers me.’

Jon repeatedly orders Rhaenys to watch her tongue around Cersei. He warns her there'll come a day when people will start taking whatever she says seriously.

‘I can’t wait.’ Rhaenys tells him. 

Rhaenys taking Sansa under her wings means Cersei pretends she doesn't exist and Sansa's glad for it, because, in all honesty, she knows the queen frightens her a little, and she's aware of Cersei dislike for her.

The Queen is oft rude in her questions and openly tells her the babe doesn't make her look much prettier. Sansa knows it's a lie. She's not sure if the lie is the fruit of jealousy or the burning desire to be mean, perhaps Cersei can't stand the idea of the King’s first grandchild not coming from her line, Sansa doesn't care either way. Sansa knows she has never looked as beautiful as she does now, she knows she glows and can't stop smiling. She never expected it all to be this amazing. She’s creating a human body inside of her and every day the realization hits her again.

She can't wait to meet it, she makes clothes for it, fantasizes about the hair color, the name and the sex. She knows she wants a boy, because everyone will be overjoyed if it is. Jon wants a northern name but Sansa fears the King won't like it. Jon says he doesn't care what the king thinks but she knows he’s bluffing when he says that.

Sansa asks him if he wants to name her Lyanna if she is a girl and he seems to think about that for a moment and then shakes his head, ‘I think we should give it a name with a little less burden.’ and Sansa agrees.

Sansa really likes the name Helaena, but she never proposes it because it is so Valyrian and he’ll never like it. They don't have to discuss boy names, they both know how a first son of theirs should be named, after whom and why. It is only right.

Rhaenys gives her a whole list of Valyrian baby names; Daemon, Daeron, Aemys, Naerys, Maekar, Rhaella, Rhaenyra, Elaena, Baelor…

Sansa confides in her when she admits Jon doesn't want a Valyrian name.

Rhaenys doesn't seem shocked at the revelation at all and points out that there can surely be found names that can be a bit of both, ‘We can't have him complain about it, that would be a bore.’

She helps Sansa with her new wardrobe too, since Sansa truly does not have the time to make it all by herself she loans Sansa her seamstresses and helps her choose fabrics. Ivory Myrish lace, dove-grey velvet, green brocade and periwinkle samite... everything is dyed and when Sansa lowers her arms, the long dagged sleeves almost touch the ground. The dresses have floor-length skirts all full and and long, she drags the train along and feels regal as she lifts it up in her hands. Every gown has the most beautiful embroidered ornamentations at the hems, rims and necklines, oft trimmed with fur. Bodices with jeweled belts of metals and hairnets in the shape of spiderwebs are decorated with rubies, freshwater pearls and amethysts... the clothing alone makes Sansa think the South is the most wondrous of all places.

Sansa enjoys her sister by law's company and somehow she feels Jon has stopped minding. He’s still as bitter to Rhaenys as he was that first day at the first tea party, but he doesn't frown anymore when Sansa tells him she spend the day in his half sister’s parlor.

The company of Rhaenys makes Sansa miss her mother less. When she was first pregnant all Sansa wanted was her mother’s advice and guidance but somehow she feels so much less anxious this time. It also helps that her father is so close. She is proud of the way he seems to have adopted to his new life in King’s Landing. They say northern men should never pass the neck, they say they melt in the south but her father proved them all wrong.

The King seems content with his Hand, Sansa believes he appreciates her father for his hard work and his council. She's sure, however, that her father still wants to be anywhere but in the capital.

Arya is always covered in bruises because of that ridiculous dancing master. It is madness. The Bravoosi man is out of his mind and she hates the way he talks to her little sister. Arya’s excitement is baffling and she still can't believe her father ever gave her that sword. Who gifts little girls a sword? It's dangerous and inappropriate.

Sansa doesn't spend much time with Arya and when she was at Winterfell she didn't miss her much but when she travelled to King’s Landing she looked forward to seeing her, yet when she saw her, the enthusiasm failed to last much longer than a sun's turn. Arya is annoying, childish and rude and finds it hard to come up with a tiny bit of understanding for her sister’s current state. Sansa wants to smack her at least once every day.

It means more than it should, when Jon decides to support her, especially because she knows how fond he is of Arya.

‘Sansa sleeps for two.’ He tells Arya, ‘And asking her why she's tired is rude.’

Arya doesn't enjoy the side-choosing at all and refuses to accept the situation as it is, ‘She has got you wrapped up around her finger, doesn't she?’

Jon ignores that comment, but it makes Sansa realize how glad she should be that Arya left with their father to King’s Landing and didn't stay behind, like Bran and Rickon. Those moons she and Jon spend getting to know each other might've been different if Arya’d been around. She can only vaguely remember how confused Bran and Rickon were when they didn't understand why Jon started choosing Sansa’s company over theirs. Arya would've been at least a hundred times worse about it.

Jon's too busy to spend time with Arya and Sansa knows her sister's disappointed in that, that she probably looked forward to seeing Jon more than she did seeing Sansa and that's annoying too.

Jon has been granted the job of finding new recruits for the Night’s Watch, which he does, or tries to do. He writes lots of letters and visits lots of prisons and slowly the work starts frustrating him. Sansa knows he misses Winterfell and she does too. At Winterfell Jon helped Robb with his lordling duties and felt useful, now he feels like a beggar stuck with an impossible task. Apparently, the King told him the job suits him perfectly, for he needs to have ‘something to do’.

‘Clearly that means doing something he doesn't give a shit about.’ Jon tells Sansa's father when they are having supper and Ned shakes his head and urges him not to complain.

‘His grace has decided to finally do something about the problem, be grateful of that.’

‘If only he’d think of it as an actual problem.’

Sansa doesn't care that much about the Night’s Watch, she never felt the urge to know much about it, not like her other siblings who listened breathlessly whenever uncle Benjen came to visit. If she remembers that, and listens to what she hears about the Watch now, she's oddly convinced uncle Benjen was a liar too. After what happened when Jon was there she associates the wall with pain and heartbreak.

She likes to think the King wants Jon to have something to do if only because when he doesn't he’ll grow bored and there is no one who should ever want that. Rhaegar makes him sit in on Council meetings and gives him some minor, small but varied duties that take up most of his days and bring him into contact with all who reside at court, nearly everyone he hates, that is.

In overall, Sansa doubts there is anything she can ever need that will make her happier than she is and despite being very aware that there are many things people don't tell her, perhaps on purpose or maybe they simply can't, she chooses to ignore it. She doesn't ask why Jon tells her to stay away from the Lannisters nearly daily, she doesn't ask why he suddenly doesn't care about her spending time with Rhaenys anymore, she doesn't wonder why Rhaenys is as interested in her baby's wellbeing as Jon is and when it’s night and Jon thinks she is sleeping she can see the crease of his brow and she decides that he’ll tell her when he’s ready, when he believes he should.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon is not often summoned by his father personally with no extra note and when he is it is because he needs to be informed of something, anything, or is about to be asked to explain why he misbehaved. As far as he knows he has not misbehaved in any way recently and somehow that makes him feel extra nervous.

‘Jon.’

‘Your grace.’

‘How is your wife?’

Jon can't recall his father ever wondering how his bastard is doing but he has asked after Sansa’s wellbeing twice now and he likes to think it’s progress, ‘She is well.’

‘I'm glad.’ His father rarely sounds sincere and this time is no difference.

‘She likes it here.’ He is ashamed to admit it.

‘Rhaenys tells me she is intelligent and healthy.’

Jon wonders if these are the most important character traits in a wife, ‘She is.’

‘She also tells me you are a good husband to her.’

‘I'm not the right person to be the judge of that.’ Jon would’ve smiled to make the answer less stiff but he won't do his father a favor with it and he’s not much of a smiler anyway.

His father looks at him for a time, too long perhaps, longer than he usually bares, ‘I have been informed of your delayed leave.’

It's a weird thing to say, they have been at King’s Landing for over ten weeks, of course the leave is delayed, and the king knows why, everyone knows why, ‘Yes.’

‘How long are you planning on staying?’

‘As long as we need to.’ _And not a moment longer_. Jon tries not to roll his eyes and he hopes the answer is as vague as he tries to make it seem.

He can't remember the last time he and his father were alone in a room, perhaps that one time Rhaegar told him he was going to be married. Aside from that one time Rhaegar always carefully makes sure to surround himself with either members of the small council, the entire court or a sour looking Cersei, ‘You do not wish to leave?’

‘Leave Sansa?’

‘I wouldn't mind.’

Jon wonders if this is his father’s way of giving him permission to dump his wife under his care and go off to do whatever he likes, ‘No, I don't want that.’

‘Good.’

Good? ‘Is there anything I can do for you, your grace?’ He hopes that by asking he can put a bit more speed behind the conversation and it'll sooner be over.

‘The Tyrells are coming to court, I want preparations to start for the wedding of your brother and their daughter, those things can take a year and I don't want it to take a year.’

That news makes Jon’s eyebrows disappear in his hair, ‘Wedding?’

‘They are to be married.’ Rhaegar explains.

If Jon were a thousand times more brave he'd ask his father how in the name of the warrior he ever managed to make that happen, but he isn't, when it comes to his father Jon hardly ever dares to speak his mind, he won't please anyone with it, ‘Do you want me to look after the preparations, your grace?’

‘Of course not.’

Obviously, ‘Does Aegon know?’

‘Not yet.’

At that Jon’s eyebrows drop to their lowest, ‘W-when will he?’

‘Soon. Your sister is telling him today.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you?’ His father seems to doubt it.

‘I'm sure my brother will be overjoyed.’ Because why wouldn't he be? Maybe because he loves another and he can never be with that person, because their father banished that man from his life. Jon feels warm suddenly and a nervousness creeps in.

His father doesn't respond, leans back in his chair and resumes to not look at Jon, ‘I think that perhaps you can urge your wife to spend some time with the Tyrell girl.’

‘I could.’ He won't have to, so that is an easy request to receive.

‘How is the recruiting of the Night’s Watch going?’

‘Not very well.’ Jon told all of that to the small council this morning and though his father was not present he hardly ever makes Jon repeat something he can hear from Ned as well, ‘I know that the Night’s Watch seems like a handy and easy place to drop the less behaved of our society but it is not what the Watch needs right now.’

‘You told me the Watch lacks men.’

‘ _Good_ men, men who can fight, read and lead, _honorable_ men, not criminals.’

‘I would think you figured out by now why there is no true honorable man out there who will voluntarily take the black.’

Jon wonders if the king is insulting his son’s former self, ‘Your grace?’

‘How honorable is it to leave one’s kin behind and neglect it to join a institute that makes you give up your father’s name?’

Jon wants to tell him that not all of us carry our father’s name, but instead he tries to defend the defenders of the realm, ‘It is an honor to accept the duty of-‘

‘Duty!’ Rhaegar almost laughs, maybe he only doesn't because he never laughs, ‘What of your duty to your kin? Love is the death of duty and duty is the death of honor.’

Rhaegar would know. He loved Jon’s mother ones, or so they say, betrayed the whole world for it, not only his kin, duty and honor, ‘We all try to do what is best, your grace.’

‘Do we? If you have to choose between honor on the one hand and those you love on the other, what do you do?’

‘I think I'd try to do what is right.’ Jon has no idea what his father is trying to tell him and somehow, he feels his mother’s shadow standing between the both of them, haunting the conversation and the subject of the words his father speaks, it makes him shiver.

‘You must be a man out of thousands, most of us are not that strong.’ His father is definitely mocking him now, though his voice is calm and steady and his eyes cool and careful, ‘What is honor compared to family? Brothers and sisters, a woman’s love, a home to return to, the feel of a newborn son in your arms?’

Jon just looks at him and stares. It isn't the first time the king tries to lecture him, it always comes when he least expects it and this time is definitely no exception. He wants to ask if this is about his mother, he wants to ask his father to tell him about her, talk about why and how.

‘We are all human, we all do our duty when there’s no cost to it, then honor comes easy to us. You don't know how it's not always like that, life isn't.’

‘I do know that.’

‘Do you?’ Rhaegar shakes his head and repeats, ‘You don't know that.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘You may be a bastard but you are my son and I am your father.’ He looks Jon right in the eye when he says it and it pierces right through his spine, makes him feel like he is about to triple down and fall flat on his face. He doesn't need to steady himself, he knows exactly how to stand upright, he stares right back, his eyes set and his mouth speaking words.

‘Is this about my mother?’

‘No.’ Rhaegar says simply, ‘Maybe soon you’ll know what it feels like to hold a son in your arms, maybe then you’ll understand that honor means nothing when you want to protect the people you love.’

Who has Rhaegar ever tried to protect? Who has he betrayed his duty over? Who has he ever truly loved? The songs say it was Lyanna Stark, they say he loved her, the songs sing about his broken heart, they even call Jon the only son of prince Rhaegar to be born from a true love.

‘Do you know who told me this, a long time ago?’

‘No.’

‘Aemon Targaryen.’

‘The maester?’

‘He wrote me, after you visited the wall, you impressed him.’ Rhaegar could look pleased at that but he clearly chooses not to.

‘Did I?’ Jon can't imagine how or when and why.

‘He said he believes you to be intelligent, loyal and brave with a good head for leadership and justice.’

‘He said I reminded him of you.’ Jon doesn't know why he tells his father that, he knows how the man will have trouble responding to it, perhaps that is why he tells him.

‘He wrote to me that you only stayed for a day because your wife was ill.’

‘She wasn't ill.’ Jon says, he doesn't want his father to blame Sansa for him forsaking his duty, ‘She lost our first child. She could die- I had to go home.’

‘So I've been told.’ Rhaegar says, ‘Perhaps you do understand, perhaps you know all about it, you are just not ready to admit it yet.’

Is Jon not ready to admit that he would let the whole Night’s Watch burn if it means that he can protect Sansa? Protecting their baby in the way he failed to protect the first? Jon is ready to admit all of that, but not to his father, admitting it to his father might mean that he would be able to understand what Rhaegar did to Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell twenty years ago and Jon will never allow anyone to think that, least of all Rhaegar himself.

‘Love can be honorable too, Jon. We are all human, even Targaryens, even the ones that call themselves dragons. The Gods have fashioned us for love, that is our greatest tragedy, and our greatest glory.’

Jon wants to ask again if this is about his mother but he doesn't, he chooses to phrase it differently, ‘Did you love her?’

‘Love her?’

‘My mother. Did you love my mother?’

‘I couldn't _not_ love your mother.’

‘Was it honorable of you to love her?’

‘No.’ Rhaegar says and he is still looking at Jon, his eyes still the same but not cold, they are many things but cold, ‘I don't believe it was.’

Jon wants to tell him it was wrong of him to love her, it was wrong of him to take her, wrong of him to betray his wife, but he can't because what can be wrong about love? Once maybe he would've been certain that it could be wrong, but not anymore, not now he knows what love can feel like. He wants to ask if she loved him too, but he knows he can't, ‘Do you regret loving her?’

‘I regret many things, but not that.’

Jon wants to know why he doesn't, he wants to know what he does regret, he needs to know if he regrets what he did, ‘Do you regret taking her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Rhaegar remains silent, he looks at Jon, longer than he has ever looked at Jon. All while Rhaegar tells Jon things he didn't think he’d ever tell him, things that make him feel cold and empty and yet full of emotion and pain. It makes him feel lonely most of all. Talking with his father about the mother he never had makes him feel lonely.

‘I spoke to the maester this morning.’

Jon feels extremely nervous suddenly, ‘I'm sorry.’ He says and his father raises his eyebrows, ‘Sansa tries not to be rude to him, I told her not to be, but she is just nervous and he won't-‘

‘It's not about your wife.’

‘Oh.’

‘It is about me.’

Jon can only just stop himself from saying ‘oh’ again.

‘We have suspected it for a time but we know for certain now.’

‘Know what, your grace?’

‘He tells me my heart is ill, it beats slowely and it's weak.’

‘Do you need more time in the day to rest, your grace?’

‘No.’ Rhaegar finally looks away and it makes Jon’s shoulders slump, ‘No I don't need to rest more, it won't help.’

‘Is he giving you medicine?’

‘He is killing my pain but there is little more he can do.’

The realization hits Jon like a rock thrown in his face, not his nose but his heart starts bleeding and a sharp pain hits him in the chest that he has never experienced before. He thought he knew what anxiety feels like when that man in black pressed the letter from Robb in his hands that informed him of his failure to look after his family. He didn't know, he honestly didn't, but now he does.

‘There have been a few maesters, together they predict I won't live to see the coming winter.’

Winter is coming. Ned tells them almost every day. He tells them it's coming and it's coming soon.

‘D-does Rhaenys know?’ He doesn't know why he asks, he doesn't know why he needs to know that.

‘She doesn't, not yet, I am telling her and your brother tonight.’

‘The queen-‘

‘Will inform her children. She was there when the maester told me.’

Jon nods to let his father know he understands, but he doesn't. How can he understand? It is all so fairly impossible. How can the king be dying? How can he be ill? How can he tell Jon first, not Aegon, not even Rhaenys. Rhaenys will be so sad, she'll cry, the thought of her pain makes his chest hurt.

He suddenly understands why Aegon is getting married, he understand why he’ll agree. Who can ever refuse their dying father? No one can, not even Aegon.

‘Before winter?’

‘According to your uncle winter is coming and he must be right, the Starks are always right.’

‘They are.’ Jon's voice is soft and hoarse, he feels cold and afraid, terribly afraid. What is he going to do? What can he do? There is nothing he can do, all he wants to do is scream.

‘I think that was all.’ His father is his king and his king is no true father, ‘I must return to my duties.’ And Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.

‘Yes, your grace.’ Jon bows to his king and leaves him there, in his office, alone with the ghost of Lyanna Stark.

His hands shake but the rest of his body is steady as he walks outside, through corridors, along people, gargoyles and dragon skulls, tapestries of battles and victories, young lovers and slayed beasts.

When he finds his bedchamber he sits down on his bed, his back towards the door, facing the window. He hears the sounds of waves, of fighting seagulls and the wooshing of the wind. Tears drop down his cheeks, tears he cannot whipe away, tears he doesn't fight to hold back.

When Jon was a little boy Catelyn told him crying is not a sign of weakness, it means you are strong and have managed to hold back for too long. When he came to King’s Landing and cried Cersei told him tears are never worth the effort of crying.

Jon doesn't cry for the father he has, he cries for the father he never had, for the man in the iron chair that pretended to hate him, that never intended to love him. Jon tried not to love him back, he tried to hate him too, tried to pretend just as good, maybe he succeeded, maybe he fooled no one.

It starts raining outside and Jon thinks of going there, walking through it so no one can see his tears, maybe he won't notice himself then.

The hardest part of crying is when you start, once you have been crying for some time the tears come easy to you, they fall down and bring relief. He bites his lip to stop himself from bowling at the pain and he feels entirely dehumanized.

Why is he even crying when it's not comforting? No one is there to comfort him and he can't comfort himself. Jon wants to go home, to Winterfell, sit in the godswood with the heart tree and ask the old gods to spare him. He needs someone to explain to him why he cries because he can't explain it to himself.

He lays down and curls up like a child, grips his own hair and pulls on it.

No, no, no. He keeps telling himself no.

He never had any parent, he had no father and he had no mother. He dreamed of them, he so often thought of his mother alive, how his father may have loved him then like he loves Rhaenys, if he had not killed the woman he loved.

Jon wonders if he could ever hate a child of his that killed Sansa. Perhaps he could, but he doesn't believe it, not if that child was all he would have left of her. He'd love it, he'd cherish it, tell the child all about the amazing mother he or she had. He’d protect and love the child with all he has, all he is.

He can't recall his father ever saying her name, as if he is ashamed. Of her? Maybe he's ashamed of what he did. He said he loved her, he said he couldn't not love her. Jon can believe it, he can even imagine what that is like.

If his father dies he'll have to forgive him, he'll have to lay his dead body to rest in the sept and pray for his soul, he’ll have to say goodbye and accept the harsh reality, the cruelty of being the king's bastard.

If only they could stop winter, make sure it never happens. The peasants believe the endless summer has finally come, if maybe they are right perhaps Jon’s father won't die, maybe he'll have time to forgive him now that he is still alive. Maybe he can thank his father for giving him Sansa, maybe he can tell him about how happy he is.

Jon hopes he'll live to see his child be born, maybe his father can hold it, maybe he can love it too. Maybe Jon will even name it after his father, and his child will have a good grandfather, maybe Rhaegar can be as good as a grandfather as he is a terrible father. Maybe.

Jon wants to scream, he wants to cry out in pain, press his face in his pillow and swallow his own weeping. He bolds his hands into fists and feels the urge to stick them in his mouth. He needs to get undressed, he needs to take his doublet off, to be able to breath, he can't get enough air, he gasps for air, for oxygen in his lungs.

His father's heart beats too slowly. He had one attack three years ago. They made him stay in bed for days until he started screaming at them the way he only usually screams at Cersei. After that he went on with his life as if nothing’d happened. Jon assumed his father knew best what was good for him but he remembers Rhaenys being worried.

They give him things to fight the pain now but that is all they can do. How is that all they can do? How can there be nothing else? His father is no old man, he does not look old nor sick nor dying. How can he be dying?

He only realises how warm he is when he feels Sansa’s cold fingers in his neck. She soothes him, presses her soft lips to his temple and wipes tears from his face with both her hand and her handkerchief. It's embroidered with little moons and stars.

‘Jon…’ he can't talk to her, he can't form words when his head is in a thunderstorm, as wild as the one outside. The wind that blows through the opened windows into the room remind him somehow of his pain, he can't see it when he looks at his own reflection in a mirror, but it's there, it burns him and he can feel it in every fiber of his body, in his fingers and in his toes. The flashes of a lightening bold fill the whole room with blue light, it makes her skin look pale and her eyes big and scared.

She cups his face in her hands and holds it to her chest, there where he can feel her heartbeat, it’s fast and desperate and soothing.

‘Father told me. Jon, my love, I am so sorry.’

She doesn't ask him why he cries, she doesn't remind him of all the times he told her he hates his father, how often he told her the king is the worst person he knows, she doesn't think it will help to repeat what he always says, that he would never ever want to be anything like Rhaegar Targaryen. He never wanted to be, he could never be, no one can. His father is never going to love him, Jon always knew, it never made him want it less, despite the never-ending disappointments.

Sansa loves him, she tells him all the time, he tells her he loves her too. Maybe he loves her so desperately because she gave him what he always wanted. She gave him a family. She saved him, he told her that too. She makes him forget who he is, what he stands for, what people whisper behind their hands when they see him.

Lyanna’s boy, the bastard, Rhaegar’s baseborn son.

She doesn't tell him to stop crying, doesn't tell him everything will be alright. She rocks him like a baby, he can feel the swell of her belly, where their child grows and lives, warm and safe, no pain and peacefully unaware of everyone outside it’s hiding place. Maybe that baby will never know Jon’s father, will never meet him, never see him, he will only hear stories, all these stories.

What will Jon tell his sons? Will he tell them their grandfather Rhaegar, first of his name, was a good and just king? Will he tell them he betrayed the realm and everyone in it because he loved a woman? Will he tell them he was wrong to do so? Will he tell them Rhaegar never forgave his bastard-son for taking that woman away from him? Perhaps he should teach his sons about honor and duty. He should teach his sons about love.

He loves Sansa, so fully devoted and captivating, he needs her more than the air he breathes. Would he love her as much as he does now with a different past? Perhaps not. She is the only one who has ever truly made him feel like he is good enough, and for that he can forgive her anything, he’ll always love her unconditionally.

He is so vulnerable it scares him, he doesn't know how, or when. He loves her simply, with no fear or pride. He doesn't know how else to love her but in the way he does. They loved him at Winterfell when he was a child, but when others took him away from there, he was afraid he'd outlearn it, they could have poisoned him with their heartless souls. He loves Sansa in the only way he knows, a love that leaves no choice, he didn't voluntarily decide to love her, she forced him to and he could do nothing but let her.

When he is with her he loses a sense of property, a sense of ownership, there is no him or her there is only them. Loving her gives him courage, it will make him raise again, stand up and face reality. This life is all he has, no matter how he messes it up, there is all there is just like he only has this one father, and soon he won't have that anymore either. If his father dies will he stop being his father? Will Jon have a father no more? He never knew his mother, but he always knows he has one, she was and is always there, always a part of his life, of his being, a part of him is her and he carries it around with him. He knows she would have wanted that, it makes him feel safe. Will his father do that too? Would his father want that?

‘I don't know why I'm crying.’

‘Because you're hurt.’

Why is he hurt? Because of all those years? Those cruel years and the longing for something that never belonged to him? Maybe he cries because he's angry, because he can't stand it that it ends this way.

He knows he needs her, he has never needed anyone as much as he needs her, he likes to think he never needed anyone before he loved her. Only himself, he always managed on his own.

Someone once told him men only fear death because of life. Maybe that is why Jon is afraid of his father’s dying, because he fears the life he lived with him, he fears that it'll end and with it his hopes and dreams for a better future.

‘It’s odd isn't it?’ She whispers when they are laying in the bed, facing each other, her hand rubbing his upper arm, slowely, repeatedly and in a steady rhythm, ‘We know that everyone dies, at one point we all die, but when the time is there, we never see it coming and it's as if we never believed it would happen.’ She doesn't look at him when she speaks but stares up at the ceiling of his bed.

Jon stares at her but doesn't respond, he doesn't know if he agrees. He never thought of his father dying, maybe he never believed he would die, maybe he never thought he could, maybe some men seem immortal.

Is his father as afraid as Jon is? He can't stop wondering, he didn't seem scared when he sat there, in his chair, in the office rambling on about love and duty and honor. There is no glory in dying of illness, perhaps he is disappointed in that. Maybe he fears what he is about to leave behind, of the world moving forward without him there to make sure it all doesn't fall to pieces.

Jon pushes himself closer to her and pulls on her dress. He presses his hand to the skin of her stomach, to maybe feel his child. She told him she can but no matter how hard he concentrates, all he feels is the raise and low of her breathing.

She doesn't hesitate when he undresses her, she lets him, helps him. She doesn't talk, she doesn't ask, she only whimpers. Her warm breath is like a drug to the cruelty of worthless suffering.

Her belly is in the way, it makes it harder and harder, she can't take it off, push it aside the way she does with her skirts. It is part of her now, she holds it in her arms as if the child is already born. She is more beautiful than ever, she feels more like his than he ever thought she could.

He presses his face in the crook of her neck and closes his eyes. Maybe if he can't see and lets the feeling of her nakedness and her body heat take over his mind he’ll forget.

Their lovemaking takes away some of his tension, he can feel his limbs relax as he moves behind her, inside her, his chest to her back, his hand beneath hers as she clutches it to her stomach.

They don't speak, they hardly make a sound, she bites her lip and closes her eyes when her pleasures take over and moves her hand behind herself to hold the back of his head and clutch his hair.

‘I love you.’ He says, _I love you so much, don't ever leave me._

The pleasure is so sharp, it numbs his mind and takes away his eyesight. She moves her foot along his legs and when it's over he doesn't immediately slid out. He feels like he can fall asleep just like that, daze off into oblivion.

She doesn't allow him, turns around on her back and lets him curl himself around her the way she used to do with him before her belly got in the way.

She drags her nails along his back and scratches his scalp. When she sighs he feel a shiver run down his spine.

‘Here, right there.’ She pulls on his hand and places it on a specific spot on her abdomen, ‘Can you feel it?’ she looks at him with hopeful eyes.

He is ready to tell her he can't but then he can actually see his own hand move, like a little push from inside of her, as if a muscle stretches. It's not a muscle, maybe it's a hand or maybe it's a foot.

‘He’s hiccuping.’

She grins, ‘Maybe.’

‘He’s kicking.’

She smiles at the look on his face, ‘I think it’s the hand, actually, she’s reaching out for you.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘It's so strong.’

‘Amazing isn't it? She’s growing everyday.’

‘I hope my father can meet him.’

She doesn't seem surprised at that, she doesn't ask why, instead she says, ‘ _Her_ , it's a girl, again.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’ She says and she closes her eyes and entangles her fingers through his while he keeps staring at his hand. The baby doesn't push again, there is no movement and Jon wonders if maybe she has fallen asleep.

‘She’s gone.’

She smirks, ‘No, she's still there.’

‘Is she going to do it again?’

‘Ask her.’

‘Can she hear me?’

‘I think so, yes, I talk to her sometimes.’

‘You do?’ He has never heard her do that.

‘Uhuh. I ask her to stop moving when I want to sleep, she doesn't always listen though.’

‘What can I say?’

‘What do you want to say?’

‘Does it matter? She probably won't understand anyway.’ He looks down at his hand, considers telling his daughter ‘hello’ then lays his head back down on Sansa's shoulder and says, ‘I'll talk to her when she’s born.’

She kisses the top of his head, ‘You do you.’

‘Do you think she knows me?’

‘Maybe, yes, probably.’

‘Do you think she likes me?’

She hides her face in his hair and tells it, ‘Why wouldn't she?’

He loves her for saying that.

He’ll find condolences in being a father himself, a good father, like Ned is, who looks his children in the eye, ruffles their hair, tells them stories, makes them smile and laugh and kisses the top of their heads. He’ll love his children, he’ll love that moving, hiccuping thing inside of Sansa more than anything in the whole wide world, he already does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please imagine Rhaegar behind is desk dropping his head in his hands being all miserable as soon as Jon leaves.
> 
> More importantly-> The reason Rhaegar answers with ‘no’ when Jon asks him if he regrets taking Lyanna is because if he hadn't, Jon would never have been born and despite Jon’s firm believe, Rhaegar loves Jon very very much.


	18. Pheasant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't say anything for a while and then moves over towards him, to lay a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it. He can't bring it up to be rude again, it's too much, not when she's being like this. The horrible truth is that Rhaenys actually seems to mean well and as hard as that is for him to swallow, it also makes it impossible for him to push her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already apologizing for the super long note at the end.  
> I do suggest you read the chapter first.

**Jon ******

He wakes up one morning and he sees her stand in front of the mirror, bare-naked and bathing in the morning sunlight. She's looking at her reflection the way he has never seen her look at herself. She's not criticizing her hair, she's not feeling uncomfortable about her clothes and she’s not touching her face, pinching her cheeks to give them a blushy color. 

She's just staring, almost in awe it seems and the way she moves her hands down to her breasts, cups and squeezes them gives him the urge to look away, as if he shouldn’t be watching, as if this is too personal for him to see. 

She drops her hands and places them on her abdomen. When she's wearing her corset it all still seems terribly flat but now that she stands dressed in the same as on her nameday, Jon can see it so clearly. It's not a tiny swell anymore but a proper bump and the way she lays her hand atop it, caresses it and stares at herself while doing so is one of the loveliest things he’s ever seen. 

He decides not to let her know he's awake, he doesn't want to disturb the moment, it feels intimate, as if it's a moment between Sansa and the human being growing inside of her. He closes his eyes and when he hears her feet on the floor walking over to him he tries to hide his face in the pillow. 

She quickly pulls her nightgown over her head, gets in the bed and wriggles her way close to him, moves her leg up over his hip and her arm around his waist, her face pressed in his neck. 

‘Jon?’ She whispers and he turns his face to press his lips to her brow. 

‘You shouldn't get out of bed before you have to.’

She smiles and presses kisses down his neck, his chest, even lower.

Jon looks at the strand of auburn hair in his hand and he wonders again how they ended up here. He can’t stop wondering.

How that girl he used to see playing with her dolls in the corner of his eye, the girl who forced him to play dress up, who screamed and cried when he threw a snowball in her face- became the young lady he met in Winterfell’s courtyard, who in her turn became the woman he knows now. 

The woman who lets him pull her up and places her hands to his chest to steady herself before he enters and she makes her whispered endearments and small, shuddering gasps of pleasure. He wonders if he ever dared hope that he would marry someone that would make his whole world feel like a surreal dream. 

He cups her breast, all big and perky and every day they seem bigger. They’re tense and the tips look different but he doesn't think they hurt as much as they did last time, she just moans when he kisses them and scratches his scalp with her nails. 

When his hand moves down he can feel her ribs under his fingers, he feels the curves of their outlines and the skin around them is soft, pale and stretchy. He places his palm over her bellybutton and as he watches her make love to him he can't help but stare at his hand, the way it curves with the swell, how it used to be flat with the skin tight and soft, now he feels the bump. 

He moves the tops of his fingers down her spine, over the silky fabric of her night gown, as she lays next to him on her side. He has not been able to sleep on her front for quite some time now. 

Her eyes are closed but she's not sleeping and he knows she can hear him when he tells her, ‘I am happy.’ 

Her eyes flutter open but she doesn't say anything. 

‘I am.’ He says, ‘Being the father of your children is the greatest gift the Gods could ever give me.’

She beams and pulls him towards her, ‘I hope it will look like you.’ She whispers to his lips. 

‘Please don't,’ he says, ‘You're so much prettier than I am.’ 

She giggles a little and starts playing her favorite footsie game with him, even though he’s never an active contester, ‘It will look like a Stark.’ 

He suddenly feels awfully emotional, he knows she should be the emotional one, considering she's pregnant and all she did last time was be emotional, ‘Yeah.’ 

She presses her nose to his and her smile warms his heart, ‘Stop worrying, Jon.’ 

He can only gulp down a combination of fear and shame. He wants to talk to her, but he doesn't want to scare her and he's afraid her fear may hurt her, like she was hurt last time. 

‘Please stop brooding and frowning and lying awake at night.’ Her face is so close her words are puffs of breath on his lips, ‘Can you do that for me?’

He moves his head closer so he can kiss her but just when he deepens the kiss and plans on pressing her down on her back in the bed the door opens. 

‘Jon get out of bed.’ 

Jon pulls the covers over Sansa’s body, hiding her thinly clad body as much as he possibly can, which is clearly an impossible aspiration. 

‘Bugger off!’

He glares at Aegon, standing in the doorway with Ser Barristan at his one side and Joffrey’s pet dog at his other, both of them looking down at the floor or up at the ceiling as if they like to pretend they are not violating his privacy.

‘You’re not allowed to talk to me like that.’ Aegon says and he seems more amused than he has been in years, which should be a good thing, except it really isn't. 

‘You're not allowed to just march into my room without knocking!’

‘I am, actually.’ Aegon says and he throws a crossbow into the bed, ‘Get out, we’re hunting, I want to eat some very fat pheasant tonight.’ 

‘You can manage without me.’ 

‘Of course I can.’ Aegon says, ‘But I’d like to spend some time with you.’

Jon moves up a little, if only to shield Sansa from their view, ‘Fuck off, Aegon!’ 

Aegon raises an eyebrow at him, ‘Get out of bed.’ He says again, ‘You and I need to discuss some matters while we kill beasts.’ He turns and leaves the room, closely followed by the dog and the knight, who both look as uncomfortable as Jon wants to make them feel. 

‘I'm going to make him regret that!’

He looks down at Sansa who hides her face behind her hands and for a terrifying moment he fears she’s crying. Her shoulders shake but then he hears her shaky breath and he knows she's laughing. She's _laughing_.

'Why are you laughing?’

‘Tell me that did not just happen.’ 

‘It did.’

She shakes her head, ‘No, no… Tell me it did not happen.’

‘That just happened.’ 

She makes an embarrassed groan again and pushes him away, ‘You should go.’ 

‘That did not just happen.’ He says and he pulls her back to his chest. 

She giggles and he has never seen her face this flushed as she keeps hiding it behind her hands, as if she hopes it’ll go away when she doesn't look at him, ‘No.. no, no, you have to go and kill some bird.’ 

‘I don't want to kill birds.’ 

She starts kissing his face, ‘You’re not fast enough.’ She tells him before he can stick his tongue in her mouth. 

‘I can be fast if you'll be fast.’

‘No! What if they'll come back!’ 

He drops his head down in the pillow and sighs, waits a few seconds and then moves to get out of the bed. 

‘Don't argue with him!’ she yells after him before he closes the door. 

###### 

The woods always appear peaceful, and perhaps they truly are when a man visits on his own, at dawn, when it's drizzling and the sun is peeking through the roof of leaves. 

When a moping Jon saunters after Aegon and he has to listen to the prince of Dragonstone’s favorite singer, named Twinkling Fire, sing a song about Maekar the cruel he does not feel peaceful at all. He could be in bed right now, sleeping or doing his wife. Instead he is walking through a misty and humid forest fighting of mosquitoes as he watches everyone around him try their very best to make Aegon believe they actually think he is a great lad. 

‘I'm sure the prince will kill at least three pheasants!’ 

‘Thank you, Ser Rickard! I will try and be at my natural best!’ 

Jon feels the urge to puke and the laughing makes him want to gag. His crossbow is heavy and richly oriented. He wants to throw it in the nearest pond and grab some bow and arrow, hide behind a bush and wait for the animal to show up, not send the dogs out to find the prey and then shoot it right between the eyes with this fancy rich man’s weapon no one would ever take with them into battle.

'Thank you lords, you are too kind, I insist you stop flattering!’ 

Jon can't help but watch him with badly hidden disgust. _What a tragedy_. 

They stalk on for a while and these lords, who chatter enthusiastically, don't walk as fast as Jon would've liked. At least Aegon seems determined to catch the pheasant today, that means that Jon’ll be back in the keep tonight and because of this, he manages to see his situation in perspective. The memory of that time Aegon made him spend four entire nights in a row out here is still vivid in his memory. 

He's an asshole. He always does it on purpose, just because he enjoys the querulous look of discomfort on Jon’s face. He loves that more than anything. The worse Aegon feels the more he tries to ruin Jon’s life. Jon suspects his brother had an argument with their father yesterday, or maybe he just feels a need to express his frustrations and decided that plucking a naked Jon from his bed at dawn and force him to spend the entire day in his company would make him feel better. Jon’s suffering always makes him feel better, it's the only thing he and Joffrey have in common. 

‘I spoke to father, I asked him when you were planning on leaving and he informed me of your refusal when he offered you to leave lady Stark behind. I assume this means I can suppose things are settled?’

‘What _things_ are settled?’

‘You and your lady wife are staying in the capital for longer than I anticipated.’ Jon is startled to find out that the party is at such a distance now that they can no longer hear them speak. It gives Aegon a sense of freedom, Jon knows that, to believe he can now say whatever he wants to say, 'You won't ever leave, will you?' 

‘These woods?’

‘ _King’s Landing_ , you fool.’ 

‘I know what you meant.’ 

Aegon turns around and challenges him with his small smile, ‘Do you think you can make fun of me?’ 

‘I don't really think about you, ever.’ That answer visibly is not received well. 

‘Maybe you could start.’ 

‘It's not a matter of could.’ Jon says and he avoids Aegon’s indigo eyes, a common saying, about wakening dragons, crosses Jon’s mind. 

‘Do you think you can talk to me in whatever way you please?’ 

‘Like _you_ always do?’ Jon asks, ‘As I have already told you, I don't think anything.’

‘Stop saying that!’ Aegon’s voice is high suddenly, as high as it could possibly be. 

Jon presses his lips together in built up anger, ‘What do you want, Aegon?’ He asks, he would honestly like to know, maybe he can go inside if he finds out. 

Aegon stands still suddenly, ‘For you to leave.’ 

Jon turns back around to look at him, ‘You dragged me here, you plucked me from my bed and told me you wanted me to come here!’

‘Away from King’s Landing!’ Aegon says loudly, so loudly Jon's certain the lords behind them can hear, ‘You were finally gone. Why did you come back?’ 

‘Rhaenys invited me for the-‘ 

‘Don't think I believe that!’ Aegon’s voice is no longer high, but it's getting louder with every word he speaks, ‘ _Why_ are you here?’

Jon takes a deep breath before he says, as he has so often, ‘Rhaenys wanted me to come.’ 

Aegon raises his eyebrows in badly hidden disbelieve, ‘Did she?’

‘You didn't know?’ Jon is aware of how much that must hurt, ‘It’s true.’ 

Something cold moves in over Aegon’s face, ‘I told you to leave,’ he says, ‘We don’t want you here.’

Once that would have sent him running. Once that might even have made him cry. Now it only makes him angry.

‘Rhaenys wants me here.’ He repeats.

‘Why would she?’

‘She's my sister too.’ It feels odd to say that, ‘She must have her reasons to not have told you.’

That comment is too much, Jon knows it instantly when Aegon pulls his lowerlip in and shoves Jon with no warning, ‘Who do you think you are?’ He comes dangerously close but Jon refuses to back away, ‘You’re still the bastard, the nobody, you are _nothing_.’ The words don't hurt either, nothing Aegon could ever say will hurt him again. Jon can sense it, and it makes him feel powerful, in control. Most of all it makes him feel like a man grown.

‘How could I ever forget?’ 

‘You’d be wise not to.’ 

‘You'll make sure of it.’ Jon wants to walk around his half-brother, to create distance without taking a step back, but Aegon grabs him by his collar.

‘Nothing has changed. Your perfect lady wife hasn't changed anything, nor has your perfect marriage, or your perfect behavior, or your perfect family-in-law. Nothing, it means nothing, _you_ mean nothing.’ 

Jon can't help but notice that it sounds like he is trying to convince himself, far more than he is trying to make Jon feel like a piece of crap, ‘Let me go.’

Aegon doesn't let go, his grip grows stronger and if Jon would be only a little bit less tall he may have been lifted up from his feet by now, ‘You and your perfect behavior make me sick.’ 

‘I thought you’d be glad, now that I am no longer embarrassing the family.’ 

Aegon pushes him away as if his comment is an arrow right through his chest, ‘You will always be an embarrassment.’ 

Jon can no longer contain a roll of his eyes, ‘Don't worry, I am aware, you never avoided the opportunity to remind me.’ 

‘Nothing has changed.’ Aegon repeats. 

‘Why would something have changed?’ Jon asks.

‘You think things have changed because you impregnated your Northern slut.’ 

It’s Jon’s turn to shove now, ‘Don't tell me what I think!’ He says, as loud as Aegon, he knows that he's losing his self-control and he hates it, he should know better by now. 

‘The sight of you makes me sick.’

‘Why?’ Jon knows why, ‘Because I’m not miserable? Because my life is not one giant disappointment? Because you can't stand it that things worked out better for me than they worked out for you?’

He hears a ring in his ears when Aegon’s fist hits his nose and when Jon touches the throbbing spot he feels the wetness of sticky blood on his hand.

‘You’ve lost your mind!’ 

‘Are you really this stupid?’ 

Jon wants to wipe the blood away but only manages to spread it out across his cheek, ‘I suppose I am! Now leave me the fuck alone!’ He turns around to walk away but Aegon grips the back of his cloak.

‘You’re staying here! I demand you to stay here!’

He slaps Aegon’s hand away, ‘You just hit me!’ 

‘You deserved that!’

‘You called my wife a slut!’ 

‘She's a brooding mare and you brought her here to press it under everyone’s nose!’ 

The only thing Jon intends to press under Aegon’s nose is a fist but he misses and hits the jaw instead.

Aegon stumbles but steadies himself in time to continue his ridicule, ‘It’s true! Why do you think he let you marry her in the first place?’

‘I'm a bastard!’ Jon feels hopeless all of the sudden, what in the seven hells is wrong with Aegon? The way he stands there, he seems to have completely lost himself and it is not something Jon ever expected seeing, ‘You always tell me, I am nothing!’

‘You are fucking stupid! Everyone knows it but you, everyone! Can't you see the way he looks at you? Can't you see?’

‘What?’ Jon can taste the blood coming from his nose in his mouth and it’s hard to breathe suddenly, ‘I'm leaving.’ He turns around to walk away, back to the shitty keep, back to people he’ll have to explain to why his nose is bleeding. He doesn't care, he needs to leave. 

‘You’re staying here!’ 

‘You can't tell me what to do!’ Jon bellows back over his shoulder, still walking, ‘You’re not the king yet!’ 

He feels the way he’s pushed down to the ground when Aegon throws himself on him, with all his weight and he loses every shred of self-control he may have left when he smashes to the ground and starts kicking his way free from the grip of the arm around his neck. 

It takes the guards hiding behind the trees far too long to pull them apart. Perhaps they enjoy the spectacle and Jon can sympathize. It's not every day one gets a front row seet to watch the crown prince and Rhaegar’s bastard fight like angry boys. Maybe they just don't simply know if it is their task to put a stop to it. The moment Jon starts hammering the crown prince’s pretty face is finally that moment they decide this can't possibly solve itself and Jon feels multiple arms lift him off his brother, from the ground, upright, while he moves his limbs around aggressively, trying to fight himself free from the arms. 

Even Ser Malckom is disappointed in him as they walk back to the keep and he gives Jon a disapproving look while handing him a cloth to press to his bleeding nose.

Joffrey thinks it’s hilarious, and so does the queen. She tries to hide it but this pleases her too much to contain her sparkling eyes.

Ned grabs his shoulder, asks him if there’s anything he can do, if Jon’s alright. Jon wants to ask him to make sure Sansa will never find out, but he knows there's no way they'll ever manage to keep this from her, so he just shakes his head.

The person least amused by it all is most certainly their father. He raises his voice, which Jon can remember him doing only once before, when he told Jon that none of his sons will ever join the Night’s Watch. _Over my dead body_ , he screamed back then. 

King Rhaegar, first of his name, is disappointed, shocked, disgusted, mortified, disgraced, embarrassed, furious and extremely, _deeply_ humiliated.

’His Grace is livid.’ Ser Malckom says, shaking his head.

What in the name of the seven Kingdoms were they thinking? Had they gone mad? Did they lose all sense of decency? This is not the kind of behavior Rhaegar expected from the sons he raised. 

Jon wonders if this is the moment for him to tell his father that they were not raised by him. Aegon was brought up by Martell wetnurses and Jon was raised by the Starks. Jon doubts his father can get any angrier, yet he can't bring himself to say it. 

‘Tell me! What foul thing made you do this?’

It’s silent for a couple of painful seconds during which both Jon and Aegon realize their father's ranting has come to an end and he's asking an actual question. 

Jon coughs while he waits for Aegon to say something clever but he doesn't, so he decides to spread out some clear facts, ‘He called my lady wife a slut and a brooding mare.’ 

‘So the only proper response that came to your mind was to attack him violently?’ 

Jon knows he should definitely bring up now how he was not the first one to strike, but something stops him. He refuses to admit that punching Aegon’s face into little pieces was not the proper response to Aegon, or anyone, calling his extremely decent wife a slut, so instead he nods, ‘Yes, your grace.’ 

The room goes silent at that and Jon catches Ned’s eye, who seems as angry as he is disappointed in Jon’s foolish response. 

His father doesn't scold him, on the contrary to popular expectance he looks at Aegon instead, ‘Did you really say that?’ 

‘I did.’ Aegon admits, and Jon has to confess to himself it does not surprise him, Aegon is not a liar, he has never been, in fact, he is cruelly honest, ‘Forgive me, father.’ 

It has always been painful to be the only one who has to call his father by his title while all his siblings call him what he never was nor will ever be, _father_. The king doesn't forgive Aegon, Jon doubts he’ll ever do that, instead he leans back a little in his iron chair, as far as the edges of the swords in his back allow him, and says with his coldest voice, ‘If this ever happens again my wrath will follow the both of you to your graves.’ Then he adds a little louder, ‘Now get out of my sight.’

They stand there for a second, looking at their father, as if they can't believe it's over just like that, without any consequences. 

‘What are you both waiting for? Summer? LEAVE!’

Jon and Aegon almost burst against each other when they turn and nearly run to leave the throne room.

Ned's angry, he says Jon should've known better and he may be right about that but Jon’s not ready to admit it yet, ‘He hit me first!’

‘You sound like a child!’ 

‘He called Sansa a-‘ 

‘It doesn't matter what he said! You should never have lost yourself like that!’ 

‘He attacked me.’ Jon crosses his arms, ‘He was acting like a madman.’ 

‘He’s the crown prince Jon! He is allowed to act in whatever way he pleases, you are not!’

Somehow Jon feels like his father is as angry with Aegon as he is with him and it makes him feel a lot better about all this. Rhaegar allowed his bastard to hit his precious prince of Dragonstone, even let him get away with it. He hopes people will talk about it for a hundred years to come. He knows they won't. But _still_.

‘It's not just you anymore, you have to think about Sansa too!’ 

Sansa? Thinking about her was what made him as angry as he is. What a stupid thing to say.

‘Aegon can make both your lives miserable if he wants to.’

‘He's not the king yet.’ Jon says.

‘He will be, he could be tomorrow.’

Jon wants to shrug that off, wishes he could, but he knows better. It’s odd because his father looks good, he looks healthy, nothing like a man who is about to drop dead. As much as it is true, however, predicting it the way Ned just did could be treason, saying that aloud doesn't seem like a clever thing to do, ‘He hit me first.’ Jon repeats.

If Ned could look a bit more disappointed than he already did that comment does the job, he shakes his head, ‘I’d expect more from you.’ 

‘He’s pushing me, he’s always pushing me.’ Jon says, ‘He wanted this to happen! You should have seen the way he looked at me at the tourney! At Viserys’s wedding! He’s miserable and he can't stand it that I'm not.’ 

Ned grabs both his shoulders and makes Jon look at him, ‘You better make sure he’s not going to make your life miserable as well. Sansa’s pregnant, you need to act responsibly.’ 

Jon wants to open his mouth but the door to the Hand’s office opens with no warning.

Rhaenys stands in the opening, her eyes wide and her lips pressed together, ‘I truly hope I'm interrupting something.’

Ned makes a proper bow but all Jon can do is roll his eyes. 

‘Could I, perhaps, have a private moment with my brother, lord Stark?’ She never looks at Ned and someone who doesn't know her may suspct her of anger but Jon knows this is just the way she looks when she's tense. 

Ned nods, he doesn't seem bothered that she makes him leave his own office.

Rhaenys walks over to Jon as soon as the door closes and lifts his face with her index finger to his chin, ‘How’s your nose?’

‘It's fine.’ He says as he pushes her hand away. 

‘It doesn't appear fine, someone should look at it.’ 

‘I don't need you fake concern.’ 

She seems truly insulted, ‘Jon,’ she says after a sigh to calm her nerves, ‘Aegon’s not the enemy.’ 

‘I am Aegon’s,’ Jon says, ‘That is how he treats me.’ 

‘He doesn't, not really.’

‘He called Sansa a slut.’

‘He should not have.’ 

Jon's not used to people admitting to Aegon's mistakes, least of all Rhaenys, so he appreciates her doing so more than he should. Her frown makes him sigh and then he can't do much else but thank her, ‘Thank you for that.’ 

‘We can't fight a war amongst ourselves, we have too many enemies.’ 

‘He hates me.’ Jon says, ‘He’ll never trust me, not ever.’

‘I trust you.’ She says, ‘And he trusts me. That is enough for now.’ She sighs again, ‘Don't wake the dragon.’ 

‘What about _my_ dragon?’ He asks, ‘He can't say things like that to me! I'm not a frightened little boy anymore.’ 

‘Aegon is aware of that.’ She says, an eyebrow raised, ‘He said he attacked you first.’ 

‘That's true.’ 

‘He should not have.’ She says again. 

‘Why are you not defending him?’ Jon wonders, ‘You’re scaring me.’ 

Rheanys rolls her eyes, ‘Honestly, you have to stop acting like a child, become a man.’ 

‘Tell me.’ Jon says, ‘what is going on?’ He wonders if maybe Rhaenys and Aegon aren't as close anymore as they once were, maybe it has to do with their father, with the way Aegon turns the silver hairs on Rhaegar’s head grey, maybe Rhaenys finally started blaming him for that.

‘Aegon still refuses to get married.’ She tells him, ‘He’s being a fool.’ 

That doesn't sound like news to Jon, 'He's always refusing to get married.’

‘He told our father that he'll marry the Tyrell girl if Renly can come back to court.’ 

‘And the king refused?’ 

‘The king refused.’

‘What does that got to do with me?’ He asks. 

‘I'll never bear children.’ She says, ‘The maesters all told me.’

He looks at her for a moment, ‘The maesters?’

‘They all agree.’

‘How can they know?’

She doesn’t look like she wants to tell him, yet she still does and he doesn't know how that makes him feel, ‘When they killed my mother, they hurt me too.’ 

Jon’s mouth is dry and he tries to read the expression on her face. It’s cold, far too cold, something in her features is as cold as ice yet her eyes are soft like melted butter, they are wide and suddenly look so blue, the hint of lilac is just a shimmer in the light that shines through the window behind him. He wants to lay his hand on her cheek and tell her to close her eyes. He feels scared and lonely, not as scared at all as she must've been when she crawled under her mother’s bed all those years ago. 

‘If Aegon never marries, the child in Sansa Stark’s belly is the future of our house.’ 

He wants to push her aside and run away, or yell at her, tell her to go to all the seven hells, visit them one by one, to suffer and stay there with her ideas and her confessions, ‘I’m a bastard.’ He says instead. 

‘You have to stop hiding behind that.’ 

‘Joffrey and Tommen-‘ 

‘Are not our brothers.’ She crosses her arms again and raises her chin to look at him, ‘You and me both know it.’ 

Jon snorts, ‘What you’re suggesting right now… is treason.’ 

‘All we need is proof.’ She says, ‘We need to get rid of the Lannisters.’ 

‘Aegon’s the heir.’ Jon says, ‘Joffrey will never-‘

‘I’ll light Joffrey on fire before he’ll ever sit on our father’s throne, the throne of our ancestors!’ He's not sure he's ever seen her look this passionate. 

‘The king doesn't-‘ 

‘We need to prove it first.’

‘Prove what exactly? We can never prove anything.’ 

'The queen has had an affair with her brother for years.’ 

‘That's disgusting.’ Jon spits. He has heard the rumors, everyone has, but that doesn't make it true. There is no proof nor would there ever be because it can't possibly be real. 

‘Targaryens wedded brothers to sisters for centuries to keep bloodlines pure.’ She says and he wants to sigh and roll his eyes, _fuck the Targaryen_ , with their ideas and their entitlement, ‘Your own grandparents shared their mother and father.’ 

‘Yes and they were awfully happy together, weren't they?’

‘Happiness was not made for people like you and me.’

‘People like you and me?’

‘It is about the blood of the dragon.’

Jon snorts, ‘I am not a dragon.’ He wants to throw his arms up in the air in desperation, ‘Why can't he just get married? I didn't want to get married!’ he never specifically told his father that however, he didn't have the guts, he wasn't like Aegon, he was scared to wake the dragon, and he did want to do what his father told him to do, if anything because he was and still is, an obedient ass. 

‘Things ended up not too bad for you, did they?’

‘That's my point.’ 

‘You know he can't Jon. He won't, not ever. Even _if_ he will he'll never put a child in her, he'll never have his own sons.’ 

Jon walks away from her to the window, he can't look at her face, she has lost her mind, just like their brother, everyone has lost their mind, ‘So what do you want? For me to create a bunch of pretty silver haired princes and princesses to pass on the Targaryen bloodline? I can't.’ He doesn't know how often he needs to repeat this to make people understand, ‘I am a _bastard_.’ 

Aegon could legitimize you.’ Rhaenys does’t mean to suggest, and Jon knows that.

He laughs humorously, ‘He’d rather choke on the Tyrell girl.’ 

‘He could! If it means keeping the Lannisters off the throne.’ 

‘You have worked it all out, haven't you?’ He turns back around and he hopes his disgust is visible on every inch of his facial expression, ‘You’re sick. This is madness, none of this is ever going to work. Frankly, I don't want it to.’ He takes a few steps until he stands right in front of her again, face to face, ‘The child in my wife’s belly is mine, it belongs to me and Sansa, it is not going to be the solution to your problems, or Aegon’s.’ He shakes his head, ‘I don't want to be a part of your schemes or help you maintain something I do not believe in.’ 

‘Jon, just _listen_ to me-‘ 

‘No!’ He pushes the hand she stretches out towards him away, ‘I don't want any of this! I never asked for it, just leave me alone.’ He turns to sit down in Ned’s chair and leans his head in his hands, hiding his face from her view. 

She doesn't say anything for a while then moves over towards him, to lay a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it. He can't bring it up to be rude again, it's too much, not when she's being like this. The horrible truth is that Rhaenys actually seems to mean well and as hard as that is for him to swallow, it also makes it impossible for him to push her away.

'I'm sorry.’ She says, ‘I should've told you sooner.’

‘I would've preferred it if you’d never told me at all.’ He says. 

‘I had to.’ She says. 

‘Have you told the king?’ he asks, ‘Have you told our father that half of his kin is fathered by the man that killed Aerys? That his queen has been betraying him for years?’ It’s as ridiculous as it sounds and it's not true. 

‘I don't need to tell father.’ 

He looks up from his hands and flexes the muscles in his shoulder to make her let go, which she does, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at Joffrey.’ She says, ‘Have you ever looked at him, properly?’ 

'I'm afraid I have.’ 

Rhaenys may have smiled if it was something she often does, ‘He cannot be our brother, he simply cannot, and if he cannot be our brother he cannot be our father's son.’ 

‘Madness ruins our bloodline.’ Jon says.

‘Cruelty does not.’ She says and finally she drops her hand, ‘It’s time we put an end to cruel madmen in the Targaryen family tree.’ 

Jon wonders, he always assumed madness and cruelty went hand in hand, ‘To whom have you spoken of this?’ He asks. 

‘Aegon.’ Naturally, ‘And your uncle.’ 

‘Ned?’ He looks up in confusion, ‘What did he say?’

‘He responded much the same as you.’ She says and somehow, she finally smiles, she has an incredibly beautiful smile, ‘But he agrees about the Lannisters.’ 

‘The Lannisters?’

‘He called them our enemies.’

‘ _Our_ enemies?’

‘We have to set our differences aside for the greater good.’ 

‘The greater good?’ he laughs, it’s as if she’s begging him to mock her.

‘Of the realm.’

‘Ser Jaime threw my brother-in-law from a window.’ Jon tells her. 

‘I know.’ 

The knowledge that she had this conversation with Ned long before he knew anything about it suddenly makes him furious, he gets up and lifts his chin, ‘You plan on taking down one of the richest, most powerful houses in Westeros, disinherit our brothers and sister, declare the queen a traitor, turn my wife into a brooding machine, make my children my brother’s heirs and you have not thought of mentioning it to me before this day?’

‘Jon, I-‘

‘Is this why Aegon called her a slut? He called her a brooding mare!’ He suddenly totally understands why, ‘He doesn't agree does he? He can't stand the idea of me saving the future of our shitty dynasty.’

‘He'll get used to it.’ She simply says. 

Jon sputters a bit, ‘Used to it? He hates me.’ 

‘He doesn't hate you Jon.’ She looks away when she says it.

‘No! You know who else doesn't hate me? The king!’ he means to be sarcastic, but she doesn't seem to catch it.

‘True, father doesn't hate you either.’ 

Jon shakes his head in utter disbelieve.  
‘Why did you want me to come to King’s Landing?’ 

‘To protect you.’ She simply says. 

He turns away from her, ‘Fuck off, Rhaenys.’ 

She slaps the back of his head and he angrily turns back around, it didn't hurt, she probably didn't mean to either, ‘Sansa lost a child once, she can't do it again.’ 

‘Don't talk about Sansa! Don't mention her, don't mention what she lost, don't you dare.’ He says and he pushes her away to her chest, not as violently as he did with Aegon, he never could, no matter how badly he might want to.

‘She’s safest in King’s Landing.’ Rhaenys says, she doesn't seem shocked nor effected by his raised voice, ‘Nothing can happen to her here and we need to protect her.’ 

‘ We need to protect her _fertile womb_.’ He mocks and he shakes his head again. 

‘Don't you want to protect her?’ 

‘How dare you ask me such a thing?’ 

‘You know she’s safe in King’s Landing, it's why you brought her here.’ 

‘She wasn't pregnant when I took her with me, I would not have brought her if I’d known, we would not have come.’

A smile creeps in on her face again, ‘Do you realize how naïve that sounds?’ 

‘What?’

She gives a terrible impression of his voice when she says, ‘You would not have brought her if you'd known?’ She puts her hands to her hips, ‘How long were you planning on staying? What did you expect?’

He avoids her look as he stammers some more, ‘It’s none of your business.’ He kicks against the foot of the Hand’s chair, ‘I'll make this clear to you,’ he says and if he were Joffrey he'd be pointing his finger at her now, ‘As soon as Sansa has given birth and is fit for travel I am taking my wife and my child with me back home and I can promise you it will be years if not never for any of my family to return to this godless place of demons.’

‘Jon-‘

'And no son of mine will ever sit on that iron throne, never, over my dead body.’

‘Maybe it's not for you to decide.’ 

‘She's my wife, it's our child, this is _my_ family, I'm not giving it up, it will never belong to the crown, I want nothing to do with it. Just leave me alone.’

‘Jon, you cannot-‘ 

The door opens and seeing Sansa stand in the door opening, her hands clutching her belly, her hair in a northern braid, dressed in her royal blue velvet gown and her cheeks reddened with worry, remind him once again of why he came here. To protect her. Rhaenys is right. She is safest here. Yet he never expected he'd have to protect her from the twisted ideas his sister has for the future. 

'Sansa.’ Rhaenys smiles and Sansa makes an inappropriately short curtsey before she walks over to him.

‘So it's true?’ He realizes her fury when it's too late, she takes his face between both her hands, ‘has anyone looked at your nose?’

‘It's nothing.’ He tries to pull his face away but she won’t let him. 

‘You’re bleeding!’

‘I was, not anymore. It's just blood.’ 

She drops her hands from his head and crosses her arms, ‘You’re an idiot! How can you do that? Fight like children? Like animals!’

‘I can assure you it was not animalistic at all.’ He says, he tries to avoid the stare of two very strong willed women and he’s not doing a very good job at it. 

‘I told you not to argue with him. Men don't fight like that! Not with their brother, rolling through the mud.’ She wipes hair from his face and as her touch is gentle he hears how her voice is a mixture of anger and worry. 

‘I'm sorry.’ He hopes that an apology will calm her down- it doesn't. 

‘Look at you! You made a fool out of yourself! Why are you even in here? Where’s father?’

Jon turns his head towards his sister, 'My princess, perhaps you could give us a moment?’ 

Rhaenys doesn't object, even when he expected her to, instead she nods once and walks away. 

‘Jon!’ How can she look so beautiful while being angry? No one is supposed to look beautiful while being angry, ‘What were you thinking?’

He stretches his hand out towards her and pulls her to his chest, wraps his arms around her and drags her as close to him as he possibly can, ‘You and I- we’ll be alright.’ He says, he lays his cheek on the top of her head and shuts his eyes.

‘Jon…’ she protests a little, he can understand, this change of attitude must come from nowhere to her. It's not coming from nowhere, it's been haunting him for weeks.

‘It doesn't matter if the world’s falling to pieces, you and I, we’ll be alright, won't we?’

‘Yes.’ She breathes, ‘Yes, I think so.’ 

He moves his hand to cup her very real bump, ‘It’s you and me, that's all that matters, you have to always remember… promise me?’

‘Jon what-‘

‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’ She says and she pushes him away to cup his face, ‘You have to tell me.’ She says.

He can't tell her. He shouldn't because it's not going to happen, never, she's his and he is hers. Fuck the Iron Throne, damn the Targaryen dynasty, to hell with the Lannisters, ‘I love you.’ 

‘I love you too.’ 

‘We shouldn't have come here. We should've stayed at Winterfell, in your bedroom.’

She smiles, ‘Our bedroom,’ she says, ‘We’ll go back there, soon, with our baby.’ 

‘You promise?’

‘Yes.’ She says and she places a kiss to his cheek, ‘You’re an idiot.’

He wants to smile at that, she's right, he is an idiot, ‘Everyone here is a liar, Sansa, we can trust no one.’

‘No one?’

‘No one but our family.’ 

‘Who is our family?’ She asks and she nudges his cheek with her nose.

‘Your family.’ He says, ‘And Rhaenys.’

‘Rhaenys?’ She’s surprised now.

He nods, ‘Rhaenys and Aegon.’ 

She looks at him in disbelieve, ‘Aegon pressed his fist to your nose.’

‘We’re not being their friends,’ he says, ‘We’re being their allies.’ 

‘Rhaenys is my friend.’ She says.

‘I know.’

‘You don't mind?’

He shakes his head, ‘No. As long as you don't believe everything she says.’ 

She grins at that but it's not long until her grin fades away and she hugs him again, ‘What’s going on?’ She asks his leather doublet, ‘What’s haunting you?’ She sounds worried and he realizes again that he failed at hiding his fear, he can't hide anything from her, she knows, she always knows. 

‘Rhaenys says… Rhaenys wanted us to come here because she knows about Bran, she knows who pushed him.’ 

She looks up, ‘Who did?’

‘You know who did.’

She lets him go and takes a step away from him, ‘but you never believed-‘ 

‘Just stay away from the queen.’ 

‘Jon-‘

‘ _Promise me_.’ He says, ‘I mean it.’ 

She raises her eyebrows, ‘I don't understand.’ 

‘Rhaenys she… Rhaenys thinks that my accident during the hunt back at Winterfell wasn't an accident.’ 

‘That's ridiculous.’ She says, ‘Why would she think that?’

‘She believes the Lannisters want to get rid of me.’ 

She presses one hand to her mouth and another to her belly, ‘No.’ She says, her voice is all high and squeaky, ‘Tell me she’s lying, she’s insane.’ 

‘I told her that, but she makes some… she has really thought this through.’ 

‘I don't understand.’ 

He lays his hands on her shoulders, ‘It will be fine Sansa, you don't have to worry about me.’ 

She pushed his hands away, ‘How can you say that! You can't tell me about an assassination on your life and expect me not to worry!’

‘You don't have to! We’re at King’s Landing, my father will protect us.’

‘ _Us_?’ Both her hands grip the velvet that covers her belly now, ‘What do you- Does Rhaenys... This makes no sense! Why would anyone want you dead?’ 

Tears well up in her eyes and he immediately regrets telling her anything at all, ‘Sansa it will all be fine, I'll protect you, I promise.’ 

Her bottom lip trembles and she shakes her head, ‘We have to tell father!’

‘We don't, he already knows.’ 

‘Does he?’ She pushes his hand away again, angrily, ‘Who else knows? Everyone but me I suspect, as always!’ 

‘No, Sansa please..’ he takes her hand, it trembles in his, ‘I didn't think it- I didn't believe her, at first, but I have to.’ 

‘Why? What do you mean?’ 

‘I've wanted to tell you but I was hoping for a good moment-‘ 

‘To tell me they want to kill you?’ 

‘Nobody is going to kill me.’ He says and he squeezes her hand, ‘You don't have to worry about all that.’ 

‘I'd be a fool if I wouldn't.’ 

‘Just stay away from the Lannisters, stay away from Joffrey and don't do anything stupid.’

‘I'm not the one who just rolled through the mud with my crown prince brother.’ She says and she pulls her hand back. 

‘I can't recommend doing that.’ 

‘What do you expect me to do? Pretend you did not tell me?’ 

‘Maybe,’ he shrugs, ‘I need you to take care of yourself and I need you to trust me. With any luck we can go back to Winterfell in a moon’s turn after our baby comes.’ 

‘This makes no sense.’ She shakes her head, ‘I still don't understand.’ 

‘What not?’

‘Why would anyone want to have you killed? You’ve done no harm to anyone, you are always… you never do anything wrong, everyone _likes_ you.’ 

‘I'm the king’s bastard.’ He says simply, ‘Nobody likes me.’

’Yes they do!’ Sansa’s positively angry now, ‘I hardly ever hear them call you a bastard or a… a natural born son or… They never mention it!’

It still complicates matters a lot.’ 

‘What matters?’ 

‘Matters of succession, mostly.’ 

‘Aegon is the crown prince.’ She says. 

‘Yes.’ Jon says and the fear in her eyes stops him from telling her what Rhaenys said, what Rhaenys wants, he can't bother her with that, not after this, she shouldn't have to worry about any of that, the only thing she should be worrying about is knitting tiny hats for tiny heads, ‘And that’s not going to change.’ 

‘Then why?’ Her eyes scan his face and he places both his hands in her neck, his thumbs rubbing her cheeks.

‘Aegon’s not married, he does not have an heir, we don't really know who his heir will be…’ he says, ‘That’s it, all of it, and as soon as he does-‘

‘He’s engaged to be married.’ She says, ‘He’ll marry the lady Margaery Tyrell.’ 

‘Yes.’ He says, ‘He will and then everyone will leave us alone.’

She doesn't believe him, he understands why, ‘Joffrey will never be king.’ She says, ‘Aegon is-‘

‘Joffrey will never be king.’ That he is certain of, ‘And you and I will be alright.’

She nods, ‘You promise?’

‘Not to get killed?’ 

She smiles suddenly, through her tears and he feels guilty for upsetting her, ‘Promise me you won't get killed.’ 

He pecks her lips, ‘I promise.’

Her smile widens and she wrap her arms around his torso, ‘Thank you for telling me.’ 

He knows how much it means to her that he told her, it's why he did and it's why he left out a major part of it. How can he ever tell her that they lost their first baby because someone didn't want it to be born? He doesn't know when or where or how to ever tell her that, he knows he shouldn't, because it won't help anyone, least of all Sansa.

‘It will be alright Sans,’ he says, ‘Before you know it we’ll be back at Winterfell and we can forget all of this.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, allow me to speak...
> 
> Before you all go down the 'Aegon is such an ass!!!!$!' route... Yes, he is an ass but his own story is more complicated than it may seem. I have sacrificed Aegon's story for Rhaenys's. why is that? Because Daenerys fails to be the so called feminist heroine that people think she is. This has been frustrating me for years (no joke) so I'm writing my own and that is simply a story I preferred telling and was more exited about.  
> Anyways, as I have already said and you hopefully have picked up by now, Aegon is not a ladiesman. He is in love with someone he is not allowed to be in love with and if that's not too much already, the man he loves was banished and he can never see him. His father doesn't allow him to live at Dragonstone and moved Viserys over there because he doesn't trust Aegon to do what he has to do -> be a proper crown prince. Now he is forced to marry someone he doesn't want to marry.  
> Granted, Jon and Sansa didn't want to get married either but they Weren't in love with someone else. Aegon is just really terribly unhappy and yes, he takes that all out on Jon, which is wrong, but do you guys remember what Rhaenys said?  
> Aegon is expected to be the perfect crown prince but he will never be. He is too self-centered and well, gay. Jon on the other hand is much better suited for Aegon's role. If Aegon were the bastard his life would be so much easier because then no one would give a damn about what he does. So he's basically jealous. It's encredibly frustrating for Aegon, everything about Jon frustrates him and what makes it even worse is that Jon himself doesn't even notice because he knows nothing. Jon doesn't notice how his father is so much more impressed by his bastard than he is with his truborn son and heir. If anything this is Rhaegar's greatest flaw. He punishes Aegon instead of trying to help him.  
> Aegon doesn't hate Jon, he doesn't even dislike him because he's happy, he dislikes it that Jon is who he himself is supposed to be. It's a twisted sort of jealousy and only Rhaenys really understands. Cause Rhaenys knows everything. 
> 
> Anyways, sorry about that rant! I just didn't want all of you to think Aegon is a asshole while I don't want to be that person who writes the typical villain. That's basically why I love grrm so much.  
> See you guys Sunday! 
> 
> (Ps. CHRISTMAS IS COMING!!)


	19. The Weak and the Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Rhaenys, can I ask you something?’ Sansa asks. 
> 
> ‘Of course, anything.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beforehand I'd like to say thank you for all the super sweet comments you guys gave me about chapter 18! Thank you! 
> 
> Now, this is an all Sansa chapter, originally it wasn't, Jon's pov moved to chapter 20. The thing is that Sophie Turner made a comment about how Littlefinger and Cersei are the best possible advisors Sansa could possible ever have had and that kinda upset me because well, utter bullshit, so I decided to write a thing where Rhaenys shows what good advisors sound like.

**Sansa**

She is laying awake at night, listening to Jon’s breathing and the ticking of a clock she has never heard before but finds highly annoying out of the sudden. The baby is moving constantly and for the first time Sansa notices it can actually hurt quite a bit, as if it’s kicking against her organs. She rubs her hand over her belly in the hopes of soothing the baby but it's not helping.

She turns a bit but that doesn't do much good either, no matter how she lays down there's always a weight somewhere that presses on a place she doesn't want it to. 

She feels so desperate all of the sudden and she feels an urge to cry but she blinks her eyes to stop herself. 

She wants to kick Jon awake so he can rub her back but decides not to because she's glad he's finally sleeping, he's having trouble finding it lately.

She turns back to her side and decides to officially give up on sleeping on her back, she can't breath when she tries. She lays her hands on her abdomen, not at the top of her belly but below, it's as if it's a bag of potatoes she is trying to hold up.

_Please go to sleep, please._

The baby has been so good to her, ever since Sansa knew the baby was there he or she has only been good to her. Carrying a child gave Sansa shiny hair, a glowing skin and enough happiness to last a lifetime. Her breasts only hurt sometimes and they have grown and are so firm and perky that they make Sansa feel terribly feminine, as feminine as her wide hips and her fuller thighs. The baby kicks to let her mother know she’s there, she kicks when Sansa sings to her, when Sansa strokes her belly, when Sansa tells her she can't wait to meet her, she and Jon both. She is so exited, and she counts days. 

Tonight the baby is being horrible to her and Sansa feels betrayed, she wonders what she did wrong to deserve it. 

A little foot presses against Sansa's skin and she can see it move upwards. She rubs her finger over the slight swell and it disappears again. She feels as restless as her baby. Determined to bring her baby to sleep she gets up from the bed, pulls on a nightdress and starts pacing through the room, carefully making sure Jon doesn't wake up. It doesn't work. Her baby moves even more and Jon opens his eyes. 

‘Sans, get back in the bed.’ 

‘She won't go to sleep.’ 

‘You’re keeping it awake by walking around.’ He shifts his head on the pillow to make it more comfortable. 

‘No I'm not!’ What does he know about it? He knows nothing about it, ‘It’s as if I'm rocking her to sleep.’ 

‘If you say so.’ She hates it when people say that, she hates it most of all when he says it. She wants to tell him she hates it when he says it but she needs him to rub her back. 

‘Will you please rub my back?’ 

He doesn't respond as enthusiastically as she would like but sits upright all the same and she walks back to the bed and moves to sit between his legs in his lap, her back towards his front. 

He moves his thumbs along her shoulder blades and finally she feels some relief. 

‘Better?’

‘Yes, thank the gods.’ 

‘Thank you, _Jon_.’ He says and she makes an uncomfortable arm movement to pinch him in the face, he ducks away and laughs, ‘You’re a violent woman now.’ 

‘You would be too if you had a thing inside of you dancing a folk dance all night.’ 

He laughs a little louder now, ‘I highly doubt you know anything about folk dances, lady Stark.’ 

‘Not me, your child.’ 

He presses a soft kiss to her neck and burrows his face in the crook of it. She closes her eyes at the warmth of his breath and his fingers digging between her ribs.

‘Mother wrote me,’ she tells him suddenly, ‘Your father is making my aunt give up her son to Lord Tywin Lannister. She believes it to be cruel.’ 

‘Yes, he wants Tywin to foster lord Arryn.’ 

‘You agree?’

‘Agree with what?’

‘To rip a child from his mother’s lap and place it in the hands of the Lannisters, of all people?’

‘Do you think I have a say in any of this?’ 

‘No.’ she says, ‘But your father is sending Tyrion Lannister to the Vale to pick the boy up, I thought maybe you could talk to him and-‘

‘Tyrion is doing nothing more but what my father and his father tell him to do, there is nothing I can say to him that would make a difference.’ 

Sansa knows he's right but something still makes her feel sad for her aunt, ‘How would you like it, if they took my child from me and put it in the care of someone else, without my consent? Far away from me?’ 

‘Your father grew up in the Eyrie and I grew up at Winterfell. Fostering is not necessarily a bad thing.’ 

‘Don't say that. Not when I compared it to us.’

‘You can't compare it us, no one is ever going to take your child away from you, ever.’ 

‘I still think it's cruel.’ 

She knows he smiles, ‘I think you are maybe right.’ 

‘Maybe?’

‘You don't know Lysa Arryn the way I do, Sansa.’ He says. 

‘She is my aunt.’ 

‘And when was the last time you saw her?’

There is only one answer to that question, ‘I've never met her.’ 

‘Traditionally the lord of the Vale is the warden of the east, but Lysa Arryn is not fit to raise a man for that kind of power.’

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘She is…’ he thinks about what to say for a moment and she wishes she could see his face but she knows turning around will be killing to her back and she prefers her comfort, ‘Emotionally unstable.’

‘How?’

‘She was… well she was always very unhappy here.’ 

‘Everyone is unhappy here.’ 

He grins and presses his nose to her temple and his grin makes her smile and turn her face towards him so she can finally look at him, ‘Not _everyone_ , just most people.’

‘I still think it's cruel.’ She decides, no one can prove her wrong there. 

‘You’re right, but I can't do much about it, I'm sorry.’

‘I just imagine what it must be like, to have an imp knock on your door, demanding your only child, see it taken away from you and there's nothing you can do about it…’ 

‘That will never happen to you.’ Jon assures her.

‘Will I be able to stop them? Or will I be like aunt Lysa?’ 

‘You will never be like your aunt Lysa.’ 

‘Because no one would want to foster a bastard’s son or because you will never allow anyone to take our child away from me?’

He grins, ‘A combination of both, I think.’ Then he shakes his head, ‘This is about the lord of Arryn, who has no family but very distant, our child will have plenty of Stark uncles.’

She smiles again and moves backwards with him when he lays down again, his hand still rubbing her back, though softly now, and she lays her head on his shoulder, her belly forcing her to keep some distance from him. 

‘Is he sleeping?’ He asks and she doesn't tell him it's a ‘she’ when he moves his hand to pull the fur over her bump, ‘it's cold in here.’

‘I'm alright,’ she says, she doesn't mind the cold, she's from the north, and when she needs to burry herself deep underneath the furs in her bed it makes her feel like she's home, like they are back in their room of bliss in Winterfell, ‘I think she’s finally sleeping.’ 

‘You’re getting fat.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘You’re going to burst.’ 

‘I'm not.’ 

‘You’ll pop open.’ 

‘If only it will be that easy.’ 

‘You’re scared?’ He asks and suddenly she wonders if he is. He could be, she decides that he has to be, with his mother and him being the way he is. 

‘No.’ it's an honest answer, ‘No I can do it, I know I can.’ 

‘I know you can too.’ He always tries to convince himself by convincing her.

‘Mother says most women change their mind when it happens and the pain starts but she has warned me before and she wasn't always right.’

‘Warned you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Of what?’

‘Men mostly.’ She grins and grips his shirt in her hand to move herself closer to him, ‘You too.’ 

‘Me?’

‘Yes of course.’ He frowns at her and she kisses his nose to reassure him, ‘I'll be alright. You won't even notice, it'll be over before you know it and then you can come to me and I'll present you our child.’ 

‘You make it sound like you have thought it through.’

‘Of course I have, what else do you think I have been doing all this time?’

‘Knitting.’ 

She laughs, ‘Yes, knitting too.’ 

‘And growing out of your dresses so you can get new ones.’ 

‘You’re an ass, you know I don't do that on purpose.’

He just smiles and she knows he’s sinking back to sleep again and the sight is very endearing. 

She still can't sleep, her baby is still awake, knocking against the walls around her and it makes Sansa winch. She feels the urge to move but she knows it won't help and as she traces her fingers over Jon’s cheek and rubs his stubble she refuses to let the baby force her out of her safe heaven in his arms. 

She is finally drifting off to sleep when the sun is already rising, the birds are loudly awakening and she can hear the sailors in the far distance set upon their travel. 

Her eyes are sinking and at last she can stop stroking her belly when her baby stops fighting. 

Then there is a loud bang on their door, one that reminds Sansa of their first morning waking up in this room, yet it's different, it's more desperate, it scares her. 

Jon shoots up in the bed and moves in front of her as if there may be a killer in the room ready to stab them. Aside from the knocking, they are still alone and he relaxes a bit. 

It's still so early that even Jon hasn't woken up yet, it makes Sansa wonder how early it must be exactly. 

‘Who’s that?’ She whispers and he looks at her sideways but doesn't answer. He doesn't tell her to ignore it like he did last time. He doesn't tell her he doesn't care. He gets up from the bed and bare chested opens the door. 

Sansa lifts the fur up to her chin, her cotton nightgown is thin and it’s tight around her belly and her breasts, there is little she fits perfectly lately, she’s growing like a horse. She doesn't want the, as for now, stranger to see her like this, the memory of Aegon standing next to their bed with a crossbow in his arms still keeps her awake at night. 

‘My lord, you have to come.’

‘What in the seven hells is going on?’ Jon's not angry, he seems confused and maybe a little scared too, Sansa feels scared, judging by the voice the man uses she should be. 

‘Something with your brother, my lord.’ Sansa finally recognizes the voice that belongs to Ser Barristan.

‘My bro- which one?’ 

‘The prince of Dragonstone my lord, you better come quickly, they requested you.’ 

‘What did he do? What happened?’ 

The knight doesn't answer but keeps urging on, ‘You should hurry, my lord.’ 

When Jon turns around Sansa has already gotten up and wrapped her nightdress around herself, ‘Is someone hurt?’ She asks.

‘I'm afraid so, my lady.’ 

‘What did he do?’ Jon asks again but the man can only shake his head.

You better see it for yourself.’ 

Sansa wishes she'd never had to see it. 

When she refused to listen to Jon when he tried to make her stay in her room she should have listened, but he listened to her and she made him take her with him and they followed the knight to the prince’s rooms. His hand sweaty in hers, holding it too tightly, she tried to squeeze it back but she was too tired.

Sansa has never seen a dead man in her entire life. The one who tried to assassin Bran was dying when she last saw him, but when he was truly gone they lifted a blanket over his remains. 

Her father always took the boys with him when he was forced to execute and take a man’s life, but never her or Arya, never the girls. She always imagined dead men to look like sleeping ones, except with no breathing. 

Aegon is not breathing, and the figure of the man next to him isn't either. They lay still, next to each other, one sits on the sofa, multiple arrows decorate his chest, the other lays down, his head in the other’s lap. If you only saw the back of their heads they could appear to look relaxed and at ease. 

Dead men don't look like they’re sleeping, they look like they’re dead. Aegon looks like he’s been dead for quite some time. 

He’s wearing fine clothes, his hair is neat and as silvery as always but his eyes are open, they stare right ahead, their beautiful purple colour empty as they look at nothing. He is motionless, leaning forward and bleeding from the mouth. He is all white, seems ice-cold, and already quite rigid. 

Before Aegon on the tea table stands a crystal glass and a mirror that shows Sansa her own reflection, her eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent gasp, her hand gripping the silk of her nightdress at her belly, shielding her baby from any possible view.

Sansa doesn’t recognize the other man but he looks just as dressed-up, his clothes fine and rich and his face is handsome. He is dead too and his fine clothes are ruined by all the blood that drips down to the floor where it ends in a puddle. 

The sight doesn't frighten Sansa nearly as much as the sounds of Rhaenys’s weeping. She pulls her brother from the sofa in her lap and holds his head between her hands. She screams and yells, roaring like a wounded animal, yells and Sansa has never seen a woman so distraught. 

‘No, he can't leave me! Not him, please no, not him too! Aegon please!’ she shakes him as if she tries to wake him up, as if she doesn't believe he really is dead, as if she's trying to check.

Sansa never believed she would ever see an emotion this sincere on Rhaenys’s face but the way she looks now slides right through Sansa’s heart, as sharp as a just forged sword.

As Sansa is pulled against the chest of her father Jon gets angry with the small council. She has hardly ever seen him so openly frustrated in front of people he doesn't think he is allowed to get angry with. 

‘Where is the king? Someone tell the king!’

'We declared that only the queen is fit to tell the king such catastrophic news.’ Littlefinger says.

‘What? Have you lost your mind!’ Just when she thinks Jon cannot look more frustrated than he already does she starts to imagine he may burst from his skin, ‘He must be informed, immediately!’

‘We have, my lord, this early in the morrow. We went to the queen who was already with his grace and was rather impatient with the interruption. Then the king replied that we must wait and come back later.’

‘Then who told him? Where is he now?’

‘ I insisted that we must be received immediately, and we broke the news to the queen, who then told the king in private.’

‘But has he… does he know how? Does he know where he is?’

‘He already knows, he knows it all my lord, he doesn't want to see, he is a broken man, he is not coming.’ 

‘How… what… I cannot-‘

‘A clear case of poison my lord, it seems he took it voluntarily, after shooting down the other.’ Maester Pycelle says and he and Littlefinger seem to be the two least effected by the atmosphere of death, they can't manage to put an apologetic frown on their face. 

‘Poison?’

‘Three pinches of Sweetsleep, I predict, the taste is like sugar. It’s quick and painless, over before you know it, in general is leaves no trace but I suspect the prince took a bit too much.’ 

‘A-a bit t-too much?’ Jon sputters, he seems disgusted by the details and looks down at his sister, hugging her brother’s corpse, weeping uncontrollably.

‘Someone must help him! Someone has to… please Aegon please…’ 

'We wanted to wake him for the hunt, he wanted to hunt ducks, he wanted to wake early…’ ser Barristan tells them, ‘When his man went to wake him there was no answer, he called for me and I joined him but there was still no response. Then we tried to force the door but it would not give.’

‘I understand.’ 

‘We smashed in a panel with an axe to find the room shuttered and half-dark.’

‘Why isn't the king-‘

‘He should see what he did!’ Rhaenys declares loudly, her face covered in tears, her hair an entangled mess, her hands red with blood, ‘It's his fault, he did this… he knew he wanted to.. I knew it, I always knew it, I can't… I should've stopped it….’

Her maids try to pull her up but she hits them and tells them not to touch her.

‘If any of you touch me again I’ll have all your heads on spikes!’ 

Frightened they back away. It is only when Jon moves over to her and lifts her in his arms that she lets go of their brother and succumbs. 

‘I'll take her to her rooms.’ He says and he looks at Littlefinger, who stands in the room, looking startled, ‘Do something about the bodies.’ 

Rhaenys sobs against his shoulder, wetting his shirt and grabs it with her fists, she doesn't speak, she doesn't continue her rambling about who’s fault this is, she doesn't hesitate nor protest. 

‘Bring Sansa back to my bedchamber.’ He tells Ned and Sansa feels nervous.

‘No, I want to stay with you…’

‘Sansa please, just… I need you to go to my room, please, I'll come to you.’ 

She feels her father pull on her upper arm and she lets him take her out of the room as she makes one last look across her shoulder at Jon who is still holding Rhaenys as she burries her face in his shirt, hiding it away from view. 

Sansa wonders if this will be the worst thing she'll ever have to witness, she hopes it will be, she cannot imagine what could possibly be worse than this. 

‘Who was that man?’ It takes her a long time to find a voice that can speak the many words she wants to say. 

‘That man was Renley Baratheon.’ 

‘The last Baratheon?’ 

Sansa looks at her father as he very clearly avoids her eyes. Renley Baratheon. Robert’s younger brother. Robert, the man prince Rhaegar killed at the Trident, her father’s childhood friend. 

‘Not anymore.’ 

‘Why was he… I don't understand.’ 

‘You don't always have to.’ 

‘Because I am a woman?’ 

Ned stops and looks at her, ‘No,’ he says and she instantly believes him despite expecting not to, ‘Because sometimes knowing makes things worse.’ 

‘Not knowing can be the worst.’ She says, ‘I know one thing, and that is that all of you think you can keep secrets from me. You do it all the time, you and Jon both, and more people, most people. You think I'll get hurt or I'll be upset or maybe I'll worry. I don't mind worrying, I'm not stupid.’

‘Nobody thinks you’re stupid, sweet girl.’ 

_sweet girl… you do not think I am stupid, you think I am weak, but I am not, I am like my lady mother, I am a she-wolf, I am proud and as clever as Rhaenys._

‘I am not a child.’ She says, ‘And I see the way you exchange looks sometimes, when you have said too much or almost a thing, I can see the way you look at me and hope I did not hear or don't notice. I do notice, I am as blind as I am stupid.’ 

‘Sansa…’

‘Why was that man in there? Why are they dead? _how_?’

‘I don't know.’ He sounds sincere and she believes he would never lie to her, ‘I was not there. I don't know what happened but I do know that those two people loved each other very deeply.’ 

‘They loved each other?’ 

Ned nods, ‘And they were never allowed to be together.’ 

She wants to not believe it, but after everything Jon told her of his brother, she knows she has little choice, ‘Now they are dead.’ 

It wasn't a question yet he answers with a, ‘Yes.’

‘Did they… they ended it themselves did they not?’

‘Yes, Aegon did.’

‘With poison?’ 

‘Aegon died of poison.’

‘Why would he shoot arrows at a man he loves?’ Sansa may not know much but she knows you don't kill the people you love, you protect them, that is all you want to do. 

‘Because they wanted to die, they wanted to end it.’

‘End what?’ 

Ned takes a moment to consider his answer, ‘The suffering.’ He decides. 

‘Because they were not allowed to be together.’ Again it's not a question. 

‘It sounds like a tragic song does it not?’

She has to agree, she has often heard many songs about loves like that; separated by duty, wanting an end to the longing and the pain. Songs about those lovers who would rather be together in eternity than apart in this life and wait for the one beyond. Some songs like that may have made her cry at a certain time. 

‘Yet no one will ever sing a song about their love, except maybe those who work in taverns and whorehouses.’

Her father puts her to bed like he once used to do almost every night. He pulls the covers over her trembling body and pecks her forehead.

‘You should rest, try to rest sweetling.’ 

Sansa nods but she knows she won't. Her baby is finally as peacefully quiet and calm as a mouse, but she still can't sleep. She lays wide awake while her baby dreams of a world it has never seen before.

‘Stay inside please, inside of me where there is no pain. You should stay as long as you possibly can.’ It's an advice, perhaps Jon’s right and she cannot hear her, but if he’s wrong then at least she said it, ‘The world is cruel, you do not want to see it.’ 

Jon promised he would come to her, but he never does. She lays awake in his bed for hours on end, not trying to move out, not feeling any urge to try. She is waiting for him no matter how she knows he won't come. 

When Sansa finally falls asleep she sinks in a dark hole where there are arrows shooting at her, they miss but there is still a puddle of blood. Lady is howling, Ghost is growling and her father tells them both to keep quite because the king can't think when there is too much noise. The king needs to think, he needs to hear his own voice in his head, if he doesn't, all will be lost.

When she wakes again it’s dark in the room, she thinks her maid may have closed the curtains but she hasn't, it's night. Maybe it's in the middle of it, perhaps merely the beginning. Either way the bed is not empty and cold beside her, Ghost is laying on Jon’s side of the bed, carefully keeping an eye on her as if Jon told him to.

Sansa curls up closer to his side of the bed and pulls a pillow to her chest to fill the empty painful loneliness that suddenly creeps in and she doesn't quite understands where it comes from. Sansa is not used to laying alone in a bed anymore, not when the sky is dark.

.

‘Rhaenys?’

Sansa walks into the room, all dark and dreary and so miserable. It looks like a room that has been the hiding place of a lost soul for four whole days now. Four whole days since Rhaenys held her dying brother in her arms, kneeled to the floor, screaming in terror. 

Sansa wonders how many memories came back to her four days ago. How many and which one exactly. Everyone knows which one.

‘Rhaenys it's me.’ 

Rhaenys is curled up in her bed, Sansa wonders if her muscles are already hurting of all the laying down.

Her hair is spread out over her white pillow and it doesn't emphasize the gold color much. Sansa sits down on the side of the bed and strokes the gold locks from Rhaenys’s face. She opens her eyes but doesn't give a notion that she notices Sansa’s presence. With her pale skin the only pop of color on her are her blue eyes.

‘Let me help you get dressed, please?’ 

‘I'd rather not.’ 

‘I think you should.’ 

‘I'm proving them all right.’ Rhaenys says, ‘With my tears. I proof them right.’

Sansa moves her hand to Rhaenys’s arm, ‘I know you haven't asked for me here but I- you ought to come out of your room. I'm worried about you.’

Rhaenys doesn't respond again. 

‘Please?’ Sansa tries once more, ‘I know that Jon is worried about you too.’ 

Rhaenys doesn't look at her, continues to stare. 

‘I know Jon's worried about you.’

Some tears appear in the corner of Rhaenys’s eyes but she doesn't shed them, ‘Worried? What can possibly happen to me while I'm here? They have always wanted me to shut up and sit still, to not be a bother to them. Now I do just that and they _worry_.’

‘You're unhappy.’ Sansa whispers and she squeezes Rhaenys’s arm, ‘You’re not you.’ 

Rhaenys finally looks at her, up at her face, bloodshot eyes stare back and they almost scare Sansa. Where is her powerful sister-in-law? Opinionated and fierce? Judgemental, manipulative and the cleverest person she knows?

‘I want to help you.’

Rhaenys moves her hand to cover Sansa’s, ‘You're a sweet girl.’ She says, ‘You really are. They'll take advantage of that.’

Sansa gulps. Rhaenys has told her something of the same before, but not like this, it's an insult wrapped in a compliment. 

'Come.’ She says and Rhaenys lets her help her get up from the bed, ‘Ill help you get dressed.’

Rhaenys grabs a book from the table and stares out at the dark waters of the narrow sea, her thumbs stroking the leather cover of the Seven Pointed Star. 

‘All they expect us to show them is weakness, Sansa.’ Rhaenys tells her after Sansa pulled her nightgown off, ‘That is exactly why we cannot be weak. One sign of weakness and we are lost.’ 

‘Everyone is weak sometimes.’

‘They'll attack you like a hawk when they see only a hint of weakness or doubt. True weakness, that is. Not the act, the act of weakness takes strength too.’

‘You can't always be strong.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Rhaenys squeezes Sansa's hand, ‘But I have to try.’

Once Sansa has helped her in her pitch black dress and fastened her equally black hairnet she sits down in a chair close to the window, still the book in her hands. 

She makes a head gesture towards the seat in front of her.

‘Sit, Sansa, I have to tell you something.’ 

The last thing Sansa expected was a lecture, an advice. She wonders why she did not expect that. It's all Rhaenys ever does. Sansa sits down in front of her and Rhaenys takes both her hands in hers. Her fingers are cold and her nails dig in the back of Sansa hands. 

‘Sansa, women in our society are thought to be the weaker sex. Have you ever realized how this gives us many opportunities?’

Rhaenys told her men are idiots before, but she never made it seem like a good thing, ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘It makes them underestimate us. They are fools for underestimating us.’ Rhaenys looks at their hands entangled, ‘Let them think you're weak, you know better than that and it's all that matters.’

Sansa watches her for a second, ‘You think I am strong?’

Rhaenys sounds almost angry when she says, ‘Of course I do! All women are strong. Even Cersei. We have to be, they force us.’

‘They?’

‘Men. They don't think we are as clever and as strong as they are, never mind the amount of times we have proven them wrong. We'll always be brooding mares in their eyes.’ 

Sansa wants to grip her belly, the silks of her dress, ‘I am emotional.’ She whispers.

‘I know that. Being emotional or vulnerable doesn't make you weak.’ 

‘I don't want to be weak.’

‘Then don't be. Weakness is a choice. You can choose to be stronger and better and smarter than they are.’ 

Sansa lets go of Rhaenys’s hands, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you could come with me outside, we could walk in Myrcella’s garden and you could get some light on your skin, to leave this room would be-‘

‘Is my uncle coming for the wake?’

‘Viserys?’

Rhaenys nods.

‘No, but Daenerys is.’ 

Rhaenys looks away and presses her lips together in disapproval, ‘Gods be good that man is a curse.’ 

‘You would not have wanted him there.’

‘If only this would all be about what I want.’ 

‘Don't you want to go outside?’

‘There's too much wind.’ Rhaenys says, ‘It either gives you the opportunity to think or a headache.’ 

‘Maybe you could eat something.’ Sansa offers, ‘Some cheese? Or bread or some milk, something light. Would you like some lemon cakes?’ 

‘I hate Viserys.’ Rhaenys mutters, ‘One day he may kill us all.’

‘I don't believe that.’ Sansa says.

‘I do.’ Rhaenys looks up at her, ‘I’ve never before said it because people tend to think I'm joking but it's only because I praise loudly and curse softly.’ 

'I don't think you're joking.’ 

A smile creeps in on Rhaenys’s face, ‘Is that what you tell Jon at night?’ 

‘No.’ Sansa says, ‘No I tell him that there is no shame in sadness.’

‘Sadness and feebleness are not at all the same.’ Rhaenys says and it's almost as if she's singing. 

‘Rhaenys…’

‘I will be as strong as a man, I'll be a dragon, that is what I will do, what I must do.’ She looks down at her book and shakes her head, ‘The Gods will forgive me, that is what they must do.’

‘You don't need forgiveness, Rhaenys.’

‘You don't understand.’ Rhaenys tells her, ‘You did not know him, you never knew my brother, no one did. No one but me and I should have saved him, I failed to protect my family because I was a fool, I am blind and stupid.’

‘You are not stupid.’ 

‘I should've stopped it. That was my duty, to make him see… to safe him from himself.’

‘Rhaenys..’

‘He was so unhappy. He killed himself a little more everyday. I saw it, I looked away because I couldn’t stand to see it but I saw it all the same.’ More tears stream down her face and her voice falters, ‘I failed.’

‘You did not-‘

‘He told me. He told me he wanted to end it so often, he told our father. Father said he was only giving us threats but I knew… I always knew. Aegon never lies, the only thing he ever did was challenge us all to bring out the worst in him.’

‘It's not your fault. It wasn’t you who made him unhappy.’

‘I could've tried to safe him. It was my duty to make him understand that giving up is not an option. People like us don't give up.’ 

‘Perhaps he-‘

‘Remember that, Sansa.’ Rhaenys says and she pushes her book away, ‘People like us don't give up, never.’ 

‘People like us?’

Rhaenys doesn't explain, only nods, ‘We don't give up and we never ever give them what they want.’

‘What they want?’

‘Once you know what they want you know how to treat them, you know what to give them and what not to give them. Most importantly you know if you can trust them. So long as you can give them what they want they will not betray you, but as soon as their interests change or someone else offers them something better, something more..’

‘What do they want?’ 

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘Different things. Some men want whores, some want pretty things, most want power and almost all of them want money. Some men want love, others adventure, or attention, some like to kill things, some like to kill innocents. Some want little girls, some want little boys, some want pretty ladies like you, those are very dangerous, you must stay away from them. Some want everything. Some men want no one to tell them what to do or what to want. Aegon wanted to be free, like my father, they were alike in that. The difference was that my father learned to accept his chains. Aegon never accepted it.’

‘That is why he died?’

‘No.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He died because he couldn't stand it anymore.’

‘It?’

‘The pressure. Everyone expected too much of him.’ 

‘Did he not want to be king?’

‘That is the odd thing, you see? Most men would only dare dream of sitting on the Iron Throne. Yet those who have sat on it and were good, truly good, selfless and just, courageous, wise, strong, fierce… they only sat on it because they had no choice. Power can be best left in the hands of those who do not desire it.’ 

‘You really believe that?’

‘I know that.’ Rhaenys looks at her piercingly now, ‘Nothing kills a man, nothing changes him as much as a hunger for power. There is nothing in this world as dangerous as a hunger for power, especially when it comes from people who are not afraid to use violence to get what they want. That person is Cersei. Putting Joffrey on the throne will be a violent act.’

‘You don't want Joffrey to be king?’ Of course Rhaenys doesn't, it’s a stupid question and perhaps that is why why it is left unanswered. 

'He's not our brother. Has Jon told you that? He's not.'

Sansa bites her lowerlip, 'He hasn't specifically said it but... I have heard many whisper it behind their hands.'

Rhaenys shakes her head and then leans forward, ‘Tell me Sansa, honestly, do you think I want to be queen?’ 

‘I-I don't know, I've never given it much thought.’ 

‘You must be the only one who hasn't.’ 

‘Do you want to be queen?’

‘Gods no.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I would be dreadfully unhappy. Like my father.’

‘Then who do you want to be king?’ 

‘Someone who knows that the throne has never belonged to anyone. The throne is not ours by right, it was given to us to protect the weak and uphold the good. The protector of the realm must be someone who knows the peasants don't care. They don't pray for us, they pray for rain and a summer that never ends. It is they we rule over, they that suffer when we play the game of thrones.’

‘I don't want to play the game.’ 

‘Yes you do.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Would you rather be a chess piece on a board?’ 

‘Being a chess piece brought me and Jon together.’ 

‘You must pray it won't pull you apart.’ 

‘I pray that every day.’ 

‘that is the funny thing about kings.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Sometimes it's not your own happiness you should strive for.’

‘Isn't it?’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘My father knows that more than anyone. He learned the hard way… he really did. Jon knows it, too. It's what could make him a good king.’ 

‘Jon doesn't want to be king.’ And before Sansa can finish the sentence the realization of what she says grips her by the throat. 

‘I know that.’

‘Do you want Jon to be king?’ Sansa asks.

‘It is not about what I want or what he wants. The Gods placed us in our seats because they had faith we would do what is right. To choose those more important over ourselves. Because we are smart enough to realize that it is not about our own desires. I suspect you'll learn that when you have a child.’ 

‘A child?’

‘I'll never have children.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I suppose in many ways our people are my children, and their happiness is more important than mine. Once your child is placed in your arms everything you do, everything you want and plan and decide, it all revolves around your child.’ 

‘That is a good thing.’

‘Oh yes, it is. I pray it will give you guidance to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing?’ 

‘We always assume it's so terribly obvious to know what the right thing is, but the cruel truth is that it's not. What is right is often hard or difficult to find. Never mind the wrong.’ 

‘The wrong?’ 

‘Is disguised as right so often. You need to know who you can trust. Sansa. That is more important than anything. My father always says that the only man who is more a fool than the one who trusts everyone is the one who trusts no one. We cannot live our lives on our own, we need each other. To fight away the darkness.’ She grabs Sansa hands again and leans forward to her, ‘We cannot trust the Lannisters.’

‘I know.’ They have told her so often. Jon, her father, her mother, Rhaenys…

‘Never do, never trust any of them.’

‘I won't.’ 

‘Swear it to me.’

‘I swear it to you.’ 

She nods, ‘Remember who you are, where you come from.’ 

‘Winterfell.’ Sansa breathes.

‘You're a Stark. Jon is a Targaryen. You carry the blood of both in your womb. They hate you for it.’ 

Sansa wants to tell Rhaenys that Jon is not a Targaryen, that he is a Stark, just like she is, like their child will be, but she knows that no matter how badly people may not want it, there is truth in what she says. 

‘The villain is a hero from the other side.’

‘A villain?’

‘No one ever believes that what they're doing is wrong. There is no such thing as pure evil. Yet actions can be just that. Actions and what comes after…’ 

‘You look so tired, do you sleep well?'

‘I'll sleep when I am dead.’ Rhaenys says, ‘As dead as Aegon.’ 

‘Rhaenys… you are not dead and I did not know the prince very well but he wouldn't want you to behave like this, to let yourself rot away in the darkness.‘

Rhaenys shakes her head and more silent teardrops fall down and join the rest on her cheeks, ‘I used to call him Egg when we were little. He was never much of an Aegon.’ She wipes her tears away and Sansa moves over to sit next to her on her small sofa, so she can wrap an arm around her, ‘We have lived through it all together, you see. He was the one I held in my arms when my mother’s heart stopped beating. He was so small… I was too yet I remember everything. Curious is it not? I don't believe I remember anything of my fifth year or my fourth but when I was three… the Gods are cruel for making you remember the things you want to forget.’ 

That is cruel.’ 

‘Perhaps they do it on purpose. Perhaps they don't want me to forget. They want me to remember what they did to me, to my mother. Perhaps they think it could make me _stronger_ …’

‘Rhaenys…’ Sansa breaths, ‘No one believes you are weak. You are the strongest person I know. You may be a woman but your heart beats strong like a man.’ 

Rhaenys looks at Sansa, ‘I envy you. Your conscious is clean. You fear nothing.’ 

‘I fear everything!’ 

‘Not the real thing. Not the judgement of the seven. You have nothing to fear there. I pray it won't change, for your sake.’ 

‘You don't know that.’

‘I do.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And it does not matter because you can trust me, I am your sister. But you cannot trust everyone. Don't trust those whose faith and silence you have not already tested.’ Rhaenys is the sister Sansa always wanted so dearly. She's nothing like Arya, everything Sansa once aspired to be. 

‘I don't need to trust many people, I have you and Jon and father.’ 

‘Does that seem enough?’ 

‘It is plenty.’ 

Rhaenys nods, ‘Good.’ 

‘Rhaenys lets go outside.’ Sansa says and she moves her hand to her sister's wrist, ‘Please?’

Rhaenys still has tears on her cheeks but she nods, ‘If that is your wish.’ 

‘It is.’ Sansa says and as she gets up she pulls Rhaenys along, ‘It will do you good.’

Sansa takes Rhaenys with her outside and it does seem to make her feel better. Though she doesn't look like her usual self, her back is straight and the sunlight almost makes her appear healthy. 

‘Thank you.’ She whispers suddenly.

'For what?’

‘For listening to me. Not everyone always listens to me.’

‘Don't ever thank me for such things.’ 

‘You shouldn't walk this much, with all the extra weight.’ 

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I don’t mind. I’m sick of the Red Keep, it feels like a prison sometimes.’ 

Rhaenys smiles a little again, ‘Imagine how that must be like to the people who spend their childhood behind these golden bars.’

‘Aegon?’

‘And Jon too. Though he was the lucky one. He was twelve when he came here. He spend his youth in a northern castle surrounded by happy faces and the cold and took strength from that when he was forced to become a man in King’s Landing.’

‘You always tell him he is just a boy. You tell him to grow up and become a man.’

‘I hope it will make him pity himself less, but if truth must be told he became a man the day he married you.’ 

‘It is sweet of you to say so.’

‘Sansa…’ she sighs, ‘Sweet words don't always come from sweet lips. When the truth is sweet it doesn't mean the intention behind it is.’

‘But you are sweet to me.’ 

‘Perhaps but when I tell you that you are the one who turned my little brother in a dutiful man I am not being _sweet_ , I speak the truth.’ 

‘I still think it's kind of you to think so.’

Rhaenys almost looks angry then, 'You don't want to hear it, do you? I tell Jon all the time, tell him he protects you too much, that he should tell you more, that you're smart and capable- but you don't want to hear it. Maybe that is the problem, not him. You use your curtesy like an iron shield and when the truth is spread out to you it's you who volunteers to be deaf. You blankly refuse to accept the reality of things because you enjoy your happy and pleasant world of rainbows and sunshine.'

Sansa doesn't understand what she means but she feels her cheeks redden, 'I know Jon doesn't tell me everything.'

'He doesn't.' Rhaenys admits, 'Because he wants to shield you from all the awful things about life.'

'That is only... it's sweet of him, to want to protect me, he means well, he... it's hard for him to talk, to speak and to... he's not used to talking, he outlearned it when he was here-'

'So it's King's Landing's fault?'

Sansa shakes her head, 'That's not what I mean he... he never knows what words to use and he thinks that when he doesn't mention it it's not there.'

'That's stupid.' Rhaenys insists, 'It is here, and keeping you in the dark won't protect you, it will only make the shock greater when your bubble bursts.'

'You are too hard on him.'

'Someone must be! You won't do it, nor will father and lord Stark definitely won't. Sansa...' Rhaenys sighs, 'At one point you have to stop making the same mistake over and over again. Weakness is a choice, remember? And mistakes are human, but refusing to learn from them is unacceptable.'

'What mistakes?'

Rhaenys scans her face and the harshness disappears from her face, 'Sansa... You should- do me a favor and tell him the truth, hmm? Tell him what you want from him and what you think he should do. I believe he'll listen.'

Sansa's head must have the color of a tomato now, 'He means well, I know that all he does is because he believes it's the best thing for me- all he ever does.'

Rhaenys smiles then, though it's a bitter smile, ‘Oh heavens, what must become of you? The two of you? Such romantics. Only the Gods know.’

‘Rhaenys, can I ask you something?’ Sansa asks. 

‘Of course, anything.’ 

‘Have you ever been in love?’ 

‘With the idea of things or with a man?’ 

‘A man of course.’ 

‘Thank the Gods I haven't.’ 

Sansa smiles and stops. The arm in Rhaenys's keeps the princess from walking as well and they both stand still, facing each other, the vague sound of a distant fountain in the distance, ‘Love is sweet. It keeps you warm and safe. There are no bad concequences to loving fully, there's only gain. You have been teaching me, I know you have and I'm grateful but there is one thing I know more of than you do and you must allow me to tell you that love is a weakness and it is not wrong. It is what makes it all worth it, the suffering and the pain, it helps you to get through such things, to come out stronger. Love is good. Being loved by a man is good. Jon makes me feel like a woman, there is no harm in desire.’ 

‘Im afraid I lost faith in men twenty years ago when they showed me what desire can make them do.’ 

‘That was not desire. That was cruelty. True desire takes your breath away.’ 

‘You asked me if I've ever been in love, not if I've ever loved.’ 

‘They are not at all the same.’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘What I feel for Jon is extraordinary. I love him unconditionally. You told me once that there a few things in life that are worth fighting for, a man who loves you is among these things.’ 

‘It comes down to the same thing.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Putting the safety and happiness of others before your own.’ 

‘And that is weakness?’ 

‘No, that is strength.’ 

‘Then how can you thank the Gods for never having loved anyone? Like we ought to love men, some of them, with desire and affection and worry.’ 

‘Because men are idiots, Sansa.’ 

Sansa smiles, ‘Not all of them!’ 

‘You are not allowed to say that, you are in love with the biggest idiot of them all.’ 

Sansa presses her lips together to hide her smile. She wholeheartedly disagrees but it won't help to say it. She knows Rhaenys doesn't mean it, yet still… 

‘Jon is not an idiot, he is lost, that is all.’ And she wishes he'd allow her to take his hand and help him find his way. 

‘Is there anything worse than being lost?’

‘Being alone.’ Sansa says immediately, that she is certain of.

‘Yes, that really must be the most terrible thing.’ 

Sansa looks sideways and sees Jon stand there, alone, as if he was looking for them. When she catches his eyes she knows he was looking for them. They told him she took Rhaenys outside for a stroll and he probably panicked. 

‘You look dreadful.’ Rhaenys calls loudly when he approaches. She has no right to say it, no one looks as dreadful as Rhaenys, with her bloodshot eyes. 

Jon ignores her and lays his hand on Sansa's upper arm, ‘You ought not to walk so much, you need to find your rest.’

‘I am well.’ She tells him, she truly is, there is no time for weakness on her part. Speaking of strength, the time has come for Sansa to be strong for her family, like Rhaenys used to do before her. Sansa will be strong in Rhaenys’s place for as long as she needs her to be, ‘The sun is good to me and I enjoy the air.’ 

He nods and looks at Rhaenys who gives him her challenging look, which he completely breaks from her face as he takes a step towards her and kisses her cheek, ‘How are you?’ 

‘Marvelous.’ She says.

‘I'm glad.’

‘You must forgive me, I'm going to the sept, I have so many souls to pray for.’ Rhaenys turns around and leaves them there. 

‘How did you manage to get her out of her bed?’ Jon asks as he watches her walk away. 

‘I asked.’ Sansa explains, ‘And then I merely listened to her for a while and convinced her that going outside would be good for her.’ 

‘Did you get her to eat something?’ 

‘Alas, no. But maybe tonight. I'll go to her again tonight.’ 

His face softens and she doesn't know exactly why until he says, ‘Thank you. For helping her.’ 

‘I don't mind. I care for her, I know you care for her too.’ She moves closer to him and takes his head between his hands, ‘Let me help you too.’

‘I have so much to do.’ 

‘Do you have time to be sad?’ 

‘I don't need time for that.’

‘Don't you?’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘We need to arrange the wake. I have never done such a thing before, who else is going to do it?’

‘Where is the king?’ 

‘Only the king knows what the king wants and thinks and where he is. His body is in the keep but his mind is somewhere completely else.’

‘You have to be strong.’ She and Jon both, ‘For Rhaenys.’ 

‘I will.’ He says, ‘And for Aegon.’ 

‘Yes, for Aegon.’ Sansa agrees but then Jon says something that scares her to the bone. 

‘To make up for everything he did to us.’ 

Sansa looks at him and realizes there is no fear and no sadness. He doesn't grief. Jon is angry and she is not sure whereof. She's not sure if that's a good thing, she fears it's not a good thing at all. And that scares her, it worries her most of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read between the lines you can read Rhaenys explaining how I feel about a future with Daenerys as queen. I don't think that's a good idea at all, to be very honest. 
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry for all the people who were rooting for the unbeatable trio storyline. Aegon was always going to die, to be honest. With Aegon gone there is still going to be an unbeatable trio storyline it's just not gonna be two brothers and one sister. 
> 
> Last but not least, the next updates will be Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I'm going to give you a Jonsa baby as a Christmas gift :)


	20. Disturbed Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tells himself Aegon did it on purpose, it feels like he wanted to punish them all by doing it. Running away from problems was always one of his favorite things to do, but Jon never dared think he'd take it this far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all your kindness and everything.  
> Regarding Aegon's suicide- I wrote the actual scene but took it out. I based it on Mayerling after seeing the Royal Ballet production. Point is, they both willingly died. There was (at least the thought do) not enough poison so one of them had to die by arrows and I suppose you can assume Aegon made himself do the horrible thing of killing the person he loved very much. So yeah, no one killed them. It really was suicide. 
> 
> Anyways...
> 
> If this were a Friends episode I'd call it 'the one where Sansa is done with Jon's shit'.

**Jon**

Jon has been waiting for the tears to come, but nothing happens. He doesn't cry, he doesn't even feel sad. When he looks at his brother’s corpse in the throneroom all he feels is angry. 

The king doesn't cry either, nor Joffrey, Cersei, Myrcella, Tommen or Sansa. No one cries for Aegon but Rhaenys and she cries so much it is as if she cries for everyone else too. Her terrorizing screams and her weeping and sobbing stab Jon to the bone. 

She hits people too, hits him once, her handmaidens when they touch her, she hits Joffrey twice, once because he smirks and another time because he laughs. 

She doesn't sleep, she hardly gets dressed, she doesn't eat either. She doesn't want anyone’s company, not even Daenerys when she arrives for the wake. It's only Daenerys because Viserys remains in Dragonstone, and that angers Rhaenys too. 

Rhaenys finally stops crying when Jon decides that all she needs is comforting. He pulls her to his chest, lifts her up like he did when she held their dead brother in her arms and moves her over towards the bed where he holds her until she finally sleeps. 

‘It's just you and me now.’ She mutters before she sinks away. 

‘Yes.’ He squeezes her hand, ‘You and me.’

‘He was killed, Jon.’ 

He thinks she means the Lannisters but he knows she can't be, she is talking about their father, ‘He ended it himself.’

‘I know, but he was killed.’ 

He holds her tighter and stays with her for a while until he is sure she is fast asleep. 

_He did this on purpose._

He tells himself Aegon did it on purpose, it feels like he wanted to punish them all by doing it. Running away from problems was always one of his favorite things to do, but Jon never dared think he'd take it this far. 

It was the main difference between the two of them. Jon knows that. Jon never runs away from his problems, he doesn't complain, he doesn't blame others, he doesn't refuse to listen. Aegon always refuses to listen. _Refused_. 

Aegon dressed the way he wanted to, he talked to the people he wanted to talk to, spoke to Jon the way he saw fit, treated the queen the way he liked, ignored the king’s demands whenever he could not see the point, he travelled where he wanted to go, courted only the people who’s company he enjoyed, mocked Sansa if he was having a bad day, spend his money and usually a bit more on things he was never given permission to.

Aegon just really preferred to do whatever he liked. People loved him for it, perhaps they loved him a bit too much.

Jon could never have done that, and it has nothing to do with their different roles in life. Jon always does what his father asks of him, wether it is participating in a jousting or marrying Sansa Stark. He doesn't do that because he has no choice. There is little his father can do to him that could force him to anything, there is little to nothing to take away, nothing to threaten with. Jon always does what his father wants of him because, wether he likes it or not, he respects him, maybe not as a father, maybe not even as a man, but as a king, he respects him as his king. Aegon never respected their father, there was not a shred of him that respected anything at all.

When the king told Aegon that he could never see Renly Baratheon again, when the king told him he had to marry Margaery Tyrell, Aegon did not listen. When dying was the only way to disobey these orders that is what he did. He died. Perhaps he even said it once.

_‘I won't marry the Tyrell woman, you'll have to kill me first.’_

Aegon is punishing them all by killing himself. After all he went through, he must've decided that a proper payback would be a king Joffrey. He isn't going to be there to witness it, to suffer the sight and the consequences- yet Jon wonders if he knowledge of leaving his father behind with a Lannister heir caused him a smile around his lips as life faded away from him. It seems like something Aegon would do. His life was worth nothing to him anymore, killing himself was worse to the people around him than it was to himself. 

It makes Jon angry. Furious. How dare he? How dare Aegon do this to the crown? To _Rhaenys_? Rhaenys blames herself, she cries herself to sleep at night thinking it's her fault, she thinks she could've stopped it, she thinks their father forced Aegon to this one last solution. Aegon knew beforehand, he knew she'd blame the king and he knew losing him would kill her too and yet he hurt her all the same. 

You don't leave the people you love behind in a mess like this but that is exactly what Aegon has done. There was nothing he could do to make the situation any more pleasurable to him so he decided to end it and leave everyone else behind to fix the mess he personally created. 

How could he do this to their father? Jon is the first to admit Rhaegar deserved little kindness from Aegon, it was always much the same the other way around, but to do _this_ … it makes Jon furious. He sees his father's pale face, his red eyes and his miserable stare and Jon can taste the blood in his mouth as he bites the inside of his cheeks. 

The king doesn't interfere in any sort of business related to the death of his eldest son. He doesn't make a statement, he doesn't comfort Rhaenys, he doesn't visit the body in the sept and he decides not to attend the wake, naturally that means Cersei is staying away too. Jon wonders who his father expects to solve it all, not Jon, he highly doubts the king wants Jon to solve it, yet he is the only one who somewhat ends up doing just that. 

He makes carefully sure the corpse of Renly Baratheon is send back to Storm’s End, he writes a letter to the new lord, the great-grandson of Renly’s great-great-grandfather’s second son, and prevents the truth from leaking out. 

No one can know the truth, no one. Littlefinger suggests they’d not put the body in a corpse wheelhouse, but wrap in up in a normal carriage, so people won't notice and wonder. That idea disgusts Jon too much and instead he chooses to simply send the body out through the sailor gate, it won't have to pass half of the city and it can be brought back to it's place of burial by ship. 

The day of Aegon’s death he discussed with the small council, Ned especially, what statement to issue and at noon letters were send out to let the realm know that, ‘Aegon Targaryen, prince of Dragonstone, has tragically died of illness in the lungs’. Jon just hopes everyone will assume Aegon had a severe case of pneumonia but he knows no one will. It seems odd at best, doubtful at worst and to the cleverest of men it must be unbelievable and perhaps a bit impetuous. Jon doesn't know what else to do, the council doesn't know what else to do. 

Grand maester Pycelle comes to the conclusion that ‘their deaths were the tragic result of the desperate decision of thwarted lovers taken ‘while the balance of the prince’s mind was disturbed’.’ Jon doesn't ask what he means when he talks about balance in minds, he knows something about Aegon was disturbed, if it was the balance in his mind then he is ready to accept that. When the maester asks him if he should inform the king he tells him no, says he’ll do it himself. But Jon never tells his father. 

Jon tries everything to give Aegon a proper burial in the sept, he can't bare the idea of telling Rhaenys the Seven refuse to let his body rest with their ancestors because he died in ‘an act of deliberate eluding of life’. Eventually he manages to make them accept Aegon’s body in the sept because he kept repeating about the suffered ‘mental imbalance’. 

At the funeral service he suddenly feels Sansa’s fingers entangle through his and it is the only thing he feels, the only thing he can think of, because the dead body of his only brother doesn't make him feel anything, it doesn't even make him think. 

Afterwards, during the reception, he talks to everyone he needs to talk to, he thanks people he is grateful of, people he is not grateful of, people he likes, people he hates, people he has known for years and people he has never met. In the corner of his eye he can see Sansa do the same. 

At a certain point he can see Daenerys’s eyes right in front of his own. She walks over to him and he feels a force pull him down, unable to move his legs, to run away from her, his plan to avoid her at any cost fails painfully. 

‘You are doing well.’ She states. 

‘I-I… we are all grieving.’

She looks away at the room, probably to avoid his eyes and he’s glad she does it so he won't have to, ‘The funeral was very charming, very Aegon.’ 

There is no one who will deny Aegon to have been charming, so perhaps that is a good thing, ‘Yes.’ 

‘All your work?’

‘And Sans- Rhaenys and Sansa mostly.’ 

‘Not the queen?’ 

‘No.’

‘How is the king?’ 

‘Have you not seen him yet?’

‘We have not spoken.’ She says, her eyes skin his face and then she says, ‘People always tend to avoid me in the capital.’ 

‘That is not true.’ 

‘You, more than anyone.’ 

He chooses not to deny it, it would be hypocritical of him to do so, hypocritical of her to hate him for it, ‘Rhaenys is glad you are here, she loves you.’ 

She nods, ‘I have spoken to Rhaenys.’ 

‘There are few people who can say the same.’

‘You and your wife.’ She says, somehow it makes him feel uncomfortable that she mentions Sansa not by name but by her marital status, ‘She seems to rely on her a lot.’ 

Jon knows that, he doesn't know what to think of it, he still doesn't, but he knows that Sansa is sincere in her desire to help Rhaenys and his desire to help Rhaenys is sincere enough to allow her to try, ‘Yes.’ 

‘Has she spoken to you about her firm beliefs?’

‘About the king, you mean?’ He knows exactly what she means. 

‘Rhaenys seems to believe violent scenes and altercations between the king and Aegon have been the cause of Aegon’s suicide.’ Daenerys says. 

‘Yes, she told me.’ She tells him everyday. 

'Do you agree?’

‘No.’ 

‘Why does she say it if it's not true?’

‘Because she needs someone to blame so she can avoid to deal with her pain.’ 

‘She seems to be the only one dealing with any pain.’

‘No,’ he disagrees, ‘It’s not the right pain, she hasn't accepted it yet, that he is gone. She falsely believes that if she forgives our father she’ll betray Aegon.’ 

‘So you do think your father needs forgiveness?’ 

‘For many things, but not for killing Aegon, Aegon killed himself, many years ago.’ 

‘Are you saying her thoughts are corrupt?’ 

‘I'm saying she makes choices right now that don't make logical sense.’ Rhaenys has been doing that for quite some time now.

‘Do you want to know what I think?’ 

He looks at her, doesn’t say he wants to hear it because in truth he doesn't, he glances sideways and catches Sansa’s eyes on him and Deanerys both, ‘Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it.’ 

He still doesn’t look at her when he says, ‘She’ll face it eventually.’

‘You mistake me,’ she says, her eyes still on him as he watches Sansa approach, ‘Rhaenys is not a man.’

The High Septon once told Jon that as we sin, so do we suffer and that is what Aegon has become to him, a man who suffered, a man who sinned, a man who lost the fight he fought with only himself as a contester. 

‘My princess.’ 

Daenerys glances over at Sansa’s curtesy and barely nods her head, no matter how much effort it seems to cost Sansa to bend her knees, with all the heavy weight she carries around that must pull her forward. Even Jon’s father told Sansa not to curtsy to him anymore, but Daenerys lets her, and it shocks Jon, ‘You must tell me if there is anything I can do.’ 

He can’t help but frown at her, almost angrily, when he says, ‘There isn't, we can manage.’ He purposely uses the word ‘us’ and he knows she notices. 

As she walks away he wonders why he has not seen the difference in her before. She looks ten years older and it is not only the black color of her gown that does the trick. 

Daenerys fears no other favorite at court, she knows she is loved and she is so sure of the power of her full and triumphant beauty, her deep lilac eyes, her feminine profile, her silver hair, and her sudden sensual grace. There is a newfound confidence in her statue that amazes him as much as it fascinates and scares him. It is as if she became unrecognizable to him.

‘She hates me.’

‘She does not.’ He insists. 

Sansa seems confident, ‘She thinks I'm superficial.’ 

‘It doesn't matter what she thinks, she doesn't know you, she's not important.’ 

She looks at him in a sudden surprise, ‘I was unaware of this sudden change of heart.’

He sighs, ‘Do you truly need me to repeat how Daenerys means nothing more to me than an aunt that I grew up with?’

She raises an eyebrow, ‘It is not your feelings that I have ever been concerned with.’ 

‘They are the only feelings you should be concerned with.’

Sansa turns her little pretty head and looks at Daenerys’s back, ‘She has changed.’ She decides, ‘She looks like she believes she could fight a dragon if she has to.’ 

‘Ride it.’ He corrects, ‘Brave men did not kill dragons, they rode them.’

‘Do you think she is brave?’

‘She’s not a man is she? And the dragons are gone.’

When the reception is over he walks to his bedroom like a ghost. A man who feels as dead as his brother, as dying as his father, yet his heartbeat is strong and steady behind his rib case, reminding him that this is not the end of his testimony. This is not even the beginning of the end, it is merely the end of the beginning. 

When he opens the door to his room it's empty, not even Ghost is in here. He must be in Sansa's room. He wonders if she will prefer to sleep there, alone, to find some more comfort now that her baby is growing to extreme seizes. 

He knows she won't. She would've told him and somewhere he doubts she'll ever tell him. As much as he thinks he isn't much of a help she still prefers to lay awake at night next to his useless body. 

He takes his doublet off and moves to the window, where he watches some seagulls flying low over the waters, trying to catch their dinner. 

'Jon talk to me.’ 

Jon turns his head to see her stand there, still wearing her black silk dress that tries and fails at hiding her bump. She stretches her arm out towards him, to welcome him in her arms. He doesn't move, he wants to so badly but something stops him. 

‘Talk to you?’ He has noting to talk to her about, nothing that he needs encouragement for, nothing there is to discuss, nothing he feels like sharing. 

‘You promised to always talk to me, do you remember?’

Of course he remembers, he will always remember. He turns towards the window and leans against the post, ‘What do you want to talk about?’ 

She walks closer to him now that she realises he won't come to her, he feels her hands on his shoulders before she leans her chin on it and wraps her hands around his waist, ‘What are you thinking?’

He is hungry, he wondered if he could make a trip to the kitchens, he thought of drinking wine too, to stop the headache a little, but the memory of Aegon stops him. 

‘I want to take away your sadness.’ 

‘I am not sad.’ It's odd of him to admit it, but that doesn't make it any less true, he has not even once thought about Aegon today, apart from that wine idea.

‘I know you think that, but it's not true.’ 

He didn't believe she noticed he felt that way, but it must be terribly obvious, not just to her but to everyone, ‘Honestly, I don’t.’

All day they give him headaches, every person in this cursed keep, even Ned, Rhaenys too, all of them. Except her. When he goes to bed at night he can wrap his arms around her and feel like he is succeeding at something in life. It's the only thing that makes sense right now.

‘I think you're sad because you aren't sad.’ She theorizes. 

‘No. I don't feel anything.’ 

‘That’s not good.’ She declares. 

‘What do you think I should be feeling?’ 

‘Scared.’ She says, ‘I think you should be terrified.’ 

‘I am scared.’ He insists.

‘Not of the things you should be scared of.’

‘Tell me, what should I be scared of?’ 

‘Your father dying.’ 

‘I do-‘

‘You fear your father’s death because it means you’ll have to accept he’ll never be what you need him to be, but you should fear his death because it means there will be a king Joffrey, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear.’ 

‘That's not my problem.’ 

‘But it is.’ She says and he turns around to face her, she needs to move away from him a little when he does because her belly is so big now, ‘They wanted to kill you, what will stop them when your father dies?’

‘Joffrey on the throne.’ He says, ‘They have nothing to fear from me with him in that chair.’ 

‘Rhaenys doesn't want him in that chair.’ 

‘Rhaenys needs to-‘

‘No one should want him in that chair.’ She decides, ‘Neither should you.’ 

‘I can't do anything about it.’ 

‘Can’t you? Perhaps you can't, but that doesn't mean it’s not your problem, or mine.’

‘It has nothing to do with you, you shouldn't listen to Rhaenys.’ 

‘You should.’ She says, ‘What will our life be like when you are king Joffrey’s bastard brother? It’s time to start wondering.’ 

‘Nothing has to change.’ 

‘Everything will change Jon. You told me Rhaenys believes Joffrey is not your brother, and if he isn't that means Viserys is the heir.’

‘That would notbe much of an improvement.’

‘It wouldn't be.’ She says, ‘But if Viserys shouldn't become king, then who?’ 

‘I have not given it much thought.’ 

‘Perhaps you should.’ 

‘I can't.’ He says and he turns to his back to her, ‘It’s not my place to do so, I am only the bastard son, I have no right to any title, least of all anything close to that throne, nobody listens to me, I am nothing.’ 

She seems rather angry suddenly, ‘That is what Aegon wanted you to believe.’

‘He made damn sure I never forgot.’

‘It's not true.’ 

‘Sansa-‘

‘No it isn't.’ She raises her voice to give her words more force and her lecturing has turned to determined statements, ‘You are your father’s son and plenty of people listen to you.’

‘They don’t.’

‘They do! Can’t you see? You are married to a Stark, Rhaenys is your ally, Daenerys looks at you as if you are the sole requirement to make all her dreams come true, everyone in King’s Landing has half their spies watch you, you are the one who arranged everything when Aegon died, the one who picked up the pieces when your father locked himself away… people turn to you when the king is absent because they know you are the right person to diplomatically solve matters. You know _everyone_ here, you know exactly how to talk to them, you always know what to say, some people believe he is going to make you his heir-‘

‘Stop it.’ He moves away from her and he knows that if he didn't stand with his back towards the light she could see his flushed cheeks, ‘I am a bastard.’ 

‘You are half Stark, half Targaryen, there is no trueborn man alive who can say the same.’ She says as she follows him into the room, ‘People admired Aegon because he was charming and handsome, but they admire you too, they admire you in a different way, for different things, more important things. They admire you because you are intelligent, kind and brave.’

‘That's not true.’ 

‘It's why he wanted you gone, Jon, do you honestly not know that? You are what you father wanted Aegon to be and Aegon knew that, he couldn't stand it, he couldn't look at you.’ 

‘Aegon was an arrogant asshole who did whatever he liked, he didn't give shit about anyone or anything. Even himself, he hated everyone no matter who-‘

She takes his face in her hands and stops him from saying much more, ‘Aegon was everything you could never be.’ He shakes his head and she nods, ‘You are your mother's son.’ She drops her hands and stares at him for a second before she decides, ‘And she must've looked a lot like father because you are just like him.’ 

‘I look like a Stark. It's why they hated me.’ 

‘No.’ she is the one to shake her head this time and his comment seems to frighten her somehow, ‘They never hated you, none of them do, not your family, not your father... Not even Aegon.’

‘Stop it.’ He moves away from her again, he needs to stand, he needs to walk, he'd like to run, he wants her to shut up, ‘Stop it, stop it.’ 

‘Jon, stop pacing-’ 

‘You can't talk to me like that!’ He hisses, ‘You don't know what you’re talking about! Do you think you know what it was like?’

‘I could see the way he looked at you.’ She says, ‘Aegon. And I can see the way your father does. You remind him of your mother, you always have, when he looks at you it’s your mother he sees. He doesn't hate you Jon, he truly doesn't, I know it, I have seen hate in the eyes of people often ever since I came here and your father does not hate you.’ 

‘Stop it.’ He says again and he agrees to himself that it will be the last time, ‘You see what you want to see.’ 

She shakes her determined head, ‘No Jon, no. You see what Aegon wanted you to see.’ She moves towards him again and stretches her hand out to him, ‘Please, I want to help you.’ 

He doesn't take her hands but she moves over to him all the same, ‘You can't hug me,’ he tells her, ‘You’re too fat.’ 

She smiles and the twinkling in her eyes tell him she is holding back tears, ‘I can try.’ 

‘Sansa…’

She reaches her hand out to him again and he takes it. She pulls him towards her and as she wraps her arms around him he manages to lay his head on her shoulder. 

‘Being sad because you aren't sad is fine.’ She says and she moves her fingers through his hair, ‘As long as you feel something, I need you to at least feel something, be real, don't grow cold Jon, don't let them turn you into ice.’

He wants to tell her he is a Stark in all but name. She is a Stark and she is his, her body contains his child, a Stark too, every child the god will ever grant him will be a Stark, just like Jon’s mother was, like his ancestors were, his family, the only brother he has ever had, the man who raised him. Starks are made of ice and when they move below the Neck, they melt. He's been melting for years, then she came and he felt better, now he’s back and it's worse than ever before. Drops of melted ice, salty and warm, escape the corners of his eyes and as he soundlessly cries he refuses to wipe them away.

‘I don't know what to do.’ He admits, ‘Tell me what to do.’ 

‘Robb said you told him lords have to answer their own questions.’

He remembers telling Robb that, ‘My father told me. But I am not a lord, I'm just me.’ 

‘I’d say that’s plenty.’ 

He smiles an unhappy smile, ‘I'm not like my father. I don't want to be, I always wanted to be like yours.’ 

‘I think you should try to be yourself.’ She says. 

‘I don't know how to keep Joffrey from the throne.’

‘There is really only one way.’ 

‘Is there?’

‘Putting someone else on it.’ 

He leans his head up, ‘Who? Viserys? I'm not risking treason for that fool.’

A small smile forms around her lips, ‘No, perhaps not Viserys.’ 

‘Tommen? Can't kick Joffrey off it and put his younger brother on it, that is not the way it works.’ 

‘Not Tommen, they aren't your brothers, they are bastards.’ 

He raises his head and looks at her in wonder, ‘Rhaenys?’ He shakes his head, ‘She’s a woman, there has never been a queen, not in Westeros, not a Targaryen.’

‘I’d say a woman would be not quite as bad as Joffrey.’ 

‘Has she talked to you about this?’ 

‘No. not really.’ Sansa says, ‘No one ever talks to me about anything, no one ever listens to me, but I do listen to everyone else.’

‘I always listen to you.’ He knows for a fact that's true, it's one of the things he ordered himself to always do, never neglect. 

‘True.’ She says and she moves some hair from his forehead, ‘I always listen to you too.’

‘You do.’ 

‘Just promise me not to do anything stupid.’ 

‘Of course I won't.’ 

He noticed the way she says that, but he decides not to say anything about it. 

‘You are not nothing Jon.’ She suddenly says, ‘Aegon was your brother, but he doesn't deserve you believing him, forget his words, please, because he has no right to haunt you even from the grave.’ 

‘He doesn't haunt me.’ 

‘Doesn't he? I hope he doesn’t, he doesn't deserve that, and the world is a better place without him.’

Jon disagrees. When Aegon was alive, his sister wasn't a walking corpse, his father didn't lock himself away and Joffrey was not the crown prince. When Aegon was still alive no one whispered behind their hands that Jon Snow the bastard might, only _might_ , become the next king of the Andals, Ryonar and First Men. 

 

**Eddard**

‘Robert will never keep to one bed,’ Lyanna told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father promised her hand to the young Lord of storm's End. ‘I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.’

Ned held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. But Lyanna only smiled. 

‘Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature.’

Ned promised her. That was his curse. Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he'd made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he'd paid to keep them. 

When Lyanna was promised to Robert Baratheon the man had already more bastards than the king would ever have. Rhaegar Targaryen has only one, just one bastard son, Lyanna’s son. Ned wonders how Lyanna must’ve felt, carrying the untrue child of a married man. 

What was it, in Rhaegar, that she loved so dearly, that she was capable of forgiving him that? Ned has wondered so often, and he had still not found the answer. 

The Rhaegar Ned has learned to serve is a good king. He is just, honest, proud, wise and listens to advice. But this Rhaegar is also cold, heartless and broken. He hates his wife, Ned is sure of it, perhaps she is the only one he truly hates. He despises Cersei Lannister, and Ned can understand why. She is the only one the king ever yells at. He does not ever yell at Rhaenys, or those three that belong to the queen. Ned heard him raise his voice at his two eldest sons only once, after they fought each other in the woods, and there is nothing but understanding at Ned’s part there. Rhaegar has an incredible talent for poise and self-restraint and Ned can do nothing but admire him for it.

Rhaegar is at his worst indifferent. Except with the queen, Rhaegar hates his queen with every limb of his body, with every word he speaks, with ever short look he grants her, he hates her. His second queen. 

His first lays in the sept and her remains are always accompanied by flowers and prayers. They say he loved her very much. He did not love her enough to be true to her. Would he have loved Lyanna enough? He did not love Lyanna enough to save her life, he did not even love Lyanna enough to protect their son. Maybe Lyanna knew that, maybe that is why she made Ned promise. 

Rhaegar let Lyanna rot in that tower until Ned saved her from the damn place. They say Rhaegar used to call it the tower of Joy, but to Ned it was his most gruesome memory. He ordered the distinction of the building, let them build a bridge with the stones. 

The king does many things Ned does not understand, he has come to the conclusion in the year and a half he has been his Hand, that the king doesn't need his Hand to always understand, there are some things he does that he purposely doesn't want anyone to understand. 

Allow his queen to pretend that her three bastards are his, for example. Ned doesn't understand, the princess Rhaenys doesn't understand and as far as Ned knows, nor does Jon, though he seems a whole lot less worried about the matter. 

Never has Ned heard Rhaegar mention the infidelity of his wife, never has the king admitted that his three youngest are not his. Why? 

Ned has been told that the king is aware, Rhaenys convinced him of it. She convinced him of many things and he knows she tried, somewhat failed, to make Jon realize the same. 

Ned thinks of Sansa, of how smart she is, how brave and strong. How much they need to protect her, they all agree. Sansa has to be protected, because the stranger is after her and the stranger’s face has a lion’s roar. 

The king protects her. The King’s Guard in front of her door when she sleeps, a man who tastes her wine before she takes a sip, Rhaegar’s watchful eyes when Cersei opens her mouth to speak. 

Why? Why did he marry her? Why is he still married to her? Why is Joffrey Targaryen crown prince? Why did nothing change when Aegon died, why did he do nothing about it? Why does that woman still sit next to him in the throne room when her head should be on a spike upon the city gates?

Because she’s a Lannister?

The Lannisters are dangerous, they are cruel, cunning, heartless, arrogant and proud. They are lions, and they always pay their debts. 

The Martell’s know all about it. The mad king did too. They are the richest house in Westeros, the proudest most of all. What would've happened had their family chosen the other side? Robert’s side? Does Rhaegar ever wonder about that? 

Does Rhaegar fear them? Is that what has become of the Targaryen dymnasty? A man afraid of his family-in-law? Perhaps. Ned could understand. Was it not for the Lannisters, Rhaegar may have been the one to die at the Trident. And what would've become of Jon Snow then? What would Robert have done to the bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen?

_Robert will kill him, you know he will._

Was Robert Baratheon a man who killed innocent babes? Not the Robert Baratheon Ned knew once, yet Lyanna had been so certain.

How much exactly does Rhaegar owe to the Lannisters? How great is his debt? 

Ned is soaked to the bone and his soul has grown cold. The rain is falling harder every second and as he rides his horse along the city gates he realizes he shouldn't have one, there was little he could inspect when raindrops were stinging his eyes and drumming against the ground. Rivers of black water run down Visenya’s hill when Jory calls out, ‘My lord!’ his voice hoarse with alarm. 

In an instant, the street is full of soldiers. Ned glimpses ringmail over leather, gauntlets and greaves, steel helms with golden lions on the crests. Their cloaks cling to their backs, sodden with rain. He has no time to count, but there are ten at least, a line of them, on foot, blocking the street, with longswords and iron-tipped spears. 

‘Behind!’ He hears Wyl cry and when he turns his horse there are more in back of them, cutting off their retreat. Jory's sword comes singing from its scabbard,’Make way or die!’

‘What is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the King.’

‘He was the Hand of the King.’ The mud muffles the hooves of the blood bay stallion. The line parts before him. On a golden breast plate, the lion of Lannister roars its defiance. ‘The king is as furious as he has ever been… Now, if truth be told, I'm not sure what he is.’ 

Ned looks at ser Jaime’s face and he knows the Kingslayer must love the look of utter shock on his face, ‘What are you speaking of?’ 

Fear grips Ned by the throat when Ser Jaime says, ‘I'm looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don't you, Lord Stark? He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man.’

‘I remember him well,’ Ned replies, something stops him from telling everyone he has truly no idea where the imp is, if he’s not at the Eyrie.

‘It would seem he has met some trouble on the road, your wife ordered his capture the moment he arrived in the Vale. My lord father is quite vexed. You would not perchance have any notion of why she might have wished my brother ill, would you?’

Ned wants to curse under his breath but he can stop himself, he sits right up and looks the queen’s brother right in the eye, ‘Your brother has been taken at my command, to answer for his crimes,’ He says. 

‘My lords-‘ Ser Jaime rips his longsword from its sheath and urges his stallion forward. ‘Show me your steel, Lord Eddard. I'll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I'd sooner you died with a blade in your hand.’

 

**Sansa**

‘Jory Cassel is dead. And Wyl and Heward too. Murdered by the kingslayer.’ Jon lifts his face up to her, ‘May the gods give them rest.’

Sansa doesn't notice her hand in front of her mouth until she speaks, ‘Jory? What… How?’ 

Sansa feels speechless, hopeless and punched. Jory has been captain of the household guard at Winterfell since before she was born. He was the one to lay a hand on her shoulder when she broke down in tears when the queen demanded Lady’s head. 

“Why would ser Jaime kill Jory?”

Jon shakes his head, hides his face behind his hands and she moves over to him to lay a hand on the top of his head, 'I just… It’s a mess Sansa. Your father was caught beneath a falling horse in the fight-‘

‘Father?’ She grips his doublet and forces him to look at her, ‘Where is he? What happened? Is he-‘ 

‘He is- Alyn says his leg was shattered, and Maester Pycelle has given him the milk of the poppy, but they aren't sure when... When he will wake up.’

Sansa feels tears prick in the corner of her eyes and she swallows a sob by placing her hand in front of her mouth again.

Jon moves up and lays his hands on her shoulders, ‘It’s alright, he'll be alright, it's just his leg, they will fix him, I'm sure-‘

‘Why would they do that? They cannot attack father!’ 

‘Your mother has taken Tyrion Lannister as a prisoner in the Eyrie.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘It's true. They… she and her sister, the lady Lysa, they captured him upon his arrival in the Vale.’ 

‘Wherefor?’

He lowers his voice, to make sure even the walls around them can't hear him, ‘Because… because your mother believes he pushed Bran from the window.’

‘Bran he… I though they believed it was the queen?’

‘I know,’ Jon says and he rubs his hands along her upper arms, ‘But the dagger that nearly killed her, the dagger Bran’s assassin carried around, belonged to my uncle.’ 

‘Don't call him your uncle!’ She demands, ‘He is not your uncle, he is not our family, he is a Lannister! He is one of them and they have killed Jory, and they hurt father, they are not-‘

‘Hush, Sansa please!’ He tries to place his hand over her mouth but she backs her head away. 

‘This is madness!’ she calls, ‘They wouldn't do this if Aegon were still alive, they think they can do whatever they like now, because Joffrey is crown-prince-‘ 

‘I agree.’ She fears he'll _welcome at court_ her, like he does whenever she's astounded by something odd but thankfully he doesn’t. It will only frustrate her more and she cannot use that, ‘It is quite problematic.’ 

‘Problematic?’ she cannot deal with his cool demeanor right now, she feels horrible.The glow she has been showing for the past few moons has worn off, Sansa knows she looks tired and drained. She tries not to but she complains about her discomforts more, almost like during the first time, yet different. She feels so tired, as if the baby is slowely taking all her energy away from her. She wants to lay down so she can sleep for a few hours, but she knows she won't find any sleep, not now, not after finding out about this.. 

‘And now what?’ 

‘Now we hope Robb doesn't call for the banners, we hope your mother will release Tyrion when my letter reaches her, we hope your father wakes up and my father forgives him and mostly we hope this will all pass by and-’

‘Jory is dead! They attacked father, we cannot just hope this will pass by!’

‘We can and we will!’ He raises his voice and it bugs her. 

‘Don't yell at me!’ She tells him, ‘This is what happens when we do nothing about Bran’s murderers, you have been pretending no one has tried to kill him ever since they shoved him from a window, now look what has happened! You should've told the king-‘ 

‘I cannot tell the king!’ He yells, ‘I told you why I can’t! She is the queen, I cannot declare her guilty of murder without any evidence! She'll make them chop my head off!’ 

‘But she did it! She tried to kill him!’ 

‘Then why don't _you_ tell the king! Convince him, I dare you, tell him you know it's true because your mother can feel it in her bones, tell him and see what happens! This isn't Winterfell, people aren't lovely and nice and kind, they are liars, each of them better than you are and they do not always want the best for everyone.’ 

‘I know that Jon, I know this isn't Winterfell, I know I can't trust anyone, _I know_ , but that doesn't change the fact that they killed three of my father’s men.’ 

'Robb can't call the bannermen, he just can't. My father will forgive Ned.’

She looks at him and thinks about asking him who he tries to convince, he always tries to convince himself by pretending to persuade her, at the moment it feels like he does that almost daily, ‘Forgive him for what?’ 

‘Sansa you cannot just imprison the king’s brother-in-law! Tyrion is a Lannister, lord Tywin is furious! They say he’s preparing his army to march to the Vale! Do you know what that means?’

‘Do tell me.’

‘Army means battles, battles mean war.’

‘All because of the dwarf?’ 

‘He’s a Lannister, a laughing stock but still a Lannister.’ 

‘Where is father?’ 

‘Arya’s with him.’ 

‘I didn't ask who is with him, I asked where he is.’ 

‘Where do you think he is? In the tower of the hand, asleep.’ 

She wants to glare at him for the tone he uses but she feels a sudden fear take over and she has to sit down. Her body is failing her, her emotions are mocking her and her head aches. 

He moves closer and takes her hand, ‘How are you feeling?’ 

She's glad he doesn't apologize for the way he spoke to her, she doesn't want an apology, she never minds it when he doesn't treat her like a delicate butterfly, if he yells at her it means she can yell right back, ‘I’m alright, just so terribly tired.’ Most of the day she has trouble keeping her eyes open. 

‘You should sleep, I wish you would let me bring you to bed.’ 

‘I need to see father.’ 

‘He's sleeping too, he won't wake up for a couple of days Sans, you don't have to go to him now, Arya’s with him.’ 

‘What's happening.’ She hears her own voice mutter, ‘How?’

He takes both her hands and holds them in her own lap, ‘It will be alright, I have written to everyone, it will be alright, they will make a sensible decision and you don't have to worry.’ 

.

The king does not agree with him. It is only that same evening Sansa follows Jon into the throne room and leaves him to stand in front of his father and mother-in-law to confess non-existing sins as she walks over to the balustrade to join other ladies of the court, with among them so many Lannister women and the princess Myrcella.

Cersei’s rage and fury have done too much damage beyond repair, ‘Your aunt has abducted my brother.’ She tells Jon, her eyes two molting blocks of flame, ‘How dare she.’ 

‘Don't speak!’ Rhaegar tells her, his voice raised in annoyance, as always. 

‘My mother-in-law must have made a mistake, it must be a misunderstanding, we are sure of it.’ 

‘Who is sure of it!’ Cersei cries, ‘Lord Stark has admitted to it all! He has-‘

‘No more words!’

Cersei pouts and straightens her back to appear even taller in her seat, Sansa has hardly ever seen her this furious and displeased. 

‘What do you have to say for yourself?’ 

For a moment it is as if his question is directed at Sansa and the feeling scares her, then she realizes it can't be, men never blame women for the actions of others, men always assume they are in the oblivion and know nothing about it. Too stupid to understand, too emotional to comprehend. Like Rhaenys said. _They underestimate us_.

‘As I and others have already repeatedly told you,’ Jon clenches his jaw and she can see the way he grips the pommel of his sword, ‘It is believed there must have been a misunderstanding.’ 

‘Then how come that lord Stark admits to the accusation?’ 

‘Lord Stark is a dutiful man, he would not let his lady wife be to blame for anything she is incapable of understanding fully.’

Sansa wants to roll her eyes, she knows why he says it, but yet she can't help feel annoyed. 

‘My queen demands the return of her brother.’ 

‘I understand, I am convinced that-‘

‘My council proposed the idea to allow you to travel to the Eyrie to personally escort lord Tyrion back to the capital.’ 

‘My mother-in-law is an honorable woman, when she promises to free him she will and no one will do him any harm.’ 

‘But she has not promised this, has she?’ 

‘She will.’ 

Rhaegar frowns at his son and the way he looks sideways at the queen gives Sansa some chills, ‘Then your travel will be easy.’ 

‘Your grace,’ the panic in Jon’s voice equals the panic in Sansa’s chest, she looks at him, hoping he'll look at her but she knows he won't, ‘I think there are far more capable men who are perfectly suitable to-‘

‘Suitable! Who can be as suitable as Lady Catelyn’s son-in-law?’ 

‘It won't be necessary, your grace.’ 

‘Are you the one to decide about necessities now?’ 

‘Who else can the king trust more than his own bastard?’ There is a gleam in Cersei’s eyes that makes Sansa want to throw something at her.

‘A great many men, I’m sure.’ Jon says and there's something in the king’s stare that Sansa has never seen before. 

‘Will you not obey my order?’ 

‘I will always obey your orders, your grace.’ Jon says, ‘But I have never promised you to pretend I always enjoy doing so.’

‘The Eyrie is not as far from here as the North, if your travel is a safe one you can be back within a moon’s turn.’ 

A moon’s turn? Sansa places her hand on her belly. It's quiet, her baby’s sleeping. In a moon’s turn time the baby won't be inside of her anymore, it will be in her arms, and Jon may not be there to see it. 

‘I must insist I am not the right man for the task you place in my lap.’ 

‘I must insist you go.’ 

‘Your grace-‘

‘Tomorrow morning must be suitable for you.’ The king says and Sansa knows that Jon knows, there is nothing to be done. 

He bows to the king and that wretched woman and walks backwards to make place for the next man summoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in two days byeeeexxx!


	21. Lyanna’s Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys wants to personally cut off that head, the arrogant spiteful head of a traitor. She wants to see it spiked and put on the city walls, Joffrey’s head right there beside it. It will wipe the smug look from his face. That smug Lannister grin.

**Sansa**

Sansa feels like she will never be able to forgive her mother this, never. Who ever imprisons the queen’s brother and expects to get away with it? Has she forgotten half her family is in the capital? Her husband and her daughters? Did she not think of what her behavior may mean for them?

Catelyn should have listened to Ned, to Jon, to everyone who advised her to wait, to not act on simple suspicions. Jon was convinced Tyrion could not have tried to kill Bran, and there is yet no proof to prove him wrong. 

She regrets her anger from earlier that day and clutches herself to her husband after he pulls her on her hand all the way to his rooms.

'I am so, so sorry.' He says as he pulls her to his chest, her head in his big hand.

‘It's not your fault.’ She tells him as she presses her face in his doublet, ‘None of this is your fault.’ 

'I can't help feeling like it is.’

‘ _No_ ,’ she insists and she places kisses on his mouth, his nose, his cheekbones, cheeks, forehead and nose, ‘No please, don't do that, not if I don't.’ 

He presses his forehead to hers and squeezes his eyes shut, ‘I don't… I don’t understand why my father would do this, I don't understand.’

'Me neither.' He says. 

They eat with Arya, who is as white as a cloth and says very little. After dinner Sansa goes to the private sept to pray for her father and when she returns to Jon’s rooms he's not there and she knows he's with Rhaenys. Talking, discussing, deciding about things she knows very little about. It doesn't even bother her. All she wants to do is curl up like a ball and cry.

When he finally comes back she's laying on the bed stroking her belly to comfort the child who seems awefully aware of the mess that the real world has turned into and she won't stop dancing around. 

He moves his hand to stroke her spine with the tops of his fingers and despite her tension the goosebumps his touch cause still make her smile.

He helps her undress and while he does she tries to imprint every touch he places to her skin, to make the feeling last as long as she possibly can, to close her eyes and pretend it leaves marks, marks she’ll cherish in his absence.

When he finishes he puts her to bed as carefully as he can, before he climbs in it with her and pulls her hip to drag her to his chest, burry his face in the crook of her neck and wrap his arms around her as if he is a shield that should guard her from the darkness. 

'I wish I could hold you.’ She says as she grabs his hand, pulls it to her chest between the breasts that have grown so much and scratches his palm with her fingernails, ‘I can't because my stupid stomach is in the way all the time.’ 

‘It doesn't matter.’ He tries to reassure. 

‘It does matter!’ Her voice skips a beat and she digs her nails in his palm, ‘Everything is falling to pieces and I don't know what to do, all I want to do it comfort you and I can't even do that.’ 

‘You’re doing it right now.’

‘I can't even turn around to face you.’ 

‘You totally can.’ 

‘No I can't!’

He presses his lips to the nape of her neck multiple times, ‘I love you.’ He whispers. 

She gulps down a small sob and smiles a sad smile, ‘I just want to hold you.’ She repeats. 

‘I don't mind holding you.’ 

‘I don't mind that either.’ She says and she moves her hand to place it to his cheek. He is so handsome, she’ll miss his face.

‘I'm so sorry Sansa.’ He says again and she wishes he’d stop, ‘I don't want to leave you.’ 

‘I don't want you to leave.’ 

‘I promised I would never leave you behind again, I hate myself for breaking that promise, you should hate me too.’

‘Jon…’ she sighs, ‘I could never hate you.’ 

She bites her lower lip and he moves his hand over her belly, ‘Where’s the baby?’

She takes his hand in hers and moves it down, ‘You always place it too high, it’s much lower, feel.’ 

He drops his head on her shoulder again and nods, ‘Yes.’ 

‘Pycelle says it is supposed to be this low, it means it won't be much longer.’

‘Much longer?’

‘One week, at most, he says.’ 

Jon gulps and looks as if he tries to keep in a sigh of desperation, ‘I’m going to miss the birth of our first child, how could I have ever let that happen?’

She knows it's the night that makes him this melodramatic, it's when all the walls crush down and he can't run away from the harsh reality of his dying father, his fake bastard crown prince brother, his real dead brother and his sister who means to overthrow the royal house. She needs to be there to comfort him when he is like this, to tell him all will be well, and she can't do it now, because she’s as big as a castle.

‘You should not apologize to me, apologize to the baby, the baby’s going to have to wait longer to finally meet you.’

‘I wanted to meet her too.’

Sansa traces her fingers over his arm and the feeling of his hand on her belly gives her more comfort than anything ever has before, ‘I will be alright Jon,’ she says, ‘And when you come home to me, you can meet her and you will have some catching up to do but it won't matter because I'm sure she'll love you.’ 

‘Maybe I can be back in time.’ He says, she looks at the belly he holds in his hand and she’s sure he knows it’s a false hope, any day now, that is what Pycelle said, not more than one week- any day could be tomorrow.

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re too big, one more day and you’ll burst.’ 

‘Stop saying that.’ 

‘It's true.’ He runs his thumb over the place where Sansa can feel a limb press against skin. 

_She’s reaching out for you._

‘Maybe I'll stay this way after the baby comes out.’

He grins and shakes his head, ‘No you won't, it's just the belly. You are beautiful.’ 

‘What size do you think the baby has?’

‘Compared to fruit or vegetables?’ 

‘Doesn't matter.’ 

‘Pumpkin.’ 

She giggles, ‘That's big.’ 

‘You are big.’ 

‘The baby is big.’ She corrects. 

‘The baby is big.’ He repeats. 

‘We still don’t have a name.’ She reminds him.

‘We’ll come up with it when she’s born.’ He says. 

'So she’ll have to wait for a name until you’ll come back?’ 

‘I’ll come back real fast.’ 

‘What am I supposed to call her in the meantime?’ 

‘Whatever you like, we can name her when we see her, we’ll give her a name that suits her.’ 

‘Even if she’s a Targaryen name sort of girl?’ 

‘She won't be.’ 

Sansa giggles again, ‘Alright.’

‘Maybe you're wrong, maybe it's a boy.’ 

‘I'm not.’ 

‘Of course not, but what if you are?’ 

‘Do you have a specific Targaryen ancestor in mind you'd like to name a son after?’

Jon grins, ‘No.’ he says, ‘We’ll call our son Eddard.’

Sansa turns around in his arms to face him and moves her hand to cup his cheek with her thumb to the top of his nose, ‘Okay.’ She whispers before he leans down to press a kiss to her lips. 

'Maybe I could bring your mother with me, when I come back, she can meet the baby.’ 

That idea makes her smile, ‘Yes, if the queen will let her.’ 

‘Father won't mind, he just wants Tyrion back, he doesn't care about anything else, he needs this war between the Lannisters and the Starks to end.’

Her fingers trace the cotton of his nightshirt and she lays her palm to the spot where she can feel his steady heartbeat, ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know so.’ He says and she knows he hopes he can make her believe it too, ‘When the baby comes he won't care anymore. I think he’ll be happy, maybe.’ 

Sansa can't help but feel so sorry for him when he says that. He doesn't want her to feel sorry for him, but the knowledge that despite everything, despite today and all the days before that, everything in Jon still hopes and longs for his father to be proud of him makes Sansa feel both angry and sad.

Rhaenys once told her there is an important difference between empathy and sympathy. She made it seem like sympathy is the useless one of the two. Sansa disagrees. Sansa doesn't feel an empathy, she'll never understand. But she will always sympathize. It's part of always being there for him, her job as a lady wife. With his father ill and Aegon gone, the Gods know he'll need all the support he can get. Only the Gods know what's coming. Rhaenys says all the cards have been turned, she says they're waiting for someone to shake it, to built a card house or throw down a joker, they're holding their breath as they wait and wonder when the first move is made. 

If only Jon could see that Rhaegar is proud of him. He hides it well but Sansa can see it. She sees the way his eyes light up when he sees Jon, real fast before he immediately looks away. He looks at Rhaenys with exactly those same eyes, it is just that with her, he doesn't turn his head away to hide it from the world. 

‘He won't be rude to the woman he shares a grandchild with, that is not the way he is.’ 

‘And father?’ 

‘He just wants Tyrion back,’ Jon repeats, ‘So long as Cersei stops wailing he’s happy. The king will forgive your father.’ 

‘You truly thinks so? He seemed so angry.’

‘He's angry because he feels he has other things on his mind that are more important, he thinks this is all a waste of his time.’ 

They both turn to face each other, foreheads pressed together and her hand in his as she rubs his palm with her thumb, ‘This time can't be as bad as the last time you left.’ She says, ‘Nothing can be worse than that.’ 

His frown grows, ‘I'll never forgive myself for not being there when-‘

‘Jon.’ She says and she tightens her grip on him, ‘The only one who ever blamed you for that is you. You came back to me then, you were there when I woke up, when I needed you. Just promise me you'll come back to me and it will do, it's the only promise I need.’

‘I'll always come back to you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Of course.’

She nods, she knows that's true. If that isn't true nothing is and even though it sometimes seems as if everything in her life turned out being a lie, they are not. They are real.

‘If you want me to stay, if you truly don't think you can-‘

‘I want you to stay.’ She says, ‘Of course I do.’ 

‘I won’t leave you if you ask me to stay.’ 

She looks at him and smiles, she moves her fingertips over his jawline and scratches his stubble, ‘I won't ask you to stay.’ She says, ‘I am not a stupid woman, I know that when the king demands you to go, you go.’ 

‘I don't care enough about the king to leave you when you need me.’ 

She leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, ‘I need you.’ She whispers. 

'There are plenty of men who can go.’ 

‘But the king told you to do it.’ 

‘I have always done everything he asked of me,’ Jon says, ‘He takes it for granted, he thinks he can make me leave my pregnant lady wife and I won't object, he doesn't care.’ 

‘Jon…’ she whispers and he looks up, ‘When you come back to me we can leave this place. We can take our baby home to Winterfell, where we belong, where our child is going to grow up and we will stay there, away from everyone here, from what they want and what they make us do.’

‘And Rhaenys?’ 

‘Rhaenys?’ 

‘What about Joffrey and my father, you said that-‘

‘You were right.’ She says, ‘It's not our problem.’ 

‘Was I?’ He doesn't sound like he agrees with himself anymore. 

‘You have to bring me back home.’ 

‘I'll bring you home.’ He promises. 

She nods and kisses him again, ‘You were right about this place, are you glad to hear me say it? Winterfell is much lovelier.’ 

‘I'm not glad to hear you say it at all.’ 

‘We’ll be alright Jon, you and I.’ 

‘Of course we will.’ 

‘None of these people here matter, what they did or do or say. Whatever they ever told you, you must forget it, they are all liars remember?’

‘Yes,’ his voice is hoarse, ‘I remember.’ 

‘I love you Jon, and you are not nothing, you are worth the world to me, you are everything, to us you are.’ 

 

**Jon**

Rhaenys waits for him in the empty throne room. It's so early in the morrow that the sun has not yet risen, yet she looks carefully well dressed, her composure confident and stern, her gown neat and her hair perfect in place. She's dressed for war.

She looks like Rhaenys again. For some time she was unrecognizable, when Aegon died she lost herself. But she found it back. He never doubted she would. He almost missed her during that time. 

‘You will take care of them?’

‘Of course.’ She says, it doesn't sound like a promise yet he knows it is.

He nods, ‘Good.’

‘You will take care of yourself?’

‘I will.’

‘Good.’

He cannot look away from her, avoid her eyes or ignore her stare, it's too powerful, it always has been. 

‘I fear things will have changed when you return.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘I fear that too.’

‘Do you? You should.’ 

He's not sure what to say, he's not even sure what she means, ‘I'll be back very soon.’ 

‘I asked father to let you stay.’ She tells him, ‘I urged him to send someone else, offered some of my own men. He doesn't believe he can trust anyone as much as he trusts you and for this he can only rely on the people he trusts. You must take it as the best compliment you'll ever get out of him.’ 

Jon's not sure if he can. 

‘And you mustn't be angry with him. After what happened to your uncle he is right to think it's better for you to be at distance from court. A war between the Starks and the Lannisters will be nothing if not dangerous to your cause.’

Jon's not sure what his cause is but he knows that if Catelyn continues to anger and insult Cersei it won't be good on Sansa. And perhaps that is his cause. 

‘Father wants to remains friends with the Lannisters.’ 

‘I know that.’ Jon says. 

‘Do you?’ She seems to doubt it, she always doubts him, or so he always believed, ‘Sometimes I think he fears them. I do not fear them. Nor should you.’ 

‘I don't believe I do.’ 

‘Believe is not enough, Jon.’ She says and she takes a step towards him, ‘There's a war coming, and it's coming soon. I need you back at King’s Landing when the time is there.’ 

‘I'll be back within a moon’s turn.’ 

‘Lets pray it will be soon enough.’ 

Jon gulps down a toxic taste in his mouth, ‘If it’s not…’ he has not even considered it yet, but he is forced to do so now, ‘If I am not back in time… Promise me you'll make their safety your top priority.’ 

He knows he doesn't need to explain who he means. Rhaenys knows who he means, Rhaenys knows everything and she nods her head, ‘You must forgive me my weakness of these past few weeks.’ 

‘There's nothing to forgive.’ There really is not. 

‘I lost myself. It will not happen again.’ 

‘There is no shame in suffering.’

‘We cannot afford weakness, me least of all.’ 

He wants to tell her that it is not a crime to be weak, to lose yourself and be human, but he knows she'll never agree. Rhaenys is a woman, every sign of weakness is used against her to make her appear feeble and fragile. She is everything but that.

‘Do you trust me?’

‘I do.’ Jon breathes and the Gods know he means it. The old and new. He means it more than anything. 

‘I trust you too.’ 

Jon nods again and so does Rhaenys. 

‘Jon…’ she whispers, ‘Will you… I need you to..’ he has never heard her struggle with words before. She seems almost emotional when she scans his face, ‘Don't forget who you are.’ 

He doesn't really know who he is. 

‘Don't forget who I am. Don't forget all I have told you, don't forget that I'm always on your side.’ 

‘I am on your side too.’

She places her hand over his on her arm and squeezes it, ‘Good.’ She says again, ‘That is all I need to know. Now go. Say farewell to your lady wife and we shall all pray for a safe travel and a fast return.’ 

Jon nods and he suddenly feels the urge to hug her. Hug her like he did when she screamed like a weeping child. 

But he can't. That's not what they do, it's not how they are with each other. They are cold and careful yet now that the time has come for them to rely on each other and be not only allies but friends as much as brother and sister, he knows they're ready. He trusts her. He needs her and she needs him. And there is nothing wrong with that. He is proud to be able to say that she is on his side, that she is his sister. 

‘Take care of them.’ Jon says again.

‘I will, don't worry about that.’ 

And he doesn't. 

When he says goodbye to Sansa he can't stop looking at her, an acid feeling in the back of his throat makes him uncomfortable and scared. 

Sansa doesn't seem scared, the way she stands there, her long red hair wooshing in the wind, an encouraging smile around her lips, tears on her pale cheeks. She clutches her belly, swollen and round. 

Sansa smiles, her smile is the most beautiful one he has ever seen, her hair is the perfect shade of red, the way it gets lifted up by the sea wind, strands move in front of her face and she doesn't push it away.

She moves her fingers to his cheeks, her thumbs rest on his lips before she kisses him and he tastes her salty tears.

He tries to smile to her, but he fails, ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘You too.’ She says, ‘I love you, really, very much.’ 

‘I love you too.’ He presses her forehead to hers, ‘I already miss you.’ 

‘You must simply come back real quick.’

‘I will.’

‘You promise?’

‘As soon as I can.’

She nods, ‘Jon,’ she breathes his name, ‘It's alright, you can go. We’ll be fine.’

Jon smiles because, somehow, he believes her. 

 

**Eddard**

‘Father?’ 

Groaning, Ned opens his eyes.

‘Father?’ A shadow stands over the bed and he can slowly make out Arya’s figure.

‘How long?’ 

‘Six days and seven nights.’ Arya holds his hand and he can feel her finger rub the back of it. 

‘Where is Sansa?’ 

‘Sleeping.’ Arya answers. 

‘Sleeping? Is she alright?'

‘She has not been feeling very well, she's very tired, but the maester says it is only normal.’

‘Where is Jon?’

‘The king send him to the Vale.’ She says and she suddenly seems upset, ‘To bring back the imp.’ 

‘He send _Jon_ to the Vale?’ the king must overestimate Jon's abilities to influence anything Cat has set her mind to.

Arya nods, ‘Yes.’ 

Ned feels anger boil up, an anger he did not expect, an anger that only grows when he remembers what happened. 

‘Where is the Kingslayer?’

‘He fled the city,’ Arya says, ‘I heard people say that he rode to Casterly Rock.’

Ned wants to close his eyes and sigh, how could everything have suddenly gone downhill this quickly? What had Cat been thinking? Had she forgotten about Sansa? Their daughter was the king’s daughter-in-law, they promised each other not to act without the proof he was going to find. How could she have been this impulsive?

‘I want more guards.’ Ned says, ‘For the both of you.’ 

‘We already have.’ Arya says, ‘The king won't harm Sansa.’ 

He doesn't worry about the king, he has stopped worrying about the king, ‘I fear this is only the beginning.’ 

‘Jory and the others…’

‘They gave them to the silent sisters.’ A tear appears in the corner of Arya’s eye, ‘They will be sent back to the North. Jory would want to lie beside his grandfather.’ 

There is a knock on the door and Vayon Poole stands in the door opening, ‘The king has been informed of your awakening, he requests to speak with you, my lord.’ 

Ned nods, ‘In the morrow, I will-‘

‘He wishes to speak with you now.’ 

King Rhaegar is not the man to be kept waiting, being married to the lioness taught him to be patient but Ned highly doubts now is the time to test it. He nods again and moves to get out of bed. 

Arya pushes him back immediately, ‘You can't! You are far too weak.’ 

The steward busies himself lighting a bedside candle and Ned curses softly, hoping Arya will not hear him.

‘Tell his grace that I am too weak to come to him. If he wishes to speak with me, l should be pleased to receive him here.’

‘His grace is already coming, my lord, with the queen. He expected you not to be ready to leave your bed, he told us not to disturb your rest.’ 

‘How noble of him.’ He should not be surprised that Cersei is coming with him, he can imagine they had quite a quarrel about it the moment the news of his awakening came. Her presence is not promising, 'Send them in and leave us.’ 

Ned grabs Arya’s hand and squeezes it, ‘You must leave too. What I have to say should not go beyond these walls.’ 

Arya withdraws quietly and it is not long before the door opens again. 

Rhaegar looks the same he always does, albeit perhaps a little uncomfortable, as far as he can look uncomfortable. Ned wonders if he ever visited anyone as they lay in their sickbed. This conversation really could not wait. 

‘Your grace, you must forgive me, I cannot rise.’ 

Rhaegar only nods, ‘I hope your recovery will be a swift one.’ He doesn't sound like he means it, but then, he never sounds like he means anything, Ned has started believing he does that on purpose and with good reason. 

The queen stands behind him, ‘A man in your place should count himself lucky to still have a head on his shoulders.’ 

Before Ned can answer Rhaegar asks, ‘I presume they told you about your wife’s actions?’ 

‘My lady wife is blameless, your grace. All she did she did at my command.’

‘By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?’ Cersei demands, ‘Who do you think you are?’ 

‘The hand of the king.’ Ned tells her, ‘Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king’s peace and enforce the king's justice.’ 

‘You _were_ the hand of the king,’ Cersei begins but the king has finally had enough. 

‘You are _still_ the hand of the king.’ He says and Ned does feel some relieve at that, it is always hard to see how much influence exactly the queen and her family have on Rhaegar, Cersei is cold with anger but she doesn't talk again when Rhaegar adds, ‘You speak of the king’s peace? Eight men have died.’

‘Noble men.’ Ned says, ‘Three of my own. We were attacked in the streets, we couldn't know.’ 

‘Abduction of my family-in-law and slaughter in the streets of the capital,’ Rhaegar only now appears angry but it's too late to make Ned feel truly anxious, if Rhaegar wanted to punish him he’d never keep him as his Hand, ‘Do you expect me to tolerate such behavior?’

‘My wife had good reason to-‘ 

‘I will not have it. Am I understood?’ Rhaegar doesn't wait for a response, he is good at rhetoric questions, ‘I have send my bastard to the Vale, your wife will release the queen’s brother at once and I expect the Lannisters and the Starks to make their peace.’

Ned suddenly feels not only powerless but also mocked, ‘Three of my men were butchered in the streets, before my eyes, as Jaime Lannisters wished to chasten me. How am I expected to forget that?’ 

‘My brother was not the cause of this quarrel.’ Cersei tells the king, ‘The Stark men attacked Jaime, as his wife attacked Tyrion at the Eyrie.’ 

‘The kingslayer has fled the city, give me leave to bring him back to justice.’ 

'Have you both lost your wits?’ The king raises his voice all suddenly, ‘You have skated five of his men, he has killed three of yours, here it ends, I will not accept the worthless shedding of blood.’ 

‘How can you let him speak to you like that?’ The queen asks, she doesn't look at her husband but glares at Ned instead, ‘This man dishonors you with every breath he takes and yet you stand there meekly, wondering about his swift recovery.’ 

‘How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?’

Ned feels terribly out of place suddenly. He has heard the king and queen fight before, quite often to be frank, it seems to be the only manner of communication they know.

‘Only the Gods know what has become of you.’ 

The king shouts for a guard and when ser Meryn Trant steps into the room he simply tells him, ‘The queen is tired, escort her to her chambers.’

Cersei glares at both Ned and Rhaegar one more time before she leaves the room with her nose pointed up in the air. 

‘How I'd love to strike her.’ The king says the moment the door falls shut. Ned doesn't know what to say and Rhaegar adds, ‘Everyone believes I hit her, she likes it that people believe I hit her, but I never do, it would be wrong.’ 

Ned quite has to agree, as much as he detests it when men hurt their wives, he can imagine how a marriage to the Lannister woman must suck the life out of you. 

‘Do you ever hit your wife, my lord?’ 

‘No.’ Ned answers. 

‘Will you hit her when you see her again, after what she did?’ 

‘I will not, your grace.’ 

‘Good.’ Rhaegar says, ‘Does my son hit his lady wife?’ 

‘No.’ that Ned is certain of.

Rhaegar nods once but doesn't say anything else als he moves over to the bed to come closer and there is something in his eyes that scares Ned, ‘You are Lyanna’s brother.’ Ned can't recall ever hearing the king say her name, ‘And you are my son's uncle, you raised him to what he is today.’ 

Ned is not sure if Rhaegar is much pleased with what Jon is so he wonders if it is a notion of gratitude or just a statement, ‘I did.’ 

‘I like to think that I can trust you, lord Stark, a king who trusts no one is as foolish as a king who trusts his enemies. So when I ask you why your wife has imprisoned lord Tyrion I will expect a truthful answer, and don't tell me it was at your command because I will not believe a word of it, it was foolish of you to say so.’ 

Ned stares at Rhaegar for a moment, gulps and then looks straight at the king when he tells him, ‘My son.. my second son, he fell from a window at the last day of your stay at my castle.’ Ned says, ‘He fell but… my wife believes he was pushed.’ 

‘I highly doubt lord Tyrion is tall enough to reach any window, never mind push people from it.’ 

‘There was an assassination attempt after I left.’ Ned goes on, ‘A stranger peasant tried to kill him. He had a knife… a dagger my lady wife believes belonged to lord Tyrion.’ 

Rhaegar stares right back at him for a second, seems to think of what to say, perhaps even of what to make of his face, ‘I see.’ 

‘Someone tried to kill my son.’ 

‘And why would lord Tyrion want to kill your son? A boy of… eight?’ 

‘Twelve, your grace.’ 

‘A boy of twelve can hardly be of any interest to anyone, least of all the imp, I can assure you his interests don't stretch much further than whores and wine.’ 

'We would never-‘

‘Do you have any proof for these suspicions?’ 

‘Lord Tyrion won the dagger at the tourney they held for prince Joffrey’s nameday.’ 

‘I see.’ Rhaegar says again, ‘And you do not think it possible that the half man lost the dagger the same day to someone else? He is an enthusiastic gambler, or so I've been told.’

Ned looks away and knows there is no way he will be able to convince the king of the truth, even if the king knew it, the situation would bring too much difficulties along for him to take seriously, he simply has greater cares in his life. 

‘Ned, I have many important things to worry about, you should understand that more than anyone.’

Ned gulps, ‘My wife… If you allow me to speak to her, I could perhaps-‘

‘I have send Jon to her.’ Rhaegar says, in public he sometimes calls Jon his bastard but when they're in private it's always ‘Jon’ and when he speaks of the boy, it's never unkind, there's an odd care in the way he mentions Jon Snow that sometimes makes shivers run down Ned’s spine, ‘I believe he is very capable of managing these situations, he has proven himself in that regard in the past. Your wife is his mother-in-law, would he not be able to talk sense into her?’ 

‘I believe so.’ He hopes it wholeheartedly. 

'So I was right to send him?’ 

This is the king Ned admires the most. Even after being informed of the accusation of an assassination, with Ned in this bed, leg cut in half, Catelyn taken a Lannister for prisoner, Rhaegar still wants his council. He is not the arrogant man he appears to be. 

‘Catelyn is very fond of Jon, he'll talk sense into her.’ Ned hopes he's right, ‘You must forgive me your grace, truly, my wife is fiercely protective of our kin, you must know how women are when it comes to their children, lady Stark would never do such a thing if she was not convinced of-‘

‘I do not doubt it but that doesn't make this situation any less painful or unforgivable.’ 

‘Unforgivable, your grace?’ 

To the queen, of course.’ Rhaegar says, ‘Do you think I care about what happens to the imp? Seven hells I doubt his own father cares about what happens to him.’ 

Ned knows Rhaegar has a point there. 

‘But he is a Lannister and Lannisters are proud. How can they be proud when one of their own gets taken prisoner by a woman? When she refuses to free him? Even if it's the imp?’

Ned looks away. 

‘I shall be honest with you, Lord Stark.’

These words make Ned look up again. He always assumes Rhaegar never lies, but then, perhaps Rhaegar is not about to be honest, perhaps he is about to confess. 

‘I send Jon because I didn't think it would be a good idea to keep him here when the Lannisters are getting all humiliated and difficult. I thought It'd be better to remove him from court for a time. Then when he comes back everything will have settled and calmed down. Your lady wife is his aunt and after attacking you violently in the streets I decided not to risk it.’ 

‘They wouldn't dare do that to Jon, he is your son.’ 

‘You are my hand. I don't like risks lord Eddard, especially not when it comes to the safety of my kin.’

‘Sansa is with child.’ 

‘He didn't like leaving her and I know it was cruel, but in the moment it seemed the only way.’ Ned realizes the King is admitting he panicked. 

‘They're young.’ Is all Ned can say. It explains why Jon had trouble leaving his wife despite the call of duty. 

Rhaegar only raises an eyebrow but then gets up and moves over to the table under the window, ‘Have some wine, lord Stark.’ 

‘I'm not very thirsty, your grace.’ 

‘I insist, it will ease your pain.’

Rhaegar fills Ned’s cup to the rim and hands it to him, ‘Thank you, your grace.’

‘I cannot have my two main allies bite each other's heads off, can you understand that?’

‘I understand, your grace.’

‘Do you?’ Rhaegar looks at him carefully, ‘Do you really?’ 

‘I cannot trust the Lannisters.’

‘Nor can I.’ Rhaegar says, ‘That is why you are here. Like it or not you are my Hand, you will serve me, you will council me, you will be loyal to me and obey my orders as your betters have done before you.’ 

‘Of course, your grace.’ 

‘Of course?’

‘If only I could speak to my lady wife-‘

‘You are staying here, I forbid you to leave. Not after I have send Jon, dammit. While his wife can birth his son any moment now? Do you think I can do that without batting an eye? I need you here and there is no way your wife can appear at court in the near future. Jon is the only one I can trust to do this.’ 

Ned feels almost confused, after all these moons in the capital, he has come to the conclusion that the king cares for Jon in his own complicated and misunderstood way, yet he still wonders sometimes if Rhaegar actually likes the boy. Maybe that is why he always doubted that the king could separate those feelings from seeing Jon’s value. Apparently he can, he does and Ned feels strangely impressed, ‘You can trust Jon.’ 

‘Yes,’ Rhaegar takes a sip from his own wine, ‘Lannisters always pay their debts.’ He says suddenly, ‘You’d be wise to remember that, even more so to not challenge them but I'm afraid it is too late for that. Consider your dead men enough payment for now, leave it me to make sure they'll leave it at that.’

'I do not fear the Lannisters.' 

‘You’d be a fool not to.’

Ned wonders if Rhaegar fears them, as he has wondered so often before, ‘Jaime is at Casterly Rock he-‘

‘He will not fight any battle as long as I am his king, let me control Jaime Lannister.’ Rhaegar steadies himself at Ned’s bedpost, ‘You make sure your son in the North doesn't do anything stupid.’ 

‘Robb is only a boy.’ 

‘Exactly.’ 

‘He wouldn't do anything like that he… he is surrounded by good counselors.’

‘I will take your word for it.’ Rhaegar says, ‘If the Gods are good this will all be over soon and the next time I offer you a cup of wine it will be to celebrate the life of our shared grandchild.’ 

Ned would like that, truly, if only to see the smug look on Cersei’s face, ‘If the Gods are good.’ Ned says. 

‘Before I forget,’ the king says and he pulls a heavy silver hand clasp from a pocket in the lining of his cloak and lays it on Ned’s night table, ‘This belongs to you.’ 

Ned is damned to stay here it seems and he feels as helpless as a child, ‘Are you certain it will be wise to keep me as your Hand, your grace? I will be happy enough to travel back to Winterfell with both my daughters and-‘

‘Put on the damned pin lord Stark,’ Rhaegar says, ‘It suits you.’ 

 

**Rhaenys**

No one can speak to the king the way Rhaenys can. Aegon couldn't, Jon can't, his advisers wouldn't dream of it and Cersei's has certainly stopped trying. 

Rhaenys has always respected her father, loved him dearly, held him in high regards, up to a point she has always understood the decisions he makes, she not always agreed but she accepted them and expected him to do the right thing. 

Everything is different now.

She looks at him and she feels so terribly angry, she feels sick, scared and disappointed most of all. A great deal of disbelieve too. 

It took her some weeks to be able to look at him, a few more days to open her mouth and speak, but the moment she starts she can't stop. 

‘Please father, please you must know, you cannot close you eyes to it, it is not worth it, simply not worth it!’

Rhaenys wants to personally cut off that head, the arrogant spiteful head of a traitor. She wants to see it spiked and put on the city walls, Joffrey’s head right there beside it. It will wipe the smug look from his face. That smug Lannister grin.

Jon told her a long time ago that Starks do their beheadings themselves. Back then she had thought it to be a bit barbaric, but she disagrees now. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and if you cannot see the man die, perhaps he does not deserve death. 

Rhaenys will look at Cersei, she will look her in the eye when she dies, she'll make her beg for mercy, plead for forgiveness, admit to all her sins and Rhaenys will look down at her, smiling, and kill her painlessly. She'll give Cersei a death with no honor. 

‘How could you send Jon away?’

Jon is the last trope she has left, her most important, most valuable ally, she cannot believe it, but it's true. With him gone, what can she do? She can't look and watch as Joffrey walks around with an arrogance that will never suit him. He's not a Targaryen, he will be the end of them, the end of her proud family, the Targaryen rule, the Targaryen dynasty. And he'll end up killing them all.

‘How could you? How? _Look at me_!’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Make me your heir.’ 

She knows people will think that it's all she has ever wanted, that it's what she dreamed of ever since she was old enough to want anything. That's not true. 

She loved Aegon with her whole heart, she saw him suffer under the heavy burden of expectations they placed on his shoulders, she saw his self-hatred, his doubt, his endless sadness. The depression that ate him alive, took over his world, killed him. 

‘I can't.’ 

‘Yes you can!’

It's the only thing they can do, the only thing that can solve this. Rhaenys is a Targaryen, with Aegon gone that throne should pass on to her now, if the world were an honest place it would, she was always much better suited for the job than Aegon… More importantly, it will be the best for all of them and she not only believes that because she'll look much better on an iron chair than Joffrey will. She never wanted the crown. Rhaenys wanted Aegon to have it and for Aegon to proof them all wrong. But he did the complete opposite. He proved them right and now it's up to Rhaenys to do the damage control. 

‘How can you let them do this?’

'They won't go down without a fight. How well do you know the queen? She wants us to do the obvious, we cannot do what she expects us to do, she has had the past ten years to prepare for what she expects us to do.’

‘So you'll do nothing?’

‘I'll do what is right.’ 

‘Letting them sit right where they are?’ 

‘You would have been as dead as your mother if it wasn't for the Lannisters.’

She will be as dead as her mother if the Lannisters have their way. But they don't, she will not let them. How can he let her? ‘They are traitors! They are bastards, they want power! They want the iron throne. Joffrey is insane, he is vicious and mad, with Joffrey on it a war will come that shall-‘ 

‘Rhaenys it is enough!’

It is not enough, not at all, it is too much, this has gone too far for too long, ‘How can you let them do this?’ 

‘Do you know why the dragons are gone?’

‘Because men killed them.’

‘Because Targaryens killed each other!’ 

Not that, not that again. Not the Dance of the dragons. 

‘We are not invincible Rhaenys, we don't have dragons anymore, they are all dead, we have no invincible army, they know it, you know it too, it is time we start winning our wars without bloodshed.’ 

‘Jon.’ She says, ‘Make him your heir.’ 

‘Rhea-‘

‘If you don't want me, make him your heir. He'll be a good king, he'll be just, he is smart and he's good and I'll help him.’

‘You will help him?’

‘You don't think I can be your heir because I am a woman! But Jon is a man, he can-‘

‘Have they not taught you of the Blackfyre Rebellion?’

 _The Blackfyre Rebellion_ , another one of her father’s usual reminders. 

‘That was different! Jon is the only son you have left, he is just like you, you can see it too! Aegon saw it, everyone sees it!’

‘Don't talk about Jon like this ever again.’

‘I don't understand you! How can you do this! Everyone will want Jon, no one wants Joffrey!’

‘Joffrey is-‘

‘Not your son! Declare him a bastard, legalize Jon and-‘

‘I cannot! Not now, not after Aegon, they expect me to do that. They have tried to kill him before, if I legalizes him they'll do it again and make sure to succeed this time!’

‘I won't let them hurt him!’ 

She wants to beg him, she wants to make him see, how can he not see? Putting Jon on that damn chair is the only way. 

‘if they hurt him I'll kill them all.’

‘We have to be patient, Rhaenys.’ He says, ‘We wait for the waters to run calm and-’

‘You are the king!’ 

‘I would not have been king if it weren't for the Lannisters. To loose their support will not only bring instability but might unleash war. We will find a way to mislead them yet give them no opportunity to rebel. They'll have the whole reach to support them, the Stormlands too and one big united army against a dozen shattered ones is a death sentence. My marriage to Cersei Lannister has brought peace to the realm.’

She knows that, they remind them every chance they get, preferably with that godsawful song. If Rhaenys gets her way no one will ever hear the tunes of the Rains of Castamere ever again, ‘How can you be king if they are the ones with power?’

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘They control you! How can you let them control you?’

‘Don't think you can say everything you wish to me!’

There is a fury in his eyes that makes Rhaenys’s breath shake and her knees weak. But she won't back down, she won't nod and accept, she cannot bare it any longer. 

‘He wears their sigil.’ She says, ‘He wears the Lannister lion on his breast plate. Is that what you want? A Lannister on the throne of our ancestors?’ 

‘I want what is best for the realm.’

‘A Lannister on the iron throne! How can that be the best thing?’ It can never be.

‘Is chopping their head off a choice?’ 

‘The _only_ choice! Father, forgive me I have-’

‘I will not change my mind.’ Rhaegar seems determined and tortured, ‘I cannot, I _will not_ bring thousands to their graves because we play our game of thrones! Not again, I will not accept it! Chopping heads off will be the easy and foolish thing to do.’

‘Father-‘

‘You have not seen war! You have never seen innocent men die, slaughtered, because it's always the innocents that pay the price for our power. I thought I had taught you this, I thought you understood.’ 

‘Joffrey will-‘

‘I have brought our land to war once because of my own foolish mistakes, do you think I can bare to do it again?’

‘The Starks will support us, Jon is married to a Stark! They will support us and the Martells will always support me, my uncle has sworn to me!’ 

‘I am dying, Rhaenys, I am dying and I will not see my crown burn when I take my last breath, I will not!’

She wants to pull out her own hair, ‘Joffrey is not a Targaryen! He is a Lannister, in all but name, he is a Lannister. Jon is a Targaryen. He has the fire in his veins, he is a dragon, he has their blood, he has our blood! He is your son and my brother!’ 

‘Ill remind you one last time that if I legalize him now they'll let the stranger hunt him down and kill him in his sleep. Not only the Lannisters, plenty lords will not be eager for a Stark king, a bastard too, these lords include your own uncles.’

'My uncles will always support me, if we stand together we can defeat them all.’ 

‘’I do not wish to defeat them all. A quiet cat is worth much more than a roaring lion. Jon’s blood is not the problem.’

‘It is the only problem!’

‘No.’ 

‘What was the problem with Aegon?’ Everything was a problem when it came to Aegon. 

Jon could make their father proud, he was and still is respectable, honorable and well-liked. Rhaenys was the one who brought their father joy, the only one who could do it at certain points in his life, most of his life. What did Aegon do? He was a disappointment, he did nothing but let their father down. Why? Because he simply was not the man Rhaegar wanted him to be, needed him to be.

‘This is not about Aegon.’

‘It is about Aegon!’ She could cry now if she is that sort of woman who cries in desperation. She saw Sansa cry when Jon left and Rheanys envied her, the way those drops of tears brought her relief. When Rhaenys cries for Aegon they are no tears of sadness but of heart wrenching anger. 

'Aegon is gone, he left us a mess.'

‘You killed him!’ She has not said it before, not to her father, not like this. She told him with her eyes but now she tells him with words and the way he looks at her tells her he knows she is right. 

'How dare you!’

‘How dare _you_?’ She shakes her head and paces around the office, ‘If Aegon had been alive-‘

‘Would he have fought these wars for me? He would never have, he never cared about our family.’ 

‘He cared about me! He loved you, all he ever wanted was your approval, but you never gave it to him! Like you never gave it to Jon. You expected too much from him!’

‘I expected nothing!’ Her father is bellowing now, his face is flushed, his eyes wide and there is an anger in his appearance that she has never seen before, ‘I never expected more from him than they ever expected of me, what was expected of our betters before us!’ 

‘You killed him!’ She yells it loudly this time, ‘My poor brother!’

‘He would have been king! He ended it himself, he ended his own life, he did it to revenge me!’

‘It had nothing to do with revenge! All Aegon ever wanted was love!’ The tears of anger are back, Rhaenys needs to sit down and she stumbles upon a chair that stands against the wall, just an ornament in this room, ‘You took that away from him.’ 

‘He was going to be king.’ Rhaegar repeats, ‘He was not honorable, he knew nothing of duty, if he had a shred of duty he would have done as he was told!’

‘Like Jon?’ Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, but when she looks at her father she knows he heard her. 

‘No.’

‘Exactly like Jon!’ She finds her voice again, ‘You send him away, while his wife can birth his child any day! How could you do that? How could you be so cruel? Do you hate him this much?’ 

‘I do not hate Jon.’

‘You hate what he is.’ She says. 

‘I do not.’

‘You hate how he is everything Aegon never was! He is everything you wanted Aegon to be, he is-‘

‘Don't talk about Jon!’ He bellows again. 

‘Why? Because you don't want to hear it?’ 

‘I have heard enough!’

‘You don't listen to me! _Listen to me_ , listen to what I am telling you! If we don't act now there _will_ be a war and you may not live to see it but I will and I'll watch the realm burn, our family to pieces, everything we worked for gone to-’

‘I have told you no! How can you not hear what I am telling you?’ 

‘Is it painful?’ She asks, and she knows she wants to hurt him, she wants to hurt him like he hurt Aegon, like he hurt her mother, like he hurt Jon, ‘Is it painful to know that the son you never wanted is the son you will need most?’ 

Rhaegar doesn't respond, he is just as furious, but he doesn't speak, he just stares at her, a fury in his whole body, his hands shaking and he clutches them together to stop them. 

‘Jon will be a father, he can have sons, he will have sons! Plenty of them, and they can be your true grandsons, they can sit on the throne after you, the throne Aegon the conqueror built for us, they can be your heirs.’

‘Rhaenys I cannot legalize Jon right now, simply because Aegon is gone.’ 

‘Father…’

‘It will set the Seven Kingdoms on fire.’

‘The Lannisters will. They tried to have him killed, multiple times they did, she wants him dead because she knows what you and I both know and that is that Jon was born to become the king that you always wanted Aegon to be.’

If she were anywhere near her father she is confident he would have slapped her. His flat hand against her cheek. She would've worn it like a badge of honor. 

‘What will happen to him when Joffrey becomes king?’ 

Her father sinks down in his chair, he sits in it and leans his head in both his hands, hiding his face from her view.

‘What will they do to him? To his children? What will happen to _me_? How can you leave us like that? How can you leave us to their mercy?’ 

He doesn't respond again, he doesn't look up and she can see his body weaken. 

‘If you love us, if you love _me_ , then you will not do this to us. You have to protect your family, you have to protect us even when you’re gone.’ She takes a shaky breath, ‘You owe at least that to Aegon, to protect me and Jon. After everything you did to him! After everything you did to Jon. If you can't bare the idea of Jon being your successor than make me queen, let me protect our family. I'll be a good queen, you know I will, I'll be just and good, I'll be like you, like you taught me.’ 

She walks over to her father but makes carefully sure not to move too close, she knows he is still angry. 

‘You owe it to my mother. After what you did to my mother what you did to… what you did to _her_.’ She can't bring herself to say Lyanna Stark’s name, she will probably never be able to, ‘If you can't do it for me, if you can't do it for Jon, do it for his mother! You loved her, did you not? Protect her son the way you always have, don't betray him now, after all these years.’

She moves her hand to her father’s shoulder and then her whole world comes crashing down.

‘Father?’ 

Her father gasps, clutches his chest and even though she tries to hold him, he falls to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been amazing and lovely and helpful as usual! You all are truly really great!


	22. Freia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'If it is a girl you must name her Lyanna.’ He coughs, ‘Make her a princess and name her Lyanna.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

**Eddard**

Ned finds the royal family in the hall in front of the King’s door. Joffrey seems extremely untouched, quite like Ned expected, and Cersei is already dressed in black, her hair hidden away behind black lace. Tommen and Myrcella are the only ones who are sitting down on chairs along the wall, silently crying and holding hands.

When they see him none of them say a thing, Cersei barely moves her eyes over him to accomplish his presence and Joffrey glares with his pouty lips and his disrespectfully frowned eyebrows.

‘My princess…’ Ned walks over to the princess Rhaenys the moment he spots her. She stands with her back to him, hugging herself with her arms, hopping from one foot to the other, her nails digging in her own flesh through the yellow silks of her winglike sleeves. 

When she turns around he sees her face that shows him nothing but complete and utter terror. He forgets how to breath for a moment and then barely manages to say her name.

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘It's my fault.’ She whispers and her bottom lip trembles. She avoids his eyes and looks around in the hope of finding the solution to the world crumbling down somewhere in a corner. 

He stretches his arms out towards her because she looks like she won’t be able to keep herself upright for much longer, ‘I don't-‘

The moment she can lean on him she completely succumbs and starts sobbing loudly, crying almost like a child, gasping for air. As she sinks through her knees to the floor, Ned tries to keep her upright by pulling on her arms but it doesn't help much when her sobs turn to wailing and every muscle in her body is unable to make her raise. 

Ned still holds her lower arms in his hands when he looks up and sees Cersei.

The queen turns around, as if the sight is unbearable to her, but Ned knows that all she hides is a smile, a smile of victory. 

 

**Jon**

The eastern sky is rose and gold as the sun breaks over the Vale of Arryn. As he rides at dawn Jon watches the light spread. The beauty of daylight does little to lighten his mood. 

He never before visited the Eyrie, he has always wanted to see it and Sansa often spoke of how much she would love to lay eyes on it, but now he is dreading his arrival as much as he wants to speed it up. The sooner he will be there the sooner he can leave, yet he knows that it may be quite the challenge to convince Catelyn to free Tyrion. 

Even more so he fears the confrontation with Lysa Arryn. If Aegon was mentally disturbed so is that woman. Her policies used to change with her moods and her moods changed hourly. He remembers her to be by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain and, above all, inconstant.

The night before the Eyrie appeared on the horizon a messenger found him in the tavern he stayed in to tell him Jaime Lannister is massing a host at Casterly Rock to which in response Sansa’s uncle Edmure Tully sent riders to the Rock, demanding for lord Tywin to proclaim his intent. He has, as for now, been left without an answer. Obviously. 

Jon wonders if he is the only one who can comprehend and predict the responses of the Lannisters. He and his father, his father can do it too. Apart from them everyone else seems to underestimate their pride and confidence. 

Edmure Tully has vowed to yield no foot of Tully land without watering it with Lannister blood first. Jon wants to wish the man the best of luck but the more he hears the more he starts believing that the mental strike of Lysa is a family trait after all. Is this truly worth it? No, it is not and he intents to tell Catelyn just that. 

The sight of the King's Road stretches out before him, narrow and stony and pocked with weeds, a road of no particular promise, yet the sight of it fills him with longing. Winterfell is down that road, and so many other places; Casterly Rock, the Isles of Faces, the red mountains of Dorne, the hundred islands of Braavos in the sea, the smoking ruins of Valyria. All the places Daenerys dreamed of seeing, places Sansa reads about, places he has already seen or will never see, places he never wanted to go to. He only ever wanted to go to Winterfell, with Sansa, growing old and boring there, give her so many babies. 

The Eyrie is the smallest castle he has ever seen of the fame it enjoys, Winterfell might be ten times as big, the Red Keep five times. It consists of a cluster of seven slim towers bunched tightly together and is made of fine white stone.

The Gates of the Moon castle he just passed was larger, uglier too, but larger. Before that he saw the waycastles, first Stone, then Snow and then Sky. These all came after the Bloody gate. 

‘Who would pass the Bloody Gate?’

Jon fucking Snow. He wanted to call it loudly. I am here to claim my idiot, brilliant, pathetic, drunk, clever, whoring, funny, fake uncle and bring him back to the capital to safe whatever is left of Lord Tyrion’s self-respect and the Lannister pride. 

‘Jon Snow, the King’s bastard, I have come to speak to my mother-in-law.’ He said instead. 

Now he walks into Cat’s room before he has even seen or spoken to Lysa or Lord Arryn and he finds out, that his travel, his departure, was all for nothing. 

‘He is gone.’ 

‘ _Gone_?’ 

Catelyn seems almost nervous and the way she avoids his eyes makes him angry, yet not as angry as the entire situation does. He respects Cat, he loves her, even, the way she took him in, brought him up amongst her own, like a second son. He admires her, respects her, appreciates her both as an aunt and as the mother of his wife. She reminds him of Sansa and Sansa reminds him of Catelyn. It is not just the hair and the cheekbones, it's something in the eyes too, the big, deep, Tully-blue eyes. Maybe it's pride, but it's something else too and he doesn't know what to call it. 

‘How?’ 

‘Trial by combat.’ She admits, ‘A man fought for him, he fought and he won. He fought with no honor Jon! Threw our knight right through the moon-‘

‘Do you think I care?’ He really does not give a shit, he could've stayed at King’s Landing with Sansa, he never would've had to leave, he could've stayed to take care of her and take care of Rhaenys, make sure she doesn't do something stupid, make sure she knows she's not alone, ‘What in the name of our Gods were you thinking?’ 

She looks away again, fidgets with her hands and doesn't respond.

‘You were wrong to capture him.’ 

‘He killed Bran!’

‘Bran is alive!’

‘Barely!’ Tears appear in her eyes, ‘He is a cripple.’

‘He lives.’ Jon says, ‘He rides a horse. Tyrion designed a saddle for him. Have you forgotten?’ 

She doesn't respond. 

‘Tyrion did not try to kill Bran.’ 

‘Someone did! The Lannisters… The queen, Ser Jaime or the imp, perhaps the three of them together, I do not know who exactly but they did it!’

‘There is no proof! How do you expect Ned to explain this to my father? What about me? What was I supposed to say? Did you forget we were in the capital? Arya and Sansa and Ned they are _still_ in the capital.’ 

‘He was going to take Robin away from Lysa.’ Cat says, ‘To rip a child from his mother’s breast, without her consent… Especially you, with Sansa, you must see how cruel that is!’ 

‘Not cruel enough to capture him and seize him-‘

‘Just as cruel!’

‘He was only the messenger! Do you think he had any say in it? You wrote Sansa and assumed I had any say in it but I did not, you attacked the wrong man.’

‘He was going to take Robin away, it _was_ cruel, if they believed they could take the boy with them just like that they were fools!’ 

‘Just as foolish as giving the imp a trial by combat!’ 

‘He won did he not?’ 

‘Aye he won!’ A moon’s turn ago he had not dreamed of speaking in this manner to her, but now he can simply not contain himself, ‘What if he’d lost? Had you taken his head? Send it in a wooden box adorned with a direwolf to lord Tywin to teach him a lesson? Had you been willing to fight a war over-‘

‘He won!’ She raises her voice, ‘He won, he is on his way back to King’s Landing, I have no head to send.’ 

‘It was a foolish thing to do.’

She does not deny it, she does not agree and instead she chooses to stare at him, her arms crossed and her eyebrows knit in a frown that remind him once again so much of Sansa. 

‘I came all this way for nothing.’ He feels rather hopeless suddenly, ‘I left Sansa for nothing, for _this_.’ He shakes his head in disbelieve, ‘I thank you for this.’

Finally she seems to feel a slight bit guilty as her eyebrows unknit and her arms unfold, ‘How could I know…’

‘You couldn't know!’ He says, loudly again, ‘But you could know that no good can come of capturing Lord Tyrion, no good!’ 

‘Lysa believes he killed Jon Arryn!’ 

‘Lysa believes the sky is green if she wants to.’ 

‘Careful boy!’ There is a warning in her voice that immediately makes him feel like a child, ‘She is my sister and you’d better not dream of insulting her.’ 

Yet it is so terribly easy to do just that. Jon wonders if Cat was shocked by Lysa’s looks, he can't imagine she isn't. Lysa Tully has quite simply a very shocking appearance. 

'I know I have made a mistake.’ She says, her voice shaky but strong, ‘I must ask for your forgiveness but I do not tolerate you to speak to me in such a manner.’ She straightens her back, ‘You owe me your respect.’ 

He agrees, it doesn't feel like he should right now, but he knows it is true, ‘I respect you.’ Jon says, ‘That is why I never expected you to do something like this.’ 

‘Bran.’ She says quite simply, ‘For Bran.’ 

'Because of that dagger?’ 

‘It belonged to lord Tyrion.’

‘What kind of idiot do you think he is? To use his own dagger to kill a boy?’

Catelyn doesn't respond. 

‘Lord Tyrion has no motive to want Bran dead.’

She still doesn't speak, instead she looks away.

He nods, ‘My son or daughter can be born any day.’ He tells her, ‘I will not be there to see them lay it in my wife’s arms for the first time. I hope that makes you feel guilty.’ 

‘It does a little bit.’ 

He shakes his head, ‘It was all for nothing.’ He says again, ‘You have lost your mind, woman.’ 

‘I will not warn you again.’ 

‘Nor will I warn you.’ He feels angry all over again, ‘The Lannisters are raising an army, your brother called for his bannermen, Ned was attacked in the streets, three Stark men were shamelessly slaughtered… I truly hope you feel guilty.’ 

‘What is it you mean to tell me, Jon? That I have made a mistake? I have already told you that I am aware, but it will never feel like one.’

‘It bloody should!’

‘Don't raise your voice at me! You are only-‘

‘A _bastard_?’ There is a gleam in her eyes when he asks her. She was not going to say it but that doesn't mean it's not what she believes and she wisely chooses not to speak, ‘Mind yourself woman, I am not just a bastard, I am the _King’s_ bastard.’ 

People have told Jon all his life, hammered on about how he is not ‘just a bastard’, he is the king’s son. For some time now, he has been the only son of the king who still breathes air. He may be a bastard, but he is the only son Rhaegar has left. And Sansa is right, it means something. 

‘You have no idea in what impossible position you put me by doing this, me and my wife both, I'm now in the middle of this!’ 

‘For Bran.’ She repeats again. 

‘I damn well hope Bran appreciates it.’ 

‘He is gone.’ She says, ‘He left, back home to that place they call the capital.’ 

Jon nods and then tells her, his voice calm, careful and cold, ‘You better hope Robb doesn't call for the bannermen, you really better hope that.’ 

'I do hope that.' She says and it makes him nod.

He has nothing else to say to her so he chooses to turn around and leave her there. He decides to avoid Catelyn’s sister for a moment longer by making his way to the highest top of the highest tower, where the ravens in their caves keep him company. 

For a short time he stares out at the sky. Blue, white, pink, some yellows too. In the distance he can see a rainbow and birds flying through the sky, as free as no man has ever been, would ever be, could only dream of being. If only he could spread his wings and fly away, leave this godawful castle, away from this situation, the drama, the problems, the unnecessary mistakes. 

He grabs himself a piece of parchment and pens down two letters. One to his father, to inform him of the useless visit and to let him know Tyrion is already on his way home, will reach the capital before Jon does. Then another one, to Sansa, with as many words as he can squeeze in on the tiny piece of paper, carefully making sure to write down everything that is not only at the top of his head but will also help her, hopefully, give her some guidance. 

He stares after the raven as it flies away, a bit too long perhaps, he should turn and go, leave before it's too late and he won't be able to leave, to ride out, away from this castle, away from Cat and Lysa and that sickly boy of hers. 

He means to turn around and walk down the stairs to tell his party they will leave the same day when Ser Malckom stands in front of him, his face as white as a cloth, a look in his eyes Jon has never seen before. 

‘W-what happend? What did she do?’ 

‘Nothing.’ He says, he shakes his head and walks over to him. Jon feels fear creep in and take over his body, ‘My lord, I am so sorry.’ 

‘Sansa.’ He says, ‘Is she-‘

‘It's your father.’ Malckom drops his hands to Jon’s shoulders, ‘The king... may the Seven protect his soul.’ 

Jon doesn't really hear what he's saying.

‘I think it might be wiser to wait another night before we return to the capital, my lord. Only the Gods know what will happen now.’

 

**Sansa**

Sansa feels dreadful, terrible, angry, awful, hideous, dreary, anxious and sick. Lonely too, lonely most of all. 

She can’t stop staring into the mirror yet she hates looking at herself. Before she looked like a shiny new coin, now her appearance only shows how she hasn't slept for days. 

Arya rages on about Jory, her father sends men after Jon, Rhaenys has lost yet again every bit of sanity she regained, the king is dying, none of them listen to what she says, nor to what Jon said, and Sansa can only feel the urge to hide in her room and lock the door. 

Everybody forgets that she might be scared, that she sleeps alone at night when fear grips her throat. She doesn't believe they don't care, it's just that they don't see it, they don't look. When was the last time anyone properly looked at her? Truly saw her? She cannot remember. 

The baby needs to come out, Sansa really needs this to be over, because she won't be able to keep doing it for much longer. Yet she wants it to stay in forever, safe inside, for the baby and for her. She told Jon she's not scared, she didn't lie, it's only that she maybe didn't quite realize what she should or should not be scared of. 

It is in the morrow when she's laying in her bed and septa Mordane knocks on her door.

"Sansa. Your father wants to see you.’ 

Sansa sits up and looks right into the eyes of Ghost.

‘Ghost.’ She whispers. He doesn't make a sound, just watches her, a worried gleam in his eyes. He walks over to her soundlessly and she moves her hand to gently pad him on his head, ‘Hello boy.’ The direwolf closes his eyes at the touch.

Sansa sits upright in her bed, bar naked, and looks up angrily as the Septa opens her door. 

‘Sansa-‘

‘I did not give you permission to open my door.’ 

‘Your father wants to see you.’ 

‘Could you leave? I need rest.’ 

‘Sansa-‘

‘I told you to leave.’ She needs to be alone, she needs to sleep, she needs to feel sad and scared without people thinking she's exaggerating or being a child. 

The Septa closes the door again and leaves only to return a few minutes later with her father knocking on the door this time. 

‘Sansa can I come in?’ 

She closes her eyes to pretend he is not there but then he knocks and calls her name again, and she responds as loudly as she possibly can, ‘ _Yes_?’

‘Sansa…’ he walks over to her bed and sits down on the side, ‘How are you feeling?’ He moves his hand to her forehead, ‘You have a fever.’ 

‘I am only tired.’ 

‘Arya said you were crying yesterday?’ 

‘Just tired.’ 

‘She said you told her you miss Jon.’

Sansa doesn't respond, she can't bare another lecture on how there are worse things going on right now, Arya already tries her very best nearly every day. 

Her father nods, ‘I understand. Sansa, I have been thinking...’ he starts stroking her hair and she closes her eyes at the touch, ‘When the king passes away, may the gods safe his soul, I will not serve as the new king’s hand. I will travel back home with the two of you, and Arya, I will bring Arya too of course. Starks don't belong at court, they melt below the neck.’ 

Sansa certainly feels like she's melting, ‘Can I ask you something? Will you be honest with me?’ 

‘Yes.’ She sees how hard it is for him to promise that. 

‘Will we be in danger when the new king sits the throne?’

‘Not when we go home, to the North. Winter is coming.’ 

‘Will he die soon? Jon's father?’ 

‘Any day now.’ 

_Any day now_. They say the same about her baby’s arrival, but that has not happened yet either. 

‘He wishes to see you, can you do that?’

‘The king?’ 

Ned nods once. 

‘Right now?’ 

‘Only if you're up to it.’ 

Sansa moves up in the bed, her blanket closely pulled towards her, ‘I am up to it.’ 

Her lord father sighs and looks at the door, ‘Cersei is here to escort you.’

Sansa nods and after he leaves she allows Septa Mordane to help her get properly dressed.

Sansa can feel her baby move actively below her hand while she follows the Queen into the bedchamber. 

‘Thank you, your grace.’ 

There must have never been a woman less frightened or lost at her husband’s deathbed than Cersei Lannister, Sansa thinks as the woman nods towards the bed.

‘He asked for you.’ 

Sansa looks at the man in the bed. 

Rheagar Targaryen looks old and broken, ill and weak… dying. The king who wanted to rule with grace, with dignity and every sense of duty, the king who saved King’s Landing, won the battle of the trident, killed Robert Baratheon, betrayed his own father, who was chosen by all of the realm as their protector, the king of the seven kingdoms, the dragon… He is dying and laying in a featherbed while doing so. No heroic death, no blood, no swords, no battle. An old man in a bed, weak and scornful. 

‘Come forward child.’ 

Sansa curtsies to the best of her ability and every muscle in her body protests, ‘Your grace.’

‘I am your father-in-law.’ Rheagar says.

Sansa doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t even know what to think. Her head turns and she gives everything she has not to close her eyes because she knows that when she does they will roll back and her head will hit the floor and the whole world will spin and time shall pass by without her noticing.

‘Sit down girl, sit down.’ He says. 

Sansa sits down in the chair next to his bed, trying not to moan or make any other kind of sound that will show signs of her discomfort. The nausea slightly lessens now she no longer needs to stand upright though she tries to keep her upper body straight and not let her back lean against the chair.

Leave.’ 

She only realizes he speaks to Cersei when she hears the queen move out of the door, letting it fall shut behind her, without saying another word.

‘How are you, my lady?’ He looks at her, his purple eyes are not as weak as the rest of him, they still pierce through her like they did more than a year and a half ago now, when he looked at her inquisitively, examined her with a single glance and then nodded in approval. 

‘Good.’ She lies.

‘Your child?’

‘Strong.’ She places her hands on her swollen belly, ‘Moving constantly,’ she adds, ‘It will be born any day now.’ 

Her father-in-law watches her, ‘Perhaps the mother gives you a son.’ 

‘Yes.’ She says, ‘Perhaps.’

‘If it is a girl you must name her Lyanna.’ He coughs, ‘Make her a princess and name her Lyanna.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ She says again, maybe he has forgotten that the only person who can make Sansa’s daughter a princess is Rhaegar himself, ‘What would you have called Jon? If you could have named him yourself?’

‘We always believed he'd be a girl. So we had no name for him.’ 

She wonders if that is why he allowed her father to name him Jon, because there was no other name to give him, ‘What was it? What girl name?’

‘Visenya. We were going to call our daughter Visenya.’ Rhaegar says, ‘But that was all me, Lyanna wanted to call him Freia... She loved that name.’

‘Freia?’ 

‘Yes. It sounds Northern but it is Valyrian, you see? Unlike Visenya.’ 

‘Freia is a beautiful name.’ Sansa says, ‘Prettier than Visenya.’ 

‘I suppose that is true.’ Rheagar stares at her and she wonders if he tries to find out what she is thinking. He may have been able to do that once, but not anymore, ‘You have been a good wife to him, haven't you? I’m glad you have, he has a good heart, he deserves a good wife, it’s good of you to love him.’ 

‘He is an honorable man, your grace, a gentle husband to me.’ She cannot stop herself when she adds, ‘You should be proud of him.’ 

Rheagar looks away, finally, and she wonders if he is in pain, ‘Lyanna would have been proud. He will be as good a father as he is a man.’ 

Sansa grabs the silk covering her belly tight, ‘He will.’

Rhaegar doesn't look at her while he speaks, ‘Better than I ever was. To any of my children, that is. But him especially. I failed all of them, but I especially failed him,’ He coughs some more and it sounds like he is choking when he says her name, ‘Lyanna.’ He says it a couple of times, ‘Lyanna... Lyanna... Lyanna’s boy… I tried...’

Sansa desperately wants to leave, for a second she fears he will die and she will be the only one to witness it. Then he catches his breath and he shakes his head as if he himself does not understand his own foolishness.

‘Why didn’t you love him?’ Sansa asks, ‘He is so terribly easy to love.’

‘The gods know I tried.’ 

'I think you love him.’ Sansa decides and he finally looks at her with watery eyes, perhaps because of the coughing, perhaps for other reasons, ‘How can you not?’ 

‘I tried not to, the gods are my witness.’ He says and Sansa realizes she misunderstood, he's not denying anything at all, he is admitting. 

‘Why would you do that?’

‘He was safer off without me, you see? Much safer, and better too. But it is my greatest crime. Trying not to love him is my greatest crime and my greatest failure. I have had many failures. I failed Lyanna. Love is the bane of honor and the death of duty.’ 

‘Making them believe you didn't love him kept him safe?’ 

He says nothing.

Sansa almost feels sorry for him, but when she closes her eyes for just a second too long the fever causes her to see Jon’s face, he looks sad, he always looks sad when he speaks of his father. 

_I’ll always be grateful to him for giving you to me._

‘Why did we get married?’ Sansa asks, she never expected to ever ask him, or find out, ‘Nobody understood.’

‘They made me offer him a place in the King’s Guard.’ Rhaegar tells her, ‘It would be an honourable place, a _good_ place for him, they argued. He was better with swords than any of the other boys. Nobody would ever call him Snow again, I’d knight him myself. But the damn fool didn’t want it. I always knew he'd do that. He's not as unpredictable to me as he would like to be. I still tried because they all expected me to do it, but only because I knew he'd never accept. It would've made him unhappy, it's good he didn't let me.’

Jon never told her that but Sansa instantly knows why Jon denied, ‘He couldn’t stand the idea of being a prisoner in King’s Landing for the rest of his life.’

Rhaegar looks at her for a second and she wonders if it surprises him she guessed it so quickly, ‘He couldn’t stand the idea of spending the rest of his life serving Aegon.’ 

‘So he asked you if he could join the Night’s Watch?’

Rhaegar smiles and even when he's dying his smile is handsome. She wonders how often she has seen him smile, if she ever noticed before that he does the exact same thing with his eyes as Jon does when he smiles, ‘He didn’t ask me, he _told_ me.’ Sansa wonders if he says it in amusement, ‘I said, over my dead body, young man. He said I couldn’t stop him once he’d turned eighteen. He wanted to join the ancient Night’s Watch with other cast offs of our society. But my son is not a cast off, he does not deserve a life away all up in the North. Do you know what it is like on the wall? I was not going to let him do that to himself.’ 

Sansa tries not to smile at his words, but she does look away.

There is spite is Rhaegar’s voice when he goes on, ‘I told him that if he really wanted to go I’d let him but I urged him to wait some more years, father some bastards of his own first.’

Sansa looks at her hands, still both resting on her belly. She feel a little hand, or perhaps a little foot through her own skin, ‘You could not have insulted him more.’ She whispers.

‘ _I shall never father bastards!_ That is what he said.’ Rhaegar huffs, ‘He never yelled once at me but in that moment. That _cow_ told me he was insulting me but he wasn’t. He was insulting himself, he was always very good at that.’ 

Sansa knows he is talking about Cersei now, ‘You let her and her family torment him for years.’ She says and she means it to be an accusation.

Rhaegar ignores her and repeats, ‘No son of mine will ever join the Night’s watch, not ever, I could not let him do that to himself.’ 

He closes his eyes and Sansa realizes he must have been unable to sleep for days, ‘The only way to keep him from going was to get him married.’

‘That is true.’ Rhaegar says.

‘And I was the first opportunity that popped up?’ Sansa asks.

‘No.’ Rhaegar says, ‘I didn’t need to force him into doing anything to stop him from joining. In the end, he always listened to me. He never disobeyed or disrespected me.’ 

‘Then why?’ 

‘I was going to get him married either way, I always was, he needed to be married. Some people are not meant to ever be married, but he was. I had not yet decided to whom, not every lord is eager to marry their daughter to a bastard, even when it's a king’s bastard. Then I decided I was not going to marry Aegon to you because Aegon was potentially never going to marry anyone and I couldn't risk losing you as a bride to other lords.. Lannisters and Martells, they were all ready to snatch you away and the prospect was a dangerous one. You are lord Stark’s daughter and I knew I could convince him to agree to the match.’

Sansa nods. Rhaegar never seemed to be much interested in her, but as it turns out she really has been that chess piece all this time, from the moment she flowered. Her marriage to Jon has and is and will always be a move on a board, the game of thrones. Even the king made his move with her. Even he pushed her in directions, shoved her towards Jon. All because he was afraid her piece would get snatched away by some Lannister or Martell lord. 

When Jon swore his vows to her in the Godswood he did not love her. Their marriage was a political move. No man was ever going to marry her for love. It was simple luck that she married him. Him out of all these other men that could've stood beside her in a sept or in front of a tree. 

If things had been slightly different perhaps she never would've married him, perhaps she would have married a cruel man or a mad man or a terribly old or ugly man. Perhaps she could have ended up with a man who hits his wife or disrespects her and never listens. 

He did not love her when he married her but he grew to love her all the same. She wants to believe that is all that matters.

A voice in the back of her head tells her that they belong together. That despite the game they are still meant to be. That their love was never a move, never a piece, never a political necessity or strategy. It was faith. Or perhaps it was luck. Maybe both.

Sansa doesn't know, she is not sure if she should thank the king, her father or the Gods. Perhaps she should thank Jon, because he is who he is and she will never want him to change, she doesn't want anyone else. She's grateful yet not sure who deserves her gratitude. 

‘Jon wanted to go North, it’s where he always wanted to be, where he believed he belongs. Marrying you gave him the chance to go there, for some time.’ 

‘Out of sight.’ Sansa says, ‘You married him off so you could keep him under your control. No matter how much you couldn’t bare to look at him, you always wanted to have him under your control.’

Rhaegar looks at her and she knows these words must've felt like a blade through his heart, ‘Did he tell you that?’

‘No.’ Sansa lies.

‘He looks like such a northerner, his hair and his clothes, the way he rides his horse- even the accent, he still has that damn accent. When he came here I couldn't believe he was my son. At first, but the more I saw of him, the more I realized…’ Rhaegar closes his eyes at the memory of a young Jon Snow, ‘I feared I was too late. He was not my son, he was a son of the North, Ned Stark’s son- that is what he looked like. He looked like a Stark. Even after six years in the capital he still looked like a Stark. But he never was, you see? He has never been a Stark.’

‘Jon he… he never felt like he was truly a real Stark.’ Sansa says, she’s not sure why, she's not even sure what Jon is feeling now, where his loyalties lie, the only thing she's sure of is that he doesn't know it himself either. 

‘He’s a Targaryen.’ Rhaegar says and he sounds almost possessive when he adds, ‘He is my son.’ 

‘He is.’ There is no one who will deny it. Jon may not look like his father much in appearance, but the rest of him is all Rhaegar. She didn’t immediately see it, but once she noticed… It became undeniable to her. She knows she's not the only one who sees that. 

Rhaegar waits a moment before he continues, ‘My son wanted nothing to do with me, he so badly wanted nothing to do with me that he dreamed of being a Stark. I couldn’t turn him into one, no one could, but I could give him a Stark, a reason to go North, away from all the things he hates, all the things that could hurt him.’

‘You gave him his home back.’ Sansa hopes she finally understands yet somewhere she doubts it, somewhere she knows he is leaving something important out, something he will never tell her, never tell anyone.

‘King’s Landing is his home.’ Rhaegar says, ‘My son is a dragon.’ 

‘Then why did you make us stay in Winterfell? If you think he belongs here?’ 

‘Because it was the safest place for him. Or so I thought. And it's where he wanted to be. I owed it to him to give him his heart’s desire.’ Rhaegar says, ‘It was the least thing I could do. I couldn’t stand to see him suffer no more.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him that?’ Sansa asks, ‘Why didn’t you explain?’ 

Rhaegar doesn't seem to think he owes it to her to answer her question, or perhaps he doesn't really have his answers, but it doesn't silence him either, ‘I remember when I first saw him when he was still a child. The exact replica of what Eddard Stark looked like when he first arrived in the Capital. Even the look on their faces matched.’ Rhaegar seems to relive the moment all over again, ‘Suspicion.’

‘He once told me there are only liars in the capital.’ Sansa says.

‘He told you because it’s true.’ Rhaegar looks at her hands, clutching her belly as if she wants to protect her child from this very conversation, ‘He’ll regret bringing you here.’ 

‘I think he already does.’ Sansa says.

‘I regret bringing him here.’ Rhaegar says, ‘When I made him come here it was too late. When I finally built up the nerve to look Lyanna’s son in the eye it was too late. Too damn late.’

Sansa presses her lips together, the words ‘too late’ make her feel anxious.

‘Jon Snow is never going to forgive me for what I did to his mother. He made up his mind about me long before he set foot in the Crownlands. I let him hate me because I deserved it.’

‘You are wrong.’ Sansa says, she knows Jon tried, but he failed, like his father. Apparently they both failed to hate each other. How ridiculously odd, to fail together at hating your kin, ‘He never hated you. All he ever wanted was for you to love him.’

‘He reminded me of his mother, he has her eyes and her hair.’ 

‘You can't even look at him.’

‘He looks so much like his mother.’ 

Sansa wants to scream at him, tell him he’s a fool, tell him that any man would be grateful to have a son like Jon Snow, say he doesn’t deserve a son like him, say she has never known a more gentler, more strong, brave and good man ever in her life.

‘Do you think I cannot see his value and potential, girl?’ Suddenly his voice is hoarse with anger and sadness, ‘Do you think I am a blind and feeble man? I am dying but my mind is still strong. I know that there is more honor and duty in him than in all the rest of them combined.’ 

She knows he talks about his other children now and she disagrees. Perhaps Rhaenys was right. Men really do always underestimate women, all of them, even kings.

'He is the best thing the Gods ever granted me.’ 

Sansa wants to tell him they have something in common after all.

‘He will be a better king than I ever was, a better king than Aegon could ever have been. He's smart, selfless, just and he listens. He knows what duty is, he is honorable and he cannot stand cruelty. He is good. He is like her, she was good too, sweet and kind but fierce and brave as well.’

The mention of Jon as king frightens Sansa, it will frighten Jon, it might end him, make him as unhappy as his father. Sansa does not want Jon to become king and she certainly doesn't want him to be unhappy. She blinks and decides to tell him, ‘Thank you for giving him to me, your grace, my gratitude knows no bounds and I know- I know Jon is grateful too.’

Rhaegar looks at her for a second, a bit stunned it seems, ‘You must do your duty and help him in the future. The Gods know he’ll need it.’ 

‘I will.’ Sansa breathes, ‘I must ask your forgiveness your grace but I need to-‘

‘Go to your room child,’ He says, ‘Go to your room and rest.’ 

Sansa nods, she gets up and tries to make it seem as effortless as she possibly can but she doesn’t think Rhaegar notices. 

When she moves out she sees Joffrey stand behind the door, waiting for her to come out, ‘You look dreadful.’ He says and she realizes he doesn’t. He believes he'll be king, may the Gods protect them all. 

She doesn’t respond, instead moves past him and lets ser Barristan bring her to her chambers. 

There she sits down on her bed and sighs as she tries to avoid closing her eyes, closing her eyes makes her feel like she is back on that ship again. 

She looks at her nightstand and sees a platter with a letter on it. She takes it in her hand, turns it over to see who's it from but she knows it can only come from one person. With the letter knife that lays with it on the platter she opens it and reads. 

_Dearest sweet Sansa,_

_As I am writing this letter I am sitting in a tower that looks out over the roof of the world. The clouds are as white as bone and the sky as blue as the seas of Dorne. You'll love it. All I can think about I how you'll love it and someone that makes it better and worse._  
I have to quickly write you because I don't have much time, we will leave soon and I mean to send this with a raven from the Eyrie, to make sure it will reach you and reach you soon.  
Your mother will return to Winterfell today and I will come back to you. Alas my travel was of no use, lord Tyrion already found his own way to freedom when I arrived. If only I'd known, somehow I feel I could've known. There is little to be done now, all I can do is ride back as fast as my horse runs.  
I must tell you, the Eyrie is not at all what you'd like, much colder than you'd expect. The guards are unkind, the food is salty and the godswood is gloomy. You would love to see Lysanne’s tears however, I wish I was any good at drawing because that way I could show you somehow what I've seen.  
Maybe I will take you with me to the Eyrie someday, if you'd like that. But first we'll go back home, soon, together.  
If you want you can think of me and feel sorry for me while I am on the road with ser Malckom, you do know what that is like.  
I prefer to travel with you above the company of anyone else, even when you complain, as you do a lot when you’re on horseback, but I never minded, at least that way I can talk to you.  
Your mother sends you all her love and she regrets it that she cannot come with me to you, but she and you must both understand it is simply not a possibility.  
I have missed you so, I suspect I'll miss you even more in the days to come but at least now I'll know when we will see each other again. I cannot wait to be back with you, so I can hold you and kiss your face and make you smile.  
Please look after yourself, be strong, be brave and don't do anything you know you shouldn't do.  
_All my love,_

_Jon_

Sansa strokes her hand over his words and feels sadness take over. She realizes he doesn't know, when he wrote her he didn't know that he will never see his father again. She wonders if they already told him, if he knows that when he'll come back to her, he'll have a child but no father waiting for him.

It truly is too late, Rhaegar is dying and no matter what he and everyone says, when Jon returns a king Joffrey will receive him. What will their lives be like after that? Will her father really join them when they travel back North? Probably. There is no way her father will act as hand to Joffrey, he doesn't want to and the queen won't let him. 

She moves over to her small study and gets herself a piece of paper, to write back to him. Afterwards she folds the paper and lays it back on the platter, for them to send it to him. Then she picks up his letter and holds it to her chest as she lays down on her bed and finally closes her eyes.

When she wakens a couple of hours later she can hear Arya’s voice. 

‘Sansa…’ She whispers, ‘Sansa wake up.’

Sansa can hardly open her eyes, it is too hot suddenly and she can feel a layer of sweat cover her whole body, even though she knows it must be cold in the room. If only she could be in Winterfell, with the hot springs warming every corner. 

‘Sansa…’ Arya whispers again.

Sansa feels Jon’s letter curled up in her hands and she looks at it. She can't read his words for they are vague and dance in front of her eyes, ‘I wrote to Jon.’ She tells her little sister, ‘Will you send it to him?’ 

‘Of course.’ Arya breathes, ‘Sansa you have a fever.’ 

Sansa knows that, ‘I don't feel very well.’

‘You must see a maester.’ Arya says. 

Sansa feels a sharp pain in her abdomen that makes her squeal and gasp for air. When the pain worsens she pulls her legs up and moves her hands down to grab her belly. 

‘Sansa…’ Arya’s voice is scared now and Sansa can finally see her face as she looks at her and she smiles.

‘I think the baby is coming.’ She whispers. 

Arya nods, ‘You need a maester. Right now.’ 

Sansa lays her head back down on the pillow, ‘It will be alright, have no fear sweet sister.’ 

‘Sansa…’ Arya’s voice trembles as their hands find each other. 

‘You will stay with me?’ 

‘Of course I will.’ 

Sansa squeezes her hand with all the power she can give it, ‘Then I will be alright.’ She breathes.

Arya moves up and lets go of her hand, ‘I must find you a maester.’ 

Sansa notices her hands tremble and a fear that she never expected takes over. Then she remembers, ‘The king?’ 

'He won't make it through the night.’ Arya tells her, ‘He will die tonight.’ 

Sansa nods.

‘I will find you a maester.’ 

It’s too late, she means to say, it’s too late the king is dying, there is no one who can save him, he killed himself all those years ago. 

Sansa realizes they loosen her corset and braid her hair. It’s hot, then cold, hot again but she never stops sweating. 

She feels an urge to throw up because the world is spinning and it won’t stop turning. She wants to scream for help, for water, for air. At one point all she feels is her baby’s limps, aggressively fighting her abdomen and all she can hear is the sound of her blood pumping behind her ears. 

It's as if the muscles in her lower-back are twisting, harder and harder until it's unbearable and then it slowly subsides again. She tries to surrender but all she can do is whimper and bite her lip until it bleeds. It's as if her body is trying to squeeze out all her organs, not just the baby, as if someone is trying to tug it all out, as if her hips are being pulled apart. Someone is trying to wring her child out. 

Around her she recognizes the faces of Arya, Septa Mordane, grand-measter Pycelle and Rhaenys. Then she sees Daenerys and even Cersei once. 

‘The child is strong.’ Grand-measter Pycelle says, ‘It has to come or it will die.’

Then Sansa hears her father, but she can't see him anywhere. ‘I need her to live. She needs to live, do you understand?’

Everything all goes away for a second but then she feels Arya’s hands through her hair and she sings. Arya was never a good singer but her voice is the most comforting sound she has ever heard.

‘Sansa? _Sansa_! Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’ She says, or she thinks she does.

Sweat drips down her brow and then she feels the weirdest feeling, a sort of pop and an immediate gush of very warm fluid that soaks through the fabric of her bed and her nightgown. After that, the pain takes over her mind. 

Sansa can't stop crying and even with all these people in her room, her maids and septas and Arya and Rhaenys and other people she has never seen before… she feels lonely. She wants to tell them to open the windows so there'll be cool air in the room. 

'Sansa?' 

‘It hurts.’ She tells Rhaenys. 

‘I know.’ She says but Sansa doesn't believe her. Nobody in this room knows. Sansa wants her mother. If only her mother could be here. Her mother knows. Her mother could tell her what is going on, what she should do. If her mother told her everything will be alright Sansa would believe her.

‘I don't think I can do it.’

‘Yes you can.’ 

Sansa shakes her head and cries some more, ‘I'm scared, Rhaenys I'm scared.’

‘I know you are, it's okay, you'll be fine, you can do it, I know you can.’

Rhaenys keeps stroking her hair and Sansa can feel Arya squeezing her hand before the pain hits her again and Sansa drops her head back to the pillow and screams. 

Someone tells her ladies don't scream but Arya commands the woman to ‘fuck off!’ and Sansa screams some more, louder this time. 

She can't stand the pain. It's excruciating. She has never experienced pain such as this, never expected to and her mother was right. Now it actually happens, she is scared. She screams with more force than she ever has before. It is simply too much, no one can do this, how can the Gods expect her to do this? As if women do not suffer enough already. She needs to find her strengths but she has never felt this weak in her whole life. She feels hands in hers that squeeze, voices that tell her to not give up, to be strong, they tell her she can do it. They keep telling her. 

Rhaenys tells her, it's Rhaenys. Arya on her left, Rhaenys on her right. They look tense and nervous, they talk to her but somehow she can't hear them, she can only squeeze their hands and dig her nails in their flesh as she keeps telling everyone that she can't do it.

‘I can't do it!’ 

Hands are everywhere, stroking her hair, placing a wet cloth to her forehead, they grab her arms and legs and she can feel them between her legs too. 

‘No, please!’ 

‘It's stuck.’ Someone says, ‘The head..’ 

‘Push, my lady, please, you have to push.’ 

Her brain throbs and she realizes that she doesn't really know how to push, at least not how to do it effectively. Right before she's ready to give up something deep inside of her refuses to and nature takes over when she finally pushes and the last thing she hears before she nearly loses consciousness is her baby crying. The sound is strong, she sounds angry, loudly she screams as she comes into the world. 

They tell her it's a daughter. 

‘I knew that.’ She tells Arya, who smiles, her smile spreads out across her whole face, ‘I already knew that.’

She wants everyone to go, leave her alone, they all need to leave. She wants to hold her baby, see her baby, her baby is all she needs. 

Sansa stretches her arms out and wants to tell them to give her child to her, but they take her away and when the sound of her crying fades Sansa feels robbed. Robbed, empty and alone. 

‘W-where is she? Where are they taking her?’ she cannot recall ever feeling so anxious. 

Rhaenys presses a kiss to her damp hair, ‘Sansa…’ she breathes, tears in her eyes, ‘They're going to check if she's healthy.’

‘No I…’ Sansa looks at Arya, ‘I don't want them to take her away.’ 

‘They'll bring her back.’ 

'Sansa...' Rhaenys presses another kiss to her hair, ‘I'm so proud of you.’ 

Sansa shakes her head and wipes her tears away, ‘No,’ how can they do this to her? It's cruel, they're torturing her, ‘Tell them to bring her back to me, she's healthy, she has to be.’ 

‘Of course she is and they will.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I promise.’ 

‘Jon's gone.’ She tells her, ‘I need her back.’

‘She'll come back, I promise, don't worry.’ 

Rhaenys can’t tell her that, she wants to tell Rhaenys that she can't tell her that, but no matter how hard she tries, there are no words coming out of her mouth. She looks down at her own body and wonders where all that blood came from, it's a terrifying sight. She'll definitely have to throw away this nightgown, and these sheets and the blankets... Everything starts turning around again and the nausea returns. Her body has no shred of energy left and all the strength she found leaves her. Even raising her head is too much. 

‘You need to rest.’ 

She needs her baby. All she needs is her baby, she wants to see her and hold her so she can protect her. The urge to protect her is far greater than anything has ever been before.

‘Don't go.’ She begs again, ‘Stay with me.’

She can't hear Arya promise to her that she will because before she knows it she sinks down in some deep black hole that sucks her away to the darkness where nothing hurts and nobody speaks to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Rhaegar's talk is the second piece I ever wrote for this, over half a year ago.  
> The very first chapter I have ever written was Jon and Sansa reuniting. They were always going to be separated and Rhaegar was always going to die with one son left to him. In many ways this whole story has been written around these two scenes to make them work together. Which at times has felt like an impossible task.  
> In any case... I have so much re-reading and re-writing to do plus I need a bit of a break after three updates in a week, so next update is going to be Sunday next week. I'm going back to the original updating schedule of a new chapter every Sunday.


	23. The Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘He must be king tonight.’

 

**Eddard**

* * *

 

Ned holds the tiny bundle of life in his arms as he walks through the keep.

The baby doesn't make a sound, she doesn't cry nor coo and there’s nothing left of these loud protests she gave him when he picked her up for the first time. Her eyes are closed now, if he looks closely he can see the tiniest of eyelashes.

It has been some time since Ned held an infant but he finds that it all comes back naturally to him. He remembers perfectly how to be the outmost careful, how to hold the head, how to rock it and hush it to give it comfort when it screams.

As he touches her little, extremely soft cheek with the top of his forefinger the baby’s tiny fingers grab it and her strength surprises him.

He wants to smile at her and make her promises but all he can do is watch her in incredulity and wonder. Ned did forget how small human beings are on their day of birth. Her head is vulnerable in his palm, her whole body could fit in one hand, her fingers can't even fully curve around his thumb and her feet are just as tiny. She has a surprisingly full head of hair. It's dark, almost black, and it reminds him of Arya, when she was born. Most of all she reminds him of Jon.

Ned feels a bit emotional when he thinks of Lyanna, how she is never going to be a grandmother and it is for the first time he realizes that he gets to be the grandfather to his sister’s granddaughter and he hopes that maybe he can be a grandparent for the both of them. It makes him feel proud. Proud of Jon, for making his mother proud, wherever she is. Proud of Sansa, for the incredible strength it took her to bring her firstborn into the world. Proud of the both of them, for creating something that is this pure and lovely. He wonders if this is what Rhaegar meant when he said that they needed to reunite them all.

The Red Keep is dark and silent as Cayn and Tomard escort him through Maegor's Holdfast, a massive square fortress that nestles in the heart of the Red Keep, a castle-within-a castle, the home of the royal family. Jon and Sansa’s rooms are not far from the king’s yet the walk feels like his longest journey.

Ser Boros Blount guards the entrance to the king’s rooms and his white steel armor seems ghostly in the moonlight. Within, Ned passes two other knights of the Kingsguard; Ser Preston Greenfield stands at the bottom of the steps, and Ser Barristan Selmy waits at the door of the king's bed chamber.

Three men in white cloaks, Ned thinks. He remembers, and a strange chill goes through him.

Ser Barristan's face is as pale as his armor. Ned has only to look at him to know that something is dreadfully wrong and Ned wonders how many people will die tonight.

The royal steward opens the door. ‘Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King.’ he announces, as Ned has heard him do so many times before.

He walks in and finds the king in bed, sitting upright, something Ned would never have expected him to be capable of anymore. Rhaenys sits beside her father on the edge of the bed, her hair tousled. Ned knows she was there during the birth, from beginning to the end, and he supposes that explains her heavy eyes.

'I feel honored and blessed to present your granddaughter to you, your grace.’ Ned’s voice is dry when he says it, and he can’t imagine anyone heard him, but it matter so terribly little, because everyone knows why he has come, what he is holding.

Rhaegar’s eyes are almost curious, as if he’s eager to see, and Ned sees no sign of disappointment over the baby’s sex in any feature of the king. Though he looks sick, tired and fatigued, he looks strong too. _He looks like a king,_ Ned realizes. Even when’s his sitting upright in his deathbed, Rhaegar looks as regal as any king ever has, as proud, fierce and mighty as he has been ever since he climbed the steps to the Iron Throne for the first time, all these years ago. Ned never expected to ever see what he sees now, do what he’s doing now, feel what he feels, and yet it all seems almost right. _Almost_. If only the stranger was not dancing around like smoke through the air, invisible, but conspicuous and prominent, making it hard to breathe for all.

’She’s very healthy, father. The grand measter says he has not until today seen such a healthy babe come into this world.’ Rhaenys says, and she lays a hand to his shoulder, ‘Do you not want to hold her?’

Rhaegar stretches his arms out, ‘Give her to me, lord Stark, I wish to meet my only granddaughter.’

Ned moves Sansa’s daughter from her one grandfather to the other and she still makes no sound, nothing disrupts her. Then, she opens her eyes. The baby has some big, wide and almost attentive eyes of a light blue-ish grey color and they stare up at him in all her remarkable curiosity.

‘She looks so very much like Jon.’ Ned doesn't know why he says that, all he knows is that it makes the king smile.

‘Does she have a name?’

‘Freia.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Sansa has given her the name _Freia_.’

Ned could swear that he sees tears well up in the king’s eyes but even if it's true, Rhaegar doesn't shed them.

Ned wonders why this all makes him feel so sad. As Rhaenys leans over to look down at the bundle of life in her father’s arms, she does shed her tears and she moves her index finger to her niece’s head to stroke her hair.

Freia looks up at her grandfather as if she knows him, and when one fist opens she wraps her fingers around Rhaegar’s thumb the way she did before, with Ned’s. She coos and the sound might be the most magical thing Ned has ever heard in his life. Her legs move then, as if she’s looking for the resistance of her mother’s womb, as if she’s disorientated by the lack of it, and Rhaegar pulls on the swaddling clothes, to make sure the baby’s warm.

‘She’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’ Rhaenys decides and Ned can hear a sincerity in her words that makes him shiver, if only because Rhaenys adopted her father’s talent to never give away genuineness. Ned realizes then, almost unpardonably late, how he has always been wrong about Rhaegar’s daughter. Rhaenys Targaryen is not stone-cold nor unfeeling, quite the opposite. It is only that she has independently built some walls around herself that are simply higher than the average holdfast- they’re so high, solid and robust that only those who look can see, ‘Freia is a very suitable name, don't you think, father?’

Rhaegar doesn't respond, the way he holds Freia’s head reminds Ned of the way he just did himself, curiously practiced and skillful, then the king nods. As he looks at Freia, and she looks right back at him, he says, ‘Tell Jon I am proud of him, when you see him, tell him I am so very proud.’

Ned nods and he feels his throat tighten, there is a knot in his stomach and his head spins. Rhaegar will never be able to tell Jon these things by himself.

‘This little one is a lucky girl, with these parents, she already shows off the good looks they passed on.’ Rhaenys decides as she wipes some drops of salt from her cheeks, then she looks up and points her gaze at Ned, ‘Has my brother been informed?’

‘I have send a raven to my lady wife.’ Ned tells her, ‘I believe Jon is still with her, in the Eyrie.’

‘Hopefully he will soon be home, to lay his eyes on her.’

Ned agrees with a nod.

Rhaegar moves to place Freia in Rhaenys’ arms and she takes her, carefully, and places her in the crook of one arm.

‘Bring the babe back to her mother’s arms, where she belongs.’

Rhaenys gets up and leaves the room, with the baby.

'I always thought I'd die sitting upright in a chair.' Rhaegar tells him quite suddenly.

'You want me to help you get into one?'

'We better not make this more uncomfortable than it already is, hmm?'

Ned smiles lightly, sometimes Rhaegar has these vague moments where he says something that makes Ned wonder if he is trying to be funny, or if maybe these comments come naturally to him, like they do with Jon.

'I know I promised you we'd drink to the birth of our first shared grandchild, but I was never much good at keeping promises.'

'I forgive you, your grace.'

'My son created quite the masterpiece, did he not?'

Ned frowns, 'My daughter did her best, I'd say.'

Rhaegar smiles at Ned's insistence, 'Well, Jon helped.'

'He'll soon be here.' Ned gulps, 'He can properly present her to you, then.'

Rhaegar doesn't respond to that, is silent for a moment until he starts coughing, 'When he comes back, his whole world will have changed.' He decides then.

'Undoubtedly.'

‘Ned I need you to write something down for me.’ Rhaegar says. He seems better than he did this morning, which makes Ned feel stupidly hopeful, ‘Paper and ink. There, on the table. Write what I tell you.’

Ned nods and gets up to pick up a piece of parchment at the other end of the room and when he sits back down Rhaegar is still sitting upright. Rhaegar closes his eyes for a second, he seems to gather courage, or perhaps resolution, then sighs as if it takes him everything he has and is to say what must be said, do what needs to be done. When he opens his mouth finally, and speaks, Ned understands.

‘This is the will and word of Rhaegar, of house Targaryen, the First of his name, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm…’

Ned has learned to write that down quickly, he doesn't hesitate a moment, not the way he does when Rhaegar continues.

‘Declare hereby that I legitimize my only bastard son, Jon Snow, I name him Jon Targaryen, I name him my trueborn, my own son, my heir, the prince of Dragonstone, he will rule after me when I am gone.’

‘Your grace-‘

‘Write that down.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I wish I do not have to do this, that is all I know for sure, that and… that I have postponed it to the very last minute and pray to all the Seven… to the old gods and the new, that I am not too late. That they shall not…’ Rhaegar coughs and closes his eyes as if his own coughing irritates him, ‘That my children shall not be punished nor rebuked and suffer for my mistakes, failures and faults… no more than they already have.’ He looks at Ned’s hesitance and there’s a certain annoyance there when he repeats, ‘Write it down, lord Stark.’

Ned nods, then slowly starts writing.

‘And add that his sons will rule after him, in case they'll try to find a way around that, perhaps they will, the way they did with… what's her name? A long time ago… j-just make sure you write that, write down his sons after him, his trueborn sons.’

Ned tries to steady his hand as he writes, with his eyes set on the piece of parchment that slowly fills with words.

‘Add Lyanna Stark’s son- behind the Jon Snow, add her name, in case they’ll make a fuss out of that… and call him Jon Targaryen a couple of times, not Snow, he is a Targaryen… And make sure it says that he is my son- fill all the gaps, you know how they are, give them no opportunity… Anything else they’ll fuss over? They will complain, protest, criticize… You will fight them, you must… you _can_ , you know how to, so long as the will is… so long as it’s sealed… _impermeable_. What do you think?’

 _complain, protest, criticize…_ ‘I don't know your grace, I cannot remember the last time… I cannot council nor guide you in this, it must be your decision, I trust you thought of it long, hard and often.’

‘I have.’ Rhaegar watches him almost scornfully, as far as he can with his bloodstained eyes, ‘You must council _him_ , help him, advise him, support him most of all. He may have been born to become a king, he was not raised as one, he is not as prepared as he could have been, should have been. That is entirely my fault.’

‘I will, your grace.’

‘You and Rhaenys, you must guide him. Rhaenys too.’

‘I will- _of course,_ I will.’

'Rhaenys will always support him.’ Rhaegar nods, of that he seems convinced, ‘Write that down too… Name yourself his hand of the king, something about you being his advisor… Call yourself protector of the realm… until he is ready, he'll listen to you, he trusts you. Just write it down.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

‘Say… whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have words. Write. I'll sign it. You give it to the council as soon as I am dead. They might attempt to hurt him if you do it before I'm dead and they'll put that little monster of hers on it if you’re too late. _You_ put him on the throne only you. You and my daughter. He has to be their king when they find out- when _he_ finds out… that is what I always believed- that is the only way. I have told my daughter, she has my instructions and she will not fail you.’

Ned can only nod and write.

'Pycelle wants to give me milk of the poppy, the fool! I'll sleep when I am dead, it won't be long now.’

There is a fire in the king’s eyes that makes him appear immortal and Ned feels the urge to beg him to stay alive. _Don't die on me. Not now._

Poor Rhaenys, poor Jon. Far too young to be orphaned. About as old as Ned was when he lost his father. Rhaegar’s father killed Ned’s father. Now Rhaegar’s son gave him a granddaughter. It is odd to think how all that ever managed to happen.

‘The realm will mourn your death, your grace.’

‘you are… a terrible liar l-lord Stark.’ Rhaegar coughs.

‘The realm needs you.’ It was truly not meant to be flattery, Ned feels far more like he's begging.

Rhaegar laughs and the laughing makes him cough aggressively during which he glares at Ned as if it’s all his fault, Jon can glare just like that, ‘At the least… They will say… This last thing… This I did right. He won't fail me. He'll rule now. He'll hate it, worse than I did… but he'll do well. Are you done with the scribbling?’

Ned has not been writing for quite some time, he only stares at the king, at his white face, his bulging eyes, his heavy breathing and his coughing. The words he speaks make every muscle in his body ache, ‘Yes your grace.’

'Well, give it to me.' It's as if Ned’s shock and hesitance annoy him greatly, as if Rhaegar doesn't understand how Ned failed to have seen this coming, ‘I want to read it.’

Ned looks at the king as those purple eyes scan everything he just wrote down. He closes his eyes, and realizes.

‘You always knew you'd do this.’ He says, ‘You've always planned to… but Aegon?’

‘I never stopped hoping Aegon would change, I never gave up on him, he was my son after all, my own flesh and blood and bones- but a king needs a back-up plan. as I’m sure you agree?’

’I… Yes, I suppose I most certainly do, your grace.’

’It could have been- _should_ have been my daughter, but it would not only have been dangerous as well as too risky and a guarantee for uncertainty in the future. The princess Rhaenys cannot have children of her own.’

’I did not know that, your grace.’ Ned confesses.

’I’m glad to hear it.’ Rhaegar doesn’t look up from the paper when he adds, ‘Jon was the only alternative. The _best_ alternative… Never meant to be an alternative.’

’But-‘

Rhaegar won’t allow Ned to finish as he sees the opportunity to confess what he must have kept to himself for many years, ‘Somewhere I always knew. Aegon could never have been a good king, I can only be succeeded by a good king.’ Rhaegar keeps his eyes on his will, though his gaze has stopped moving, ‘It is not about what I want or what my kin wants, the good of the realm is more important than our own hopes and dreams and expectations.’

Ned nods, ‘That is why… Is that why my daughter married Jon, not Aegon?’

Rhaegar doesn't seem surprised by the question, he doesn't deny nor agree but he does finally look up, ‘Lord Eddard, do you believe I disrespect you and your daughter enough to marry her off to a bastard with no land nor title?’

Of course not. How could he have never… Ned doesn't understand how he never thought of it, never even let it cross his mind… The whole world knew Aegon enjoyed the company of men, he could have linked it all. Rhaegar doesn't seem to believe he never realized either, his eyes are almost judgmental, ‘Since when?’ Ned asks.

‘Since when what?’ Ned wouldn't be surprised if Rhaegar started scolding him right there and then, he seems almost disappointed in his disability to predict the future. Ned knows there are plenty of people who did realize, people that will make this decision not only dangerous but urgent too.

‘Since when were you planning on potentially making him king after you?’

‘Since my first son started loving other men. That is when I forced a twelve-year-old boy to leave his home and brought him to the capital, even though I knew he was safer in the North, far away from court. I had no choice, if there was only a chance of him becoming king, I had to teach him.’

‘But they found out… They realized he was going to be your… they knew.’ Ned nods, ‘That is why you wanted him to stay in Winterfell after the wedding.’

Because if Jon was in Winterfell no one would suspect him of ever becoming king.

‘Even there they send the stranger after him.’ Rhaegar coughs, ‘So I told Rhaenys to write your daughter and Rhaenys understood, because Rhaenys... Rhaenys has always understood.’

‘You pretended to… so you could protect him.’ Ned can't believe it but at the same time, there is nothing that has ever made this much sense to him. Rhaegar hid Jon away to protect him from the lioness queen and pretended to hate him all along. But he never did. Everyone believed it but he never did. Maybe no one ever truly believed it. Maybe it was just Ned who believed it- and Jon.

‘Help him Ned.’ Rhaegar says, he doesn't often call him Ned, when he does it feels almost as if they are family, as if they are kin and share their brothers, ‘I have waited too long… my daughter urged me and she was right but I was weak and afraid and I have… I have tried and failed to protect him from the clutches of the Iron Throne.’

’You do not want him as king?’

’You must truly believe I am as cold and spiteful as some think I am, to wonder if I could ever wish to do such a thing to him… I have wanted happiness for him, you must know that. This shall not make him happy. I fear it shall kill him. As it killed me. But you… I can’t let that happen. So, you must… you must promise me that you will help him.’

‘I promise.’ _Promise me Ned._

‘You wrote it all down did you not?’

‘ I did, your grace.’

‘If you tell me now that I ought to disown Cersei Lannister’s bastards, I will do so.’

Ned looks down at the parchment, ‘They will kill the children, all three of them.’

‘They are not mine.’

‘They are not.’

‘But she will never admit it,’ There is a sort of realization in Rhaegar’s eyes, as he knows what is and what is not the right thing to do, ‘Her family will turn against me, against my son.’

‘They will.’ Ned agrees.

‘The truth is… these two youngest, I have grown quite fond of them. They are innocent and I don't want their blood on my hands, it is not my wish to- I’d like to spare them, they were in my life as my children ever since they were born and they have harmed no one. It is the eldest that gave me sleepless nights.’

‘Joffrey is expecting to become king.’

‘I tried to make a decent human being out of him, but even a man skilled for fatherhood would not have managed. It's not Joff you should fear, however, it's his mother- his mother, her repulsive imp brother and their father most of all. I still cannot believe everyone truly thought I made a son like that. How could I have ever made a son like that? Did she really expect me-‘ he starts coughing and when he stops he doesn't finish his sentence.

‘Do you believe they will swear their fealty to Jon? _Ever_?’

‘Perhaps that is the risk we have to take, a risk that will be worth it, if they don't… I have done everything I could to stop a war from unfolding, to keep everyone from killing each other, keeping them away from each other’s throats... that's all I've been doing... If I fail… if I fail my son and daughter will slaughter their enemies like their ancestors taught them to in their history lessons. They are Targaryens, we are a fierce kind. They have fire in their blood. If they must- If there is no other way… my son and daughter will show them what our words truly mean- what fire and blood means. There is little more I could have taught them, so long as they shall not turn against each other- and they will not- they will triumph… They are mine, I am their father, Rhaenys is my daughter, Jon is my son. They have the blood of the dragon… whatever that may be.’

Ned agrees, ‘Don't disown the children then, it will kill them, she’ll be queen dowager and they will all keep their heads. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe she'll understand that any war she'll fight will be a lost cause.’

Rhaegar seems to doubt it but he nods all the same, ‘Give me the ink, I'll sign it.’

Ned moves the ink and his quill over to the king who signs and after he does, the man lays down and closes his eyes as if this was the last thing he needed to do, as if he completed his final testimony, his final challenge, his last duty to his realm, his last task as king of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men. Rhaegar First of his name.

Ned rolls up the parchment and holds it carefully in his hands.

‘Go to your rooms, lord Stark, tomorrow will be a challenging day.’

Ned knows he's right, he gets up and moves to turn to the door.

'Ned?'

'Your grace?'

'I was going to marry her.' He says, 'You do know that, don't you? I would have if... I was going to marry her.'

Ned gulps down the emotions and nods once, 'I know.'

Rhaegar has never looked at him as long as he does then, yet when he closes his eyes Ned wonders if he’ll open them again, ever.

‘I will see you in the morrow, your grace.’

The king doesn't respond, only smiles, he has smiled more while dying than he ever did when he was alive.

 

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 Rhaenys places her little niece in the arms of her mother, who weakly tries to steady her daughter in the crook of her arm.

‘Sansa…’

Rhaenys doesn't know what to say. She wonders if she should say what she ought to say, what she wants to say or what Sansa might want to hear.

‘She’s good.’ Sansa says, her voice soft. She is visibly weak and absolutely drained, her face all pale, yet Rhaenys has never before seen her look this beautiful, ‘She’s a good girl.’

‘She is.’ Rhaenys agrees, ‘She’s precious.’

Sansa nods once and moves her index finger to gently stroke her daughter’s cheek, then leans over and presses a loving kiss to the baby’s head.

‘Father likes the name.’ Rhaenys tells her and again Sansa only nods.

Rhaenys looks down at Freia, who makes her baby sounds and moves her head to rub her mother's chest. The sounds of the baby’s cries aren’t at all unpleasant. Rhaenys can physically feel her heart grow with affection when she looks down at the baby, she can't stop looking at her, at her little fingers, her dark hair, her blueish eyes, the fat cheeks and the nose that looks nothing like an adult nose. Her head is too big for her body and when she cries her mouth it toothless. She's ridiculously small, much smaller than what Rhaenys remembers Tommen being. Her hands are always fists, their seize seems huge compared to the rest of her body, like her feet. She smells of soap and fresh air and when you hold her it's like holding a precious sack of flour you don't want to drop at any cost.

Freia looks new, soft and cuddly. She's an adorable, drooling miracle and when the wetnurse helps Sansa push her robe down and the baby starts to drink Rhaenys feels entirely out of place, so intimate is the moment, so far away and in a different place her sister-in-law seems to be. It is not appropriate at all, for a lady of Sansa’s birth to nurse her own child, not proper for a princess, not a queen, yet she can’t bring herself to mention it.

Sansa closes her eyes with her forehead pressed to the top of her daughter's head and when Rhaenys grabs her hand she can feel the sweat which covers her skin. Sansa feels like a burning dragon egg. Rhaenys used to read about that, the way they feel in your hands when they are about to hatch. People would burn their skin if they touched them, except for Targaryens, they have the blood of the dragon, fire cannot kill a dragon.

Ned said Freia looks like Jon, like Jon’s mother. Rhaenys supposes he's right, he would know. She has his hair, that's for sure. Freia would have been blessed with good hair either way, Sansa’s auburn Tully hair or Jon’s dark brown curls, it wouldn't have mattered much, it would both be lovely. Not quite the Targaryen look, but lovely all the same, and a Targaryen as much as Rhaenys is.

Sansa ends the peaceful silence suddenly, ‘You would've protected her? If I'd died.’

‘What are you talking about? You're not going to die.’

‘They thought I'd die. I heard them say it. Before she was born they thought they'd have to cut me open. He already wrote the letter he'd send to my husband to inform me of my death.’

‘They should not have discussed that while you could hear them.’

‘They didn't think it would matter.’ Sansa says.

Rhaenys can't look her in her eyes, if she does she'll see a fear that will be unbearable, ‘Of course it matters.’

‘I heard the maester, I was bleeding. Like his mother.’

‘You were not.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Not like his mother.’

‘Thank the Gods Jon wasn’t here,’ Sansa smiles, ‘He would've lost his mind, don’t you think?’

‘Burst through the door like the improper foolish idiot he is. And you would've loved him for it.’ They both grin at each other the way they always do when they're discussing Jon. Rhaenys is quite sure Sansa tells her more than Jon would like. Rhaenys loves her for it.

‘You'll protect her still? You promised Jon...’ Sansa says, ‘Promise me too.’

‘Jon will be here soon.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He’ll come back to you and _he_ can protect you both.’

Freia finishes and Sansa pulls her nightgown back up. The movement takes her too much effort and her fingers are trembling, ‘She should be brought to her crib, but the mere idea of parting from her makes me feel anxious.’

Rhaenys smiles, ‘She can sleep in your arms. I think she already is.’

Sansa looks down and the smile on her face that appears when she looks at her baby makes Rhaenys feel all proud again, ‘She's perfect, isn't she?’

‘She is.’ Rhaenys agrees and she squeezes Sansa’s hand again.

Sansa lays back down with Freia in her arms and carefully makes sure she can stare down and gaze at her miracle of life, ‘I can't believe I'm a mother.’

‘Nor can I, really.’ Rhaenys says and she only feels a little bit jealous for half a second. She will never have this, she has always known that. But that's not Sansa’s fault. Sansa was the one who took away parts of that loneliness Rhaenys felt all her life. Just because Rhaenys will never have a child of her own doesn't mean she will never have a family. She has all the family she needs. And she will protect them, not because she promised, but because it's her duty, and because she simply cannot bare the idea of something happening to them.

‘I will protect her. _Of course_ I will, I'll protect you too if I ever must.’ Rhaenys says, ‘You are my kin, you are my sister.’

Sansa smiles with her eyes closed, so Rhaenys can't see if it reaches her eyes.

‘I do love you, you know. In my careful and cold way.’

‘You are the only person I know that likes to think of herself as unfeeling.’ Sansa squeezes her hand with a surprising amount of strength and opens her eyes, ‘but I do know you love me.’ She breathes, ‘Jon knows you love him too. And we both love you back.’

Rhaenys nods.

‘If you see Jon, tell him to love her.’

‘You can tell him yourself.’ Rhaenys says and her throat tightens as her voice leaps, ‘He'll be here soon.’

‘He will. He promised to come back as soon as he could. Do you think he already knows? About Freia?’

‘Your father wrote a letter to your mother, in case he's already at the Eyrie, but we're not sure.’

‘Maybe he's already on his way back home.’

‘Maybe, yes.’

‘My lady, perhaps the child could be brought to the nursery?’ a maid asks.

Sansa doesn't even respond and when Rhaenys gives to woman her carefully crafted arrogance the maid drifts of again.

‘That will be the curse that shall follow me all through motherhood.’ Sansa says, ‘Those damn people who think they have any say in this.’ With this she means her child and Rhaenys grins. She has never heard Sansa swear. Even though it's only the word ‘damn’, it's still odd to hear it, odd and quite brilliant.

‘You'll be up and walking by the time Jon's here.’

Sansa's smile fades, ‘The king…’

‘He'll die tonight, Sansa.’ Rhaenys looks at her hands and then admits, her voice a whisper, ‘I’m scared.’

Sweat beads Sansa’s skin and triples down her brow, ‘Yes…’

‘I’ll protect all of you, including Jon, I promise.’ She only notices her tears when one falls down her chin.

Sansa stirs, 'If you s-see him… If you see him tell him… Tell him she's beautiful. Tell him to love her as much as he loves me. No matter what happens, wherever he is, wherever I am… make him promise not to forget?’

More tears roll down Rhaenys’ cheek, ‘You can tell him yourself… he can promise _you_.’

‘I know that.’ Sansa says, another smile spreads across her face, ‘But I need you to do it, just in case.’

‘If I- there might be- it might be necessary for me to leave you.’

‘Leave me?’

‘When father dies. It might not be safe for me in King’s Landing.’

‘Why wouldn't it be?’

Rhaenys glares at the people around the room who pretend not to listen, they pretend even harder when they catch her looking, ‘Because the queen would prefer me dead. Cersei has preferred me dead for quite some time now and I am no use to anyone with my head on a spike.’

‘Why would your head be-‘

‘My head will never be on a spike.’ Rhaenys says, ‘But I am saying- what I am trying to tell you is that I will perhaps leave you but you must know that I will leave you only when there is no other way. I'll leave you because I'll only be able to protect you from afar. Do you understand what I'm saying?’

Sansa looks down at her sleeping baby, ‘I- I think so. But you won't leave, will you? You won't have to.’

‘Hopefully- I don't think I will, but I still think I need to- I needed to say it.’

‘That is alright.’

‘If that happens I want you to remember who you are. Remember who you’re married to, who the father of your child is, where you come from.’

‘Rhaenys I-‘

‘It’s important Sansa,’ she says, ‘It really is. You see... you may be scared, or terrified, and you may not know what is happening and they may like you that way, but they will not harm you, either of you, because you are who you are. You'll remember that? Jon is the rightful heir to the throne, and Freia is his heir. You must remember that.’

Sansa nods, she doesn't ask questions, she doesn't deny her lord husband's birthright. She knows, she understands, she doesn't like it, but she accepts it all the same. Rhaenys taught her well. Her father told her to teach her, he told her to take care of her, and Rhaenys did exactly that. Rhaenys loves Sansa Stark like the sister she never had, the sister Daenerys could never be, and she did that on her own, nobody told her to do that.

‘I need to sleep now.’ Sansa says after a rather long silence and she finally hands the baby over to her wetnurse. Freia starts wailing the moment she leaves her mother’s arms and the crying fills the room until the door falls shut and the silence that returns is almost chilling.

Rhaenys sits by Sansa’s bedside until she knows she's asleep, getting the rest she needs to get better, to wake up and be herself, the bubbly, bright, beautiful and witty sister Rhaenys has always wanted.

One maid wants to put a cold cloth to her forehead but Rhaenys pushes her hand away to do it herself. When the cloth has grown warm she pulls it off and places it in the bowl of water next to Sansa’s bed. They cleaned all the bloodied sheets, all the bowls of red water are gone. She places a new cooled cloth on Sansa’s forehead and then gets up to leave the room.

Rhaenys never expected to ever feel conflicted whether to be extremely happy or extremely sad. It's a very extraordinary feeling. It's as if she can't decide and therefor chooses to feel nothing. At times the tears can't stop streaming down and the next moment she can only sit still and has trouble believing all this is really happening. Barely half a year ago her brother was still alive and her father seemed as healthy as a horse. Now they'll soon both be gone.

After checking on her father, who sleeps peacefully, she leaves the holdfast and makes her way to the tower of the hand.

She knocks on Eddard Stark’s office, knowing he will still be awake and when he answers she opens the door before telling him it's her.

He doesn't seem surprised by her unexpected visit and perhaps that is why he doesn’t get up from his chair as he sits there, behind his desk, both his hands around a cup of wine.

'How is the king?' He asks.

‘Waiting for death to come and get him.’ She answers, ‘The maester told me only the Gods can heal him now.’

‘There you are, in the midst of life, there is death.’ Ned stares down in his cup, ‘How long?’

‘He should have been gone already.’ Rhaenys says. She feels tears prick in the corners of her eyes, but she won't cry, she cannot, no one will want to see her tears, least of all Lord Stark, ‘I don't believe he wants to die, he clings to life so fiercely.’

‘Sansa?’

‘She's tired and the fever has not left her yet.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘I… I'm afraid she's still bleeding but the measters are optimistic. She's growing stronger every hour.’

Ned hides his face in his hands and sighs, then he looks up and his eyes are glossy and he looks desperate, ‘How?’

Rhaenys doesn't know the answer, she doesn't understand, all she knows is that the stranger has found their family and took no mercy on any of them, ‘She’s brave.’ Is all she can say.

‘I'm glad you came.’ Ned then says, he keeps his voice in control again, ‘There is something you must see.’

Rhaenys walks over to his desk and he spreads out an official document for her to read. Rhaenys looks down and closes her eyes after reading the first few words.

‘How am I supposed to tell him in one breath that his father is dead, his daughter born and he a king? How? I cannot do such a thing.’

Rhaenys bites her lip and shakes her head, ‘You cannot.’ She agrees. She wants to tear the piece of parchment apart, throw it in the fire, jump right after it too. Too late, it will be far too late.

‘It will break him.’ Ned decides and Rhaenys agrees.

‘He cannot be King tomorrow.’ She decides.

'How can you-‘

‘He must be king tonight.’

Ned looks at her in confusion, ‘What are-‘

‘It will be hard, mayhaps impossible, but we cannot afford being too late.’ Rhaenys says.

She knows it's her fault. If only she had not said those things… if she'd waited, the way her father planned on waiting… now they are all standing on a cliff, praying for Cersei not to notice, move over and shove. It's all her own fault, Rhaenys realizes.

‘The king will die tonight and in the morning the Lannisters will put their cub on the Iron Throne. Then try to show them that will, my lord, I dare you.’

‘What do you want me to do? How?’

‘How you ask me? I have sixty men in my personal princess’s guard, and plenty friends besides, I have my kin, my uncles, they are waiting for my signal. Give me an hour and I can put one hundred and fifty swords in your hand.’

‘And what should I do with one hundred and fifty swords, my princess?’

‘ _Strike_!’ She cannot believe how he can be so unaware, how he cannot understand when it all seems so perfectly obvious to her. The look on his face reminds her of Jon and if anything, it makes her more determined, this may have been even more impossible had Jon not been here, ‘We must separate Joffrey from his mother, you may be the hand and Jon may be the true heir but they will proclaim Joffrey king and the man who holds the king holds the kingdom… we have to keep him away from the throne.’

‘That is-‘

‘And Myrcella and Tommen too.’ She goes on, ‘Cersei won't harm us if we have her children, of that I am sure, they are oddly dear to her. The council will hear to the king’s words when we have complete, _full_ power over the queen. That way we can make the council do what we need them to do.’

Ned regards her coolly, ‘Your father is not dead yet.’ He says, ‘Despite their dubious birth those three children were raised as your siblings, how can you rip them from their mother in the middle of night? The youngest one is barely ten, don't be cruel.’

‘Jon is the only brother that is left to me.’ She says simply, ‘I must do this for him, for my king father, the way he expected me to do this, the way I need to, to fulfill his dying wish. I must do this for the realm…’ she hesitates a moment and then adds, with determination and insistence in her voice, ‘For Aegon too.’

‘I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of succession, but I will not dishonor the King’s last hours by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds… Rhaegar can’t possibly have wanted such things.’

Rhaenys lifts up the piece of paper with her father’s signature, 'These words won't matter when a Lannister sits the Iron Throne.’

‘These are the King’s words.’ Ned says and he looks utterly stunned.

‘If you truly think the new King will care about the old words of a dead King you are severely mistaken.’ She drops the will back on the table as if it is an unwritten empty piece of parchment.

'Someone must certainly!’

Rhaenys eyes him and suddenly she feels suspicious, not of his intentions but of his wisdom. Does the man not understand how urgent the matter is? Did her father not explain to him?

‘If my father's wish has any chance of survival Jon will have to be proclaimed king before the sun rises, the moment my father breathes his last breath- if not… it will be too late. Has the king not _specifically_ told you that? We have time, right now Cersei thinks she won, that is her weakness.’

‘In the morrow, I will speak to the council-‘

‘The council is not our ally!’

‘The council will respect the King’s words.’

‘Every moment we stand here, speaking to each other, doing nothing, gives Cersei the opportunity to prepare. By the time the castle wakes up it will _be too late_. For all of us.’ Rhaenys has never before struggled so much with keeping her voice down.

‘Then we shall pray he lives through the night.’

‘Small chance of that.’

‘Sometimes the Gods are merciful.’

‘They are the opposite of that.’

‘Mayhaps yours are.’

Rhaenys straightens her back and moves away from the desk, ‘My Gods? The Gods are all alike, all of them have showed me their faces long ago.’

Ned doesn't say anything, he only stares at her. Oddly, he seems impressed, as if he is amazed by her. Again, it does not please her, it only worries her more.

What if he will not listen to her? What if he'll be like all the others? _The princess is a woman_ , they always tell each other, _she is of the weaker kind_. Even Jon used to say it. He told Sansa all the time, _You shouldn't listen to what Rhaenys says_. Why should anyone listen to what she says? It only happens to be that she is always right. Has proven herself to be always right again and again and _again_ but it never will be enough.

She always let them laugh, she never minded, because she always laughed last. She is smarter than all of them together, always one step ahead, always unpredictable, as unpredictable as her father taught her to be. She has never underestimated anyone ever. But they always underestimate her. She dreamed of the day they'd finally value her for what she is, what she has done. If only that day could be today. If it's not… if lord Eddard chooses not to listen to her… they are all doomed. And the man has one leg in his final resting place already.

When Rhaenys opens her mouth and starts speaking she cannot stop.

‘The Gods left my side when I hid under my father's bed as they raped my mother in it. Where were you then, lord Stark? Were you protecting the innocent?’

Ned Stark doesn't answer.

‘Where was the Gods’ mercy when the rebels made my mother watch as they raped me too, multiple times, all of them, one by one. When the rebels forced me to watch as they stabbed her to death… when they left us there, afterwards, to die, as I held my little brother in my arms, weeping, my mother's blood on my hands, on his swaddling clothes and in my hair.’

Ned again says nothing, it is as if her words physically pain him.

‘Pulling Joffrey from his bed is not cruel, it is mercy, for what he deserves, for what their family’s ambition did to mine.’

‘The Lannisters did not kill your mother.’

‘The rebels who supported your friend killed her.’ Rhaenys says and this time she hopes her words physically hurt him.

‘Robert would never have ordered-‘

‘The Lannisters chose my father’s cause when he promised to marry their daughter. He married their daughter after my mother was gone, it is why he could marry her in the first place. Do you think I am stupid lord Stark? Do you think I am weak? Fragile? A fool, perhaps? Or merely blind and deaf? I am none of these things. I'm afraid I understand the world far better than you do. I'm not that three-year-old girl anymore.’

‘I do not think you are stupid nor weak.’ Ned says but Rhaenys doesn't believe him. Nobody who ever said it meant it. Except for Sansa.

‘Your Gods may be merciful, but the Lannisters are not.’ She doesn't try to convince him, not really, she has already given up.

Rhaenys feels heartsick and broken. What is left to her? With her father gone, all she has is Jon. She may not like him very much but she loves him with every fiber of her being. Joffrey on the throne will be the end of all of them.

If they will not listen to her father’s will she will tell them what her will is.

‘I will write many letters tonight, lord Stark.’ She says, ‘I will write them to all my kin, my many uncles in the south and in Dragonstone. I will write men from Dorne to the Wall, from Lannisport to Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, I'll write to the Iron Islands and to Storm’s End. I will let every lord, prince and knight in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond know that Joffrey Targaryen is a bastard and that he is not the rightful king.’

‘My princess…’

 _I_ am their rightful queen.’

.

Rhaenys looks down at her niece in the crib.

‘I have a gift for you.’ She whispers and she lifts the egg in her hands up.

She picked it out herself. The egg is dark brown, bronze with silver and gold. In the right light, it looks gold all over, it shines and the silver glitters like diamonds. She ordered them to send all the eggs to her and this one was the only one that seemed good enough. It is beautiful, perfect.

‘Because you are a Targaryen, Freia.’ Rhaenys tells the baby, who doesn't hear her, she's sleeping, ‘It is tradition you see, all Targaryens get an egg when they are born.’

Her father didn't give Cersei’s bastards any eggs, ‘Because they don't hatch anymore’, he said, but she didn't believe him then and she still doesn't. They never got an egg because they aren't true Targaryens, only those with the blood of the dragon get an egg and Freia has the blood of the dragon.

She places the egg down in the crib, carefully, making sure the baby won't get hurt. It's so big, bigger than she is and it better not hurt her, ‘It is my gift to you.’ She says.

‘ _They'll kill you_ ’, her uncle said and he is right, she knows that, but the thought of leaving her home, running away from all she holds dear, because she allowed them to win this first battle, makes her both angry and terrified.

Rhaenys feels tears prick in the corners of her eyes, ‘But I will protect you from afar, I will, I swear it to you.’

_For Jon. For father. For Sansa. For Aegon._

‘Dearest Freia…’ she moves her hand to the baby and strokes her belly. She is all warm and soft and Rhaenys feels the urge to pick her up and hold her in her arms, ‘I wish I could take you with me.’

But she can't, they'll notice and they'll all die. As dead as her father.

Rhaenys is confident Sansa will not die, fully confident. Pycelle always declares women dead when their eyes are still wide open. He doesn't think they are strong enough to defeat the illness. He is a fool. Sansa is strong, tougher than she looks. If Rhaenys believed she would die tonight she'd take Freia with her. Yet she's certain she'll live and to take a child away from her mother… Rhaenys knows what that feels like. She can't bare the idea. So she must be separated from the both of them. From her sister and her niece.

‘I will do everything I can to protect my family, Freia, I swear it to you.’

The baby sleeps and Rhaenys doesn't want to wake her, she seems so blissfully unaware, Rhaenys feels almost jealous, ‘Sleep tight my darling niece, I do love you, we all do and if the Gods are strong and just we'll soon see each other again..’

Rhaenys gets up and moves to the door, tears down on her cheeks. So long as no one sees her tears it doesn't matter, so long as she walks upright and doesn't let them see her weakness she can be strong. She has to be strong.

Her duty begins here. Her testimony. She always knew it would come, but never believed it would be this soon, this painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO, happy new year!


	24. Lady Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He yells some more at her, tells her he cannot come with her and ride North, ‘This is not my war.’ He says and she knows that in his head he adds; _the war you started_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know some of you have been a little disappointed with the amount of canon lately... I'm sorry about that! It will continue for the next two/three chapters but after that it'll be over. It's just that I feel it's necessary to keep the plot going. Joffrey will be king and I'm sorry to spoil that Ned will be executed. But as one of you told me... It's ooc to allow Ned to keep his head. I'm not sure of I wholeheartedly agree, lol, but originally Rhaenys was going to lose her head, I replaced that with the canon beheading. Basically, I sacrificed Ned for Rhaenys. Sorry not so sorry.  
> I'm currently writing chapter 36 and I can't wait to share it!

**Catelyn**

* * *

 

When Catelyn wakes she finds the letter that arrived while she was asleep and when she opens it her fingers tremble. She expects there to be the news of the King’s death but what she reads is entirely something else.

She weeps tears of happiness as she walks through the corridors towards the guest rooms of the Eyrie, throwing a wide smile towards all the people she meets along the way that makes servants turn their heads in surprise.

When she knocks on Jon’s door she expects him to be in his nightclothes, perhaps even his smallclothes, how can she know what the boy sleeps in at night.

He is, however, fully dressed in his Stark armor, long sword to his hip, and his displease with her does not seem to have faded one bit. Cat doesn't care, she doesn't even see it, he'll forgive her, surely, when she is the one to bring him this news.

‘Catelyn.’ He doesn't seem surprised to see her. His frown is deep when he opens the door for her to let her into his rooms.

‘Jon...’ In that moment he feels like a son to her, a true one, like all the others she brought into this world. He feels like her own, so much she loves him and she cannot recall ever being this proud.

‘You are crying…’ he doesn't ask why though she is convinced he doesn't know, not yet, but she will tell him.

‘I received a letter from Ned.’ She says and she holds it up to prove it.

‘Ned?’ He seems almost shocked at that.

She nods, moves over to him and cups his face, ‘My darling boy,’ she says, ‘You have become a father.’

His frown disappears and his eyes widen, he doesn't seem happy, just scared and Cat can only begin to imagine why. It matters not, he'll be happy, gloriously happy, they always are eventually.

‘It is a daughter, you have a daughter.’

He still doesn't seem too happy and Cat moves her hands from his face to his shoulders as if she means to shake him, ‘A-a daughter?’

‘Yes.’ Cat breathes, ‘A little girl.’

Jon nods once and Cat can see something in his demeanor she'd call miserable if she believes he could be that in this moment, ‘You mustn't be disappointed.’ She says, ‘You have plenty of time, there will be sons. Daughters are joyous too.’

He pushes her hands away and hides his face behind his own, ‘You don't understand.’ He rasps.

‘I know it is disappointing that you are not there with them right now, but you must-‘

‘No.’ he says, ‘It's not that. It _is_ , but it's not.’

‘Jon…’ she feels confused now, if it's none of these things she wonders what else could possibly be bothering him.

In the corner sits Ser Malckom, the man who travelled with Jon, his personal bodyguard who picked him up in Winterfell all these years ago and was still there when they brought him back six years later. The knighted man still looks the same as he did back then, when he lifted a trembling twelve-year-old boy on his horse and escorted him to the father he'd never seen before. Catelyn will never forget that day. The look on Ned’s face, the little boy’s silent tears and everything on him that showed everyone who cared to see that he did not understand. It was cruel and it was wrong. She hardly recognizes the man now, the way he looks down at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

A smile spreads across Jon’s face as he sits down. It's a sad smile and she can see the glistening of tears in his eyes. It is then that she realizes something is horribly wrong.

‘Jon- is it your father?’

‘Does it say what her name is?’ He asks.

‘Freia.’ Cat answers, ‘Sansa named her Freia.’

‘Freia.’ Jon repeats and Cat can feel her heart flutter, ‘She wrote to me, to ask for my consent, but in the end she doesn't care what I think.’ There is a softness in his voice and a loving smile on his face that covers Catelyn's body in goosebumps. Perhaps he is happy after all, perhaps he only needs time to comprehend.

‘I think it is a beautiful name.’

He nods and points at the chair in front of him, ‘Sit down Cat.’ He says, ‘I need to tell you something and it's not beautiful at all.’

She truly feels anxious now as she sits down and hands him the letter Ned send her. He holds three other letters in his hands, one with the direwolf emblem, one with the three-headed Targaryen dragon and one with a dragon and a lion together. He skims through Ned's letter, closes his eyes and sighs, almost tired, as if he feels lost. He looks lost.

Then he clutches all the letters in his fist and looks at her, ‘My father is dead.’

Catelyn gasps, ‘W-what? How? May the Gods give him rest.’

‘The Gods know he longed for it.’ Jon says and there is some scorn in his voice that makes Catelyn feel cold.

‘When did he pass?’

‘Couple of days ago.’ Jon gulps, closes his eyes, sighs again and adds, ‘Joffrey is proclaimed the new king and he has imprisoned Ned with the accusation of treason.’

‘W-what..?’

Jon only frowns at her for some time, ‘They have put him in the black cells.’ He bites his lower lip so hard Cat wonders if it bleeds and hands her the letter with the lion and and dragon, ‘Rhaenys has run off to Dorne after sending out letters to every lord, high and low, in the seven kingdoms, proclaiming Joffrey the bastard son of Ser Jaime Lannister.’

‘Rhaenys?’

‘My sister, the princess Rhaenys.’ Jon explains and he hands her the letter with the dragon now, ‘She named herself the rightful queen… They, she and Ned both, are declared traitors of the crown.’

‘B-but how?’

Jon looks at her for a second and seems to wonder if she means her questions or only asks because she doesn't know what else to say, ‘They imprisoned Ned.’ Jon says again.

Catelyn feel a rush of anger suddenly, ‘How dare they?’ She asks loudly.

Jon doesn't respond, just raises one eyebrow, ‘Joffrey wants us to swear our fealty to him.’

‘He imprisons my husband and expects me to swear fealty to him?’

Jon shrugs, ‘I can assure you it is one of his sanest requests.’

‘Never!’

‘I'm afraid Robb will agree.’

‘Robb?’

‘What do you think Robb is doing?’ He asks and he gets up. Suddenly he seems so angry, so impressive too, the way he towers over her, a dark gleam in his eyes, a fear that is accompanied by a certain determination she has hardly before seen in the eyes of a boy his age.

He is not a boy anymore. Catelyn realizes. He is a man grown, nearly twenty, tall and broad shouldered. He could grow a beard if he decides to do so. He is married, a good husband, a father too. He looks furious, he looks like a wolf, the leader of a pack that is threatened. Then suddenly… Catelyn can see a dragon in there too, if his eyes were less dark, perhaps there could be an indigo gleam in the grey.

‘Robb is only a boy.’ She says and she hands him back the letters.

‘Robb is lord of Winterfell and if he cares one shred about honor he and his bannermen are marching upon the south right now.’

Cat shakes her head and she feel terribly anxious, ‘No, he cannot be, this cannot be, he is only a boy.’ In her head he still lays against her chest, only a child, her baby boy, her first son.

Jon almost seems to mock her then, when she keeps saying it all cannot possibly be happening, ‘It is happening.’ He tells her, ‘And my wife and daughter will be their hostages.’

Cat feels the hairs in her neck stand up, as if a mount of ice grows inside her belly, takes over her limbs and her mind. She stands up too and tries to reach out for him, ‘Jon…’

‘No.’ he says and he pushes her hands away, ‘If it wasn't for you I'd be with them now, I could protect them. I am not, I am here and they are all alone.’

She knows he's right, she knows he'll never forgive her, she prays to the Gods he will never, she doesn't deserve it. She prays to the Gods she'll ever forgive herself, ‘What will you do?’ She asks.

‘I don't know.’ He says and he throws the letters down into the table, his voice shakes and his hands tremble as he places them in front of his eyes, ‘I don't bloody know.’

The next two days she spends begging him. She pleads him to come with her, gives him every reason he could need to ride out to his kin, his cousin, his _brother_. They both raise their voices and at times she doesn't recognize the person she speaks to. He yells at her and she folds her hands, closes her hands and _pleads_.

‘Please, Robb needs you, you cannot leave us now, he is only a boy, he does not know what to do. You _know_ the Lannisters, you can guide him, guide him and ride out with him, as brothers should. He needs you as Sansa needs you and together we will safe the girls.’

‘ _The girls_!’ He yells some more at her, tells her he cannot go North with her, ‘This is not my war.’ He says and she knows that in his head he adds; _the war you started_.

‘Ned is your uncle!’

He tells her that is true, but Sansa is his wife. ‘I cannot leave her there.’

‘They will throw you in a cell too, you know they will!’

He looks at her and she knows she's right, she knows that he knows it too, ‘I cannot leave her there.’ He says again.

‘If you ride south now and tell the Lannisters to free Ned they will imprison you too and you will be a traitor, like your sister, and how will that help Sansa?’

‘If I stay here and become your ally I will be even worse of a traitor!’

‘You will be of no help to anyone in the capital.’

She knows he feels the urge to strike her when she says that, but he doesn't, because he respects her, because she is twice his age and mostly, because he is just like Ned. All he does is bite his lip, clench his jaw and brood. He can't stop brooding. In the corner of the room, his hands in front of his face, sometimes staring in the flames as if they are the ones with the answers.

'I cannot leave them there.’ He decides again, for what feels like the tenth time.

‘They imprisoned Ned.’ She says and her bottom lip trembles, ‘They tried to kill Bran, they captured your uncle, declared him traitor, he is the man who raised you!’

‘Do you think I don't know that, woman?’ He would scare her if she doesn't know him as well as she does, ‘Do you think I have forgotten?’

‘And you wish to swear fealty to king Joffrey? You want to bend your knee to the family who betrayed your father? To this boy king who is not your brother?’

‘Do you want me to tell you what I wish?’ He asks, ‘I wish for everyone to use their heads! This is _madness_!’

‘I agree.’ She says and her voice trembles, ‘But for the love you feel for my husband, my kin-‘

‘Cat-‘

‘My daughter! You cannot betray your house like this, boy, you cannot!’

‘I am not a Stark.’ He says and there is something in the way he says it that makes her sad.

‘You are to me.’ She raises herself as she says it, the Gods know she means it.

He only stares at her for a second, his lips parted, his shoulders hanging forward, then he shakes his head, ‘I have to protect Sansa.’

‘You will.’ She promises, ‘She wouldn't want you to betray Ned.’ She hopes that is true.

‘Bringing his daughter to danger is the greatest betrayal I could ever give him.’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she breathes, ‘So long as Joffrey is king she will be in danger.’

‘No,’ he says and his eyes are flames, she is waking the dragon again but she does not fear it, not one bit, it is that dragon that will protect her daughter, her granddaughter too, ‘I won't let them harm her.’

‘She is married to you.’ Catelyn whispers, ‘She is married to the king’s only living son. Your daughter is a threat, you have the blood of the dragon and so does Freia.’

He succumbs on a chair, sinks down in a hopeless pile of desperation and hides his face in his hands, again, then he says, almost softly, ‘What have I done?’

‘Jon…’ she moves over to him and lays her hand on his shoulder.

‘How could I not foresee this? She warned me, Rhaenys, even Sansa, they told me we would never be safe with that viscous bastard on the throne and now… What have I done?’

‘You could not have stopped it-‘

‘I thought my father had more time.’ He tells her, ‘When I left he looked so healthy, they gave him some more moons, said he would not live to see winter, but who knows when winter is upon us? He could've lived for a few more years.’

‘Winter is coming.’ Catelyn says.

‘And my father is dead.’ Jon mutters, ‘I should never have left her. How could I have left her?’

‘You rode north on a King’s demand.’

‘My father, too, believed he had more time.’ Jon goes on, ‘He would never have sent me away if he’d… now he is gone.’

‘Revenge him.’ She whispers, ‘Protect your family.’

‘If I bend the knee and swear fealty they won't harm us.’ He says, ‘How can they? I am only a bastard, he was the heir, he is the legitimate-‘

‘You are the only son that remains to the king.’ Catelyn says, ‘They will always feel threatened by you.’

‘They have Sansa!’ Jon says and suddenly his voice is loud again, ‘You don't understand!’

Catelyn grips the sleeve of his lower arm, ‘They won't harm her.’ She tells him, ‘They will not, not ever.’ She gulps, ‘She is far too valuable.’

‘ _Valuable_.’

‘They know her worth, she is a Stark, she is your wife, they will not harm her. But they _will_ harm you.’

‘If they harm her I will kill them all.’ He says and there it is again, the possibility of a stream of purple amidst the grey, the grey Stark eyes.

‘Then fight for her.’ Catelyn says, ‘Ride north with me, protect your family, ride out next to my son. Robb needs your guidance, you know the Lannisters far better than any of us.’

He nods only once and she feels she can finally breath again.

‘Revenge your father, fight for your wife, fight for the Starks, fight for Ned. We can safe them all and end this madness, put a just man on the throne, bring peace to the realm and you can go home to Winterfell with your wife and child.’

A faint smile spreads across Jon’s face, ‘If you believe this story has an happy ending you have not been paying attention.’ He says and she knows these are words that someone else once told him before. Mayhaps his father. He gets up, marches towards to door and leaves her there, alone with her greatest fear come reality.

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

When Sansa wakes from her dreamless oblivion the world has changed and she is all alone.

The king is dead, that is all she knows.

There are Lannister guards in front of her door, a door she cannot walk through, and all the servants she grew accustomed to are gone. Even Septa Mordane.

All she has is Freia.

Freia and Jeyne Poole who they shoved inside her room, sobbing and shaking, ‘They are killing everyone.’ The steward’s daughter had shrieked to her. She went on and on. Bodies on the stairs of the tower of the Hand, and the steps were slick with blood. Sansa dried her own tears and struggled to comfort her friend.

Sansa lays in bed at night, shivering from her fear and she holds her bundle of newborn daughter in her arms and watches her in complete wonder. She feels almost disbelieve when she looks at her, as if she cannot possibly be real.

She hits a woman who tries to take her away. Sansa has never struck anyone before, not even Arya, no matter how badly she wanted to.

‘If you ever touch her again I'll cut off you fingers.’ _One by one._

After that they place the crib in her bedchamber.

They don't let her see anyone, she asks for her father, her sister, someone else she knows. She asks them if she can write her husband, her mother, her brother, anyone. At one point they don't refuse anymore, they just smile, they mock her, pity her.

Freia doesn't cry much, as if she knows what's going on, as if she senses her mother’s fear. Freia only cries when she's hungry, when people are speaking too loudly or when Sansa leaves her in her crib.

So she keeps her close, in her arms, all the time, even at night. Especially at night.

‘Don't be scared little one, don't be afraid, I am here, your mother's here.’ Sansa doesn't want to be afraid either, she feels she cannot be.

There is still blood between her legs, there where she split open to bring her child into the world. It burns and aches and walking pains her but the nausea is gone, she can think clearly and her fever fades every day a little bit more.

‘A miracle.’ Grand maester Pycelle calls her, he tells her she should have died.

The man doesn't understand, Sansa couldn't die, it was not an option. Sansa has to live to keep the only thing that remains to her at this instance safe, she has to protect Freia.

She has to live, dying is no possibility, too many people have died, she is not going to be one of them. The moment she realized she was giving up was the moment she found her strength. She cannot leave Jon behind in this world, he needs her too much, he would make a mess out of everything, out of himself mostly, she needs to be here to remind him of who he is.

She doesn't know where Rhaenys is, she hasn't visited, she has not even send a message and Sansa knows what that means. Rhaenys left, she's gone.

Sansa doesn't know where Jon is either, with whom and if he's riding south to her. She believes he is, how can he not be? She has not received a letter, not one, and it makes her anxious.

The fighting is over and the silence of the grave has settled down over the Red Keep. The only sounds ringing in Sansa’s ears are Jeyne Poole’s sobs and Freia’s cries.

The servants who bring them food refuse to answer her questions, maester Pycelle, who comes to check on her, ignores her as if both his ears are deaf.

The servants who bring her clothes, her own clothes, the clothes brought with her from Winterfell, the ones she made herself and can now wear again, are nearly as frightened as Jeyne. When she tries to talk to them, they flee the room.

They ring the bells to let the realm know their king is dead. It's voice is deep and sonorous and the long slow clanging make Freia cry and Sansa walks around the room, rocking her, singing to her, to comfort her as she feels her own heart swell up with dread.

Sansa has never felt so restless, so fearful, utterly powerless. She wants to scream, she wants to weep, yell, smash things against the walls but all she can do is hold Freia close to her chest and kiss the top of her tiny head.

Then the day is there that they come for her. No one helps her get dressed so she picks out a dress on her own, a grey one, with white embroideries around the collar and sleeves. Jon likes that dress, it's a northern dress with Stark colors.

Her face is puffy from all the crying and it takes her all the strength she has to braid her hair. A northern braid.

Jeyne Poole stands in the room. She cannot stop sobbing about her father.

‘You must stay here, stay with Freia, don't ever leave her side.’ Sansa cannot bring herself to be kind. If only the girl could stop sobbing.

Jeyne looks at her with her swollen eyes and starts to cry again, but she nods.

‘Don't go anywhere.’ Sansa repeats.

‘I won't.’

When Sansa woke up the killing was over, but even within the stout walls of Maegor’s holdfast, with her door closed and barred, the stories reached her. They slaughtered her father's men like they killed Jory.

Sansa has wept, pleaded through her door for them to tell her what was happening, calling for her father, for Rhaenys, for Arya and for Jon. Even for Septa Mordane once. If the guards outside her door heard her they gave no answer.

Sansa tucks Freia in in her small, but so very pretty crib, a gift from the king, and makes carefully sure the baby sleeps when she follows ser Boros to the queen. The man wears a snowy cloak, fastened with a lion brooch.

‘You look very handsome and splendid this morning, ser Boros.’ Sansa smiles and it makes her jaws ache. Rhaenys taught her that pleasantries can bring any man to his knees.

‘And you my lady, her grace awaits you.’

The man leads her out of Maegon’s holdfast. The bridge is down again. Some workmen are lowering a man on ropes into the depths of the dry moat. When Sansa peers down she can see an impaled body. She adverts her eyes quickly, afraid she might recognize him. She has only ever seen the dead bodies of prince Aegon and his lover and they looked beautiful and peaceful in their deaths. The dead men that surround her now look the absolute opposite.

She is brought to the council chambers, where Cersei Lannister is seated at the head of a long table. The room is as splendid as any room Sansa has ever seen but somehow that only scares her.

Sansa hoped Rhaenys would be there, but she's not. Only three of the king’s councilors are there. Lord Baelish, lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle. The last one looked at the wound between her legs the last time she saw him this morning. It makes her even more uncomfortable to see him now. All of them are dressed in black.

The queen smiles but Sansa can't bring herself to smile back at her, ‘Sansa, little dove, I would have called for you sooner but you never asked for me.’

Sansa has asked for plenty of others, ‘Where is my father?’ She blatantly asks.

Cersei ignores her question, ‘We all considered you dead, you quite surprised the maester, he already wrote the letter to send to your husband, inform him of your death.’

‘I am not dead.’

‘So I can see.’

‘Where is my father?’ Sansa demands again. It is only then that she realizes Joffrey is not here, the new king is hiding somewhere and she's glad for it. ‘Where is my husband?’

‘Have they not told you?’

‘They won't tell us a thing.’

‘Us?’

‘We send the steward’s daughter in there with her, your grace, we did not know what to do with her.’

Cersei nods as if she understands, ‘Next time only ask. The Gods know what tales she's been telling.’

Sansa raises her nose in the air and when she shuffles on her spot she can feel drops of blood drip down her thighs.

‘Jeyne wishes to see her father.’ Sansa cannot believe they would ever hurt the steward, Vayon Poole does not even carry a sword.

‘I'm afraid that won't be possible.’ Cersei says, she looks at the three men, ‘What shall we do with her?’

‘I'll find a place for the girl, your grace.’ Lord Baelish offers and Cersei nods in agreement.

‘Ser Boros, return for the girl, bring her to lord Baelish’s apartments, tell her she'll wait there until her father comes for her. I want her gone when Sansa returns.’

Sansa feels her heartbeat fasten. She told Jeyne to stay with Freia, if they take Jeyne away Freia will be all alone with no one to keep her safe, no one to stop them from taking her away.

‘I don't understand.’ Sansa says, she promised herself to be as brave as her lady mother, as strong as Rhaenys, she will make Jon proud, but now she feels scared again, ‘Why does lord Baeslish have to bring her? Why can't they bring her to her father right now? She has done nothing wrong.’

Cersei only looks at her as ser Boros leaves the room, then she pats the chair beside her, ‘Sit down Sansa, I want to talk to you.’

Sansa doesn't want to, sitting down hurts, but still she walks over and sits down next to the queen. Sansa’s skin is pimpled by goosebumps as she feels lord Baelish’s stares on her. He looks at her as if she has no clothes on.

‘Where is my sister?’

‘In her own rooms, safe and well.’

Sansa nods, she'd almost forgotten about Arya, but her distrust for the queen forced her to think of all the possible cruelties, ‘My father?’

‘I'm afraid I have grave news about your father.’ Cersei says.

‘Do you?’

‘Your father is a traitor, child.’ Lord Varys tells her.

'T-traitor? Where is he?’

‘Imprisoned.’ Cersei says and Sansa instantly knows where they keep him.

Sansa only stares at her for a moment, she imagines she must look quite daft, ‘I wish to speak to the Princess Rhaenys.’

Cersei laughs a hollow laugh and places a letter down in front of her, ‘Your sister-in-law is a traitor too.’ She says, ‘She conspired with your father to steal the throne from my son. She has declared herself queen.’

Sansa looks down at the letter in front of her and is scared to admit she recognizes Rhaenys’ handwriting immediately. She doesn't need to read the letter to know what is says.

‘She has fled the city with her traitorous uncle, the prince Oberyn.’

‘The princess Daenerys-‘ Sansa starts.

‘Gone too. All of them traitors, all of them left you behind.’

Sansa wants to close her eyes and drop her head on the table. Rhaenys is gone. She really is all alone.

'Where is my sister? Why is she not with me?’

‘We couldn’t let you see her, she may have brought your healing in jeopardy. She is quite a _wild thing_.’

Sansa feels her face heat up, ‘Have you- is she- has anyone hurt her?’

The queen only smiles.

‘I wish to see her.’

‘I don't see any harm in bringing the sisters together, your grace. They are both upset, so much has happened, they may find wisdom in each other’s company and it will calm the youngest down.’ Lord Baelish says.

Cersei shrugs, ‘If she'll behave… you are right, there is no harm in it.’

‘My sister is innocent, she is only a girl, she doesn't know anything, she doesn't understand.’

‘Yes…’ Cersei nods, ‘Perhaps you can explain to her what being a traitor means. Being a traitor’s daughter.’

It’s Sansa's turn to not say a thing.

‘You see, everything that has happened places you in a very uncomfortable position.’

Sansa knows she has to think, think fast and well, to choose her words carefully. She can hear Jon’s voice in her head.

_They are all liars here, Sansa, each one of them better than you._

She can be a liar too. If she tries. She'll tell them what they will never expect her to say.

‘I am innocent.’ She says, ‘There must have been a mistake, my father loved the king, as he loves my husband, the king’s son… The king’s brother.’

‘The king’s _bastard_ brother.’ Cersei says and Sansa knows how much it must please her to say it, after all these years by Rhaegar’s side, who forbid her to say the word, not in his presence, not in Jon’s.

‘Bound by blood all the same.’ Sansa says, ‘I am loyal to King Joffrey.’ It is odd to call him king, the boy’s name doesn't match his title, Joffrey is not a king’s name, ‘As I'm sure my husband will be too. I am no traitor, your grace, I am the king’s sister-in-law and my daughter is his niece, we have done no harm, I long only for justice.’

‘How I wish to believe that, my child.’

‘If only you will let me speak to my father-‘

‘Why would you want to see him? If your loyalties lie with Joffrey?’

‘It must all be a mistake.’

‘I'm afraid it's not.’ Cersei simply says.

‘Perhaps I could write my husband.’ Sansa tries, ‘He will be here soon, he will swear his fealty to the new king, to his brother, he will be loyal to him, I know he will, I do not doubt it.’

‘Your father is a condemned traitor, how can we trust you?’

‘I’ll be a good sister and subject to the king, I promise your grace, I mean no harm.’

‘I cannot allow you to write anyone.’ Cersei says and then turns to the lords, ‘What does the council say?’

‘A child born from traitor’s seeds will find that betrayal comes easy to her,’ Pycelle says and the look of him makes her sick. He has seen her at her worst, at her most vulnerable, dying, bleeding, screaming in terror and in pain. He pulled Freia from her womb and declared her dead, made her believe it too. Now he looks at her as if he has never laid his eyes on her before, ‘She may look like a sweet thing now, but who can say what treasons she may hatch in the future?’

‘ _No_.’ Sansa says and she feels horrified, ‘I’m not.. I'd never… I wouldn't betray Joffrey, I love him as my husband does, like a brother, one of my own, I do.’

Sansa knows the queen smiles because she enjoys her desperation, she enjoys to hear her tell her lies, to know that Sansa is pleading for her life. She loves it.

‘It is said that blood runs truer than oaths.’ Varys says.

‘She reminds me of the mother, not the father, look at her, the hair, the eyes…’ lord Baelish says, ‘The very image of Catelyn Tully.’

‘My mother would never betray the crown.’ Sansa says.

‘She abducted my brother.’ The queen says and she raises an eyebrow.

‘A mere mistake, your grace, you must know that, she has admitted to her fault and send the man back home, he is on his way right now.’

‘I'd believe that if the rest of your kin were to remain loyal in this terrible time, that would go a long way towards laying our fears to rest.’

‘Lord Eddard has three sons.’ Grand Maester Pycelle says.

‘I believe we should concern us with Lady Catelyn and the Tully’s… and Lady Sansa’s husband of course.’ Lord Baelish says.

‘Jon Snow.’

‘ _Jon_ …’ Sansa whispers.

She doesn't know where Jon is, if he's coming for her or if he's on his way to Robb. She believes he might, perhaps he can talk sense into him, ask him to stop this madness. But if he is on his way to King’s Landing… Maybe Jon can speak to Joffrey, he will make him free her father and then they can leave this place, he can bring her home at last, to Winterfell. He can see Freia. He can look at her and hold her and love her the way he should, the way she dreamed he would.

‘He would never betray his brother.’ Sansa says, ‘Never.’

‘Perhaps you could write your lady mother, and your brother, the eldest, what is his name?’

Sansa knows that the Queen knows perfectly well what the name of her older brother is, ‘Robb.’

‘Perhaps you can write them, the news of your father’s betrayal will reach them soon, better that they shall hear it from you. You must tell them how lord Eddard betrayed his king.’

Sansa knows instantly that she shouldn't, ‘I wouldn't know what to say, your grace.’ She says.

‘I will tell you.’

A voice in Sansa’s head screams no, she cannot, she will not, ‘I want to write my husband.’

‘You can write him.’

‘Will you tell me what to write to him too, your grace?’

The smile that adorns Cersei’s face for some time now fades, ‘If you want me to.’

‘I don't believe so.’ Sansa says. She cannot write to Jon what she would want to tell him and she could never write to him what the queen wants her to tell him. The only option that remains to her breaks her heart and the realization hits her like a brick, ‘I don't feel very well, your grace.’

‘I'm sure you don't, you don't look much good, you may be alive child, but you have the appearance of a corpse.’

Cersei always enjoyed to mock her looks, Sansa stopped caring a long time ago and she certainly does not care now, ‘I wish to retreat.’ Sansa wants to go back to her daughter, hold her in her arms, sing to her and dream of Jon’s arms around her, around the both of them. He will be here soon, she won't need to write to him, she'll speak to him, and he will know exactly what to do.

‘You must write your brother in the North.’ Cersei repeats, ‘And your grandfather in the Riverlands, your aunt in the Vale... It is important that you urge them to keep the king’s peace.’

‘They will.’ Sansa says, ‘I am sure of it.’

‘It will go hard for them if they don't.’ Grand maester Pycelle says, ‘For the love you bear for them you must urge them to take the path of wisdom.’

Wisdom. What is wise? Had her father been wise to challenge the line of succession? Perhaps not but she knows that it had been his only option, Rhaenys made that clear to her. Now Joffrey is king and they put her father in a cell. It is worse than she ever could have imagined it. If only Rhaenys were here. If only Jon had never left.

‘Your lady mother will no doubt fear for you dreadfully.’ Cersei urges on, ‘You must tell her that you are well. That we are treating you gently and seeing to you every care. Have we not? You would be dead without it.’

Sansa knows that's true. She also knows that if she had died, they would have lost a valuable piece on their board, their game of thrones, ‘I am very thankful your grace.’ Sansa says, ‘But I do think it would be better if you could write my kin, they would not take a letter of mine very seriously, you see? I am a woman.’ It stings to say it. She never expected Robb’s underestimation of her to ever be of value.

‘So am I.’ The queen says and her eyes are like two green emeralds.

‘But your grace,’ Sansa says, ‘You are the queen, I am only a stupid girl.’

‘You are indeed.’

‘Can I perhaps see my father instead?’

‘See him? You disappoint me child, I have told you no twice...’

Sansa wishes they’d stop calling her child. She is nearly nineteen, she is no maid, she has a child. Sansa is a woman.

‘We've told you of your father's crimes. If you are truly as loyal as you say-‘

‘I am your grace! I am the king's most loyal subject. I only mean to… my father, is he hurt?’

‘He has not been harmed.’

‘What is to become of him?’

‘That is for the king to decide.’

Perhaps they will send him back to Winterfell, maybe he will still travel back home with her and Jon, like he promised. It feels like a dream now, suddenly so far away.

Joffrey is the king, she could go to him and plead for mercy. Would he listen? She wonders what Jon would want her to do. Would he want her to sink to her knees and beg for forgiveness? Would he want her to bow her head to Joffrey and ask him to spare her father, tears on her cheeks?

 _No_.

Jon wouldn't want that. He wouldn't be able to bear the idea of her giving up her pride, her dignity, to lay her arms on the floor, her forehead to the ground, for the vague hope of a miracle. He would want her to stay safe, stay with Freia, protect their daughter, wait for him, do nothing stupid. He would never believe Joffrey might listen. He called his half-brother sadistic, cruel and vicious. Are sadists merciful? She knows they are not. If Jon were here he would tell her Joffrey will never be merciful.

‘I cannot write any letters, your grace.’ Sansa says, ‘I am not feeling well, you must pardon me, I am still very weak.’

Cersei almost grimaces when Sansa gets up, ‘This is a mistake, lady Stark.’ She says.

_Lady Stark._

Cersei can't know how it helps Sansa that she calls her lady Stark. Not little dove, not sweetling or dear girl or child. Sansa is none of these things.

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she is a married woman, she is a mother and a trueborn lady of the North. She is strong and they cannot frighten her.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

_Dear Jon,_

_I was so glad to see your letter, it gives me great condolence to read your words, know you are well and know I will see you soon. Please send my love to mother, be gentle with her, she meant no harm, you must know that._  
_My father has woken and he is feeling well, thank the gods. I believe he will travel back home with us, when we go back to Winterfell. I cannot wait for you to bring me there._  
_Your father is not well, not well at all, I don't believe you will see him again, I am so sorry my love. I have spoken to the king today, of you too, and of our child, it saddens me that he will never know his first grandchild for I do believe he would have been good to it, I do._  
_It is so strong, it fights to come out, I can feel it all day, I cannot sleep, it gives me no rest. I long for it to be born so I can meet her, hold her and see her. I believe I know what we can name her, I think you will love the name. I want to name her Freia, if I have your consent, I know it will suit her, in my head I already call her Freia._  
_If the gods are good they will give me a safe delivery, they will help me bring the child into the world. I cannot wait to see you with a baby in the crook of your arm, you will do so well. It is odd to think of how soon it will happen, how soon this baby of ours will be with us, one more person for you to worry over, you must look forward to that, I certainly do._  
_Be safe, my love, come home to me, where I can see you and take care of you, where you belong._  
_I love you so dearly and remember that my thoughts are always with you, wherever you are in the world._

_Sansa_

He has read her letter over and over again. Has never before re-read a letter this often, with so much care and attention and apprehension. Only after the hundredth time he feels he knows what to write back to her.

 

_Dearest Sansa,_

_I do not know if this letter will ever reach you but, of course, I must try._  
_I am scared, I do not want to admit it, I won't to anyone, but you. Please be safe, I long so much for a letter by your hand that tells me you are safe. You and our daughter._  
_I am so proud of you. I hate myself for having left you, the both of you. I never should have. It seems, every time I leave you, death befalls us and I think that is a sign from the Gods who tell us we should never be parted._  
_When I return to you I shall never leave you again, this I swear. What I also swear is that I will come for you, I will. I shall always protect you, protecting you is all I want, all I ever wanted. You must know that, I swear it, I do. All I do is for you and you must always remember that, never forget it. I will bring you home._  
_I do not know what to tell you, I do not know what to do. Please be safe, please, it is all I ask, all I want._  
_I pray for you, pray to be with you soon, to keep you safe. Please forgive me._

_Jon_

When he sends the letter out he knows it will never reach her. He can't explain to himself why he writes it anyway. They'll open it, Cersei will open it, she'll read his words and laugh. Laugh at him, perhaps make fun of it too, of how he puts his heart in writing, she must think that's a terribly foolish thing to do. She'll think it's hilarious that Sansa is her hostage now, that she has all he ever truly loved in her total power. She must feel like all her dreams are coming true.

They are not. He won't let that happen. She may laugh at this letter but it's only because she doesn't understand. She doesn't know what it means. He writes it because even if there is only a small opportunity for Sansa to ever read it, at least he wrote it. At least he tried. No one can ever tell him he did not try, that he did not do everything he could to tell her the things she needs to hear. He wrote her that he'll come for her, he'll safe her, protect her, take care of her. She's his responsibility. Freia too.

 _Freia_.

They have a a daughter now. He is a father. He always swore to be nothing like his own. He likes to think he succeeded in that regarding marriage. Now it's time to prove that he will do the same for his daughter, that he will be a better father to her than Rhaegar ever was to him.

Thinking about his father stings. Did he die in pain? Had he been scared? Alone? Had Rhaenys been with him, when he died? Probably not. It's likely she already fled the city when their father drew his last breath. That makes him sad.

He'll never see his father again, his father will never lecture him anymore, nor will he avoid his eyes or make some snark remarks. Rhaegar will never again bellow at Cersei, peck the top of Rhaenys’s head or squeeze Tommen’s cheek. Jon will never have to follow his father’s demands again, or bow his head to him and call him ‘your grace’.

Jon will never be able to tell his father how happy he is, how grateful that he was allowed to marry Sansa. He can never tell his father that he respects him, sometimes even looks up to him.

 _looked up to him_.

He'll never be able to tell him that he understands a little bit. He'll never get to ask all those questions he has, the questions that he was going to ask. He'll never get to hear his father mention his mother again. He'll never be able to tell his father that if he loved Jon’s mother, truly loved her, and she loved him, then maybe he can understand. He can't tell him that maybe he would have been able to forgive him, had he been granted some more time.

His father is gone.

Joffrey is king now. Not for long if Rhaenys gets her way. Will she manage, though? He doubts it.

Maybe Rhaenys didn't expect their father to die this soon either, maybe she hoped he'd have some more time, maybe that is why she waited this long, to hope for a miracle.

If only he'd stayed. He could've talked to all of them, Ned, Rhaenys, Cersei, _Joff_. He could've convinced them that this is not the way. He could've saved so many lives. If only he never left. If only he'd tried. Maybe they would have listened, and if they had not... he would've thrown Sansa and the baby in a wheelhouse and left in the dark of night, brought them far away to safety, to let these idiots solve their nonsense without bothering the people Jon swore to protect. 

Somehow, though, he believes that would not have been necessary. He can make people listen to him, he can often make them understand, he's always been good at that, he knows how. If he speaks long enough, if he forces them to hear what he has to say.

Maybe he can make Robb understand. Maybe this is all going to be alright. Maybe this will be over soon and he can ride for King’s Landing and bring his wife and child home. Maybe he'll see Freia, hold her and swear to her that he'll protect her, and be a good father to her. Maybe Joffrey will be merciful and spare Ned’s life, send him to the wall, probably. Maybe Rhaenys will realize that what's she's doing is hopeless. Maybe Sansa will forgive him for leaving her again, even though he promised he wouldn't. Maybe he'll forgive himself. Maybe, _maybe_.

When he climbs on his horse and rides for the Riverlands he looks at the King’s road again. All the places he could go to flash by in front of his eyes. For the first time in his life it is not Winterfell he desperately wants to go to. He never expected to ever want to go to King’s Landing, but now it is the only place he can dream of heading. Winterfell is not his home, his home is no longer a place, it is a person, and he misses her so much. Longs for her face, her red hair and her smile and the way she talks and laughs and feels and smells. She is where he belongs, Sansa is his home now, and he's never been so homesick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!  
> Byeeexxx


	25. Westeros can Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here is Cersei’s nightmare: while her father and brother spend all their time battling Starks and Tullys, Rhaenys will raise a large army with all the south to back her, ready to chop off her pretty son’s curly head… and her own in the bargain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone ever read how JK Rowling had a writer’s block and completely freaked out over Order of the Phoenix and that's why that book turned out as the one with the most pages and also, well it's the emotional roller coaster of the series? This chapter is my Order of the Phoenix. When I started this I promised myself to write chapters of 5,000 to 7,000 words- this one has approximately 11,000. I thought long and hard about it- but the thing is that I don't want to drag out the ‘Jon doesn't know what to do’ plot line. This is the ‘Jon is freaking out and doesn't know what to do’ chapter, I didn't want to torture you with two or more of these. It won't last long, this I promise. Most chapters will be longer from now on, not 11,000 but about 8,000/9,000, I'm going to try not to go over the 10,000 again. Harry Potter is hitting puberty though, and I'm so excited about the coming chapters (especially chapter 30 and onwards).

**Jon**

* * *

 

‘The gods are good. We are not too late.’ Catelyn says.

Jon is not sure if he agrees. As he looks at the distant image of the army of Stark bannermen he feels cold. This is somehow what he and Robb have always dreamed of since they were boys. Going off to war, fight for their house, for their name and their family. But Jon’s name is not Stark and even though he can still remember vividly what Catelyn said, he knows it's not true. No matter how much it means to him that she said that, no matter how badly he wants it to be true, he is not a Stark and he will never be one.  
Battle and war seemed so exciting back then, when they were children and their world was not much bigger than everything within the grey castle walls of Winterfell.

Jon doesn't feel excited at all now, not one bit. All he feels is dread and a tight feeling in his throat that makes it hard for him to swallow.

War is not what Jon wants. He spend seven years of his life listening to his father rambling on about how it does nothing but waste blood and destroy lives. Rhaegar held a great grudge towards war during his entire reign and tried everything that lay in his power to avoid it. Married a Lannister, among other things, to do just that. Jon has never met anyone more frightened, more terrified by the prospect of war than his own father.

He’d turn around in his grave knowing that his death led to just that, wasn't it that he’s cremated. Jon wouldn't know what they did with the king’s body, he wasn't there during the funeral. Assuming he had a funeral.

‘Let us not keep them waiting any longer.’ Ser Brynden Tully puts the spurs to his horse and trots briskly toward the banners. Catelyn rides beside him.

Jon has tried to avoid the company of ser Brynden, mostly because he preferred to avoid any contact at all. His brief encounter with Lysa Arryn is one he’ll hopefully soon be able to forget.

She raged on to him about how they tried to steal her son away, how he knew about it and was as much to blame as his father, as lord Tywin and Tyrion.

‘The king is dead.’ Jon told her, ‘His demands won't be of any trouble to you now, this I promise.’

She looked at him with her bulging eyes and her heavily powdered face and said no word. He didn't expect her to properly give him her condolences, he wasn't really hoping for any, but it said a lot about who she is that she didn't. Sitting there, in her chair, her son beside her, she pretended to look like a queen, ruling over the Eyrie in Lord Robin’s name.

Ser Brynden, on the other hand, is far nicer to Jon, he decided to come with them on their travel to Robb’s army and the man actively tried to help Catelyn convince Jon to join them.

Jon didn't give the knight much chance nor opportunity. He has seen the man fight in some tourneys through the years, he was brilliant with a sword in his hand, but Jon has never known him personally. He doesn't want to talk to a stranger about all that's going on. He doesn't need a man he barely knows to tell him what to do, to act as if he has any understanding of the inner battles he is fighting all day, every day ever since he opened his eyes that morning, when Ser Malckom woke him up, all pale-faced and with two letters in his hands.

One from Sansa, telling him she knew how they were going to name their daughter, and one from Rhaenys, telling him their father died, informing him how they imprisoned his uncle and explaining quickly and efficiently how she decided to create her army south in Dorne, and planned to march to the capital to claim the iron throne and sit on it as the first queen of Westeros.

He is still glad he read Sansa’s letter first, it somehow prepared him only a little bit for the one Rhaenys send him.

Rhaenys wrote a note he has etched in his brain, he threw it away but still remembers exactly what it said.

_Jon,_

_Father is dead, Stark men all dead, Sansa in Lannister hands, Joffrey sits the Iron Throne. I have lost the first fight, forgive me please. I ride out to Dorne tonight. This is not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning, remember that._

_Rhaenys_

 

He can't bring himself to throw Sansa's, much longer one, away. He keeps rereading it all the time. 

When did she write that letter, a day before his father died or a few days? Just after he left? How long after was Freia born? Had his father lived to see his daughter? Has Ned seen her?

He damns Rhaenys, damns her for leaving Sansa alone. How alone is she exactly? Rhaenys said they killed all the Stark men in the capital. Sansa is not a man, their daughter isn't either.

_Arya must be with her._

And maybe Septa Mordane too, and that girl, the young one, with the mousy brown hair. Vayon Poole’s daughter. Sansa always liked her, he remembers them giggling and pointing at him before they got married, before the girl left for King’s Landing. Sansa mentioned once how she looked forward to seeing her friend again.

He kept thinking of Sansa when they boarded the ship to white Harbor. He kept reminding himself of how he promised never to make Sansa travel by ship ever again. That is one promise he is going to keep. He'll put her and the baby in a wheelhouse when he'll bring them home to Winterfell.

Lord Wyman’s sons are extremely fat. So fat that they remind Jon of the boy he met when he was at the wall. The one who was brave in his own way. He has not thought of Samwell Tarley ever since he left the wall, not even once. But now he wonders what became of him, if he became Maester Aemon’s steward, if he gets to read books all day and if he finally built up the courage to use the wench and reach the top of the wall.

He wonders about his uncle, Ben Stark, if they'll ever find him. Where could he be? Is he alive?

He wonders about Daenerys, with Viserys at Dragonstone, a place she'll never call her home. Is she scared too? Does Viserys take care of her? Maybe he is good to her after all. Maybe she was clever and went with Rhaenys.

Where is Rhaenys? Is she in Dorne already? With her uncles? He knows only one, he met him on several occasions and the man was extraordinary by lack of other words to use. Jon can hardly believe that Rhaenys’ mother was anything like her brother because if she had been, he doubts his father would've cared for her as much as Jon knows he did. But Rhaenys always loved her uncles and they love her back, everyone knows that, Martells don't hide their affections.

Jon knows Catelyn is just as, if not more afraid than he is, yet he cannot fail to see the pride in her eyes. Robb is her little boy and now he is hosting a war.

Jon has not seen Robb for over nine moon turns, he wonders what he will be like. Will he be scared? Is he brave?

Jon sees the remains of Moat Cailin, glimpses of walls and towers of what once was a castle as fierce as Winterfell. Now it is rotting and all that is left of the stronghold of the first men are three towers. Old Nan used to tell Jon and the Stark children that, once upon a time many hundreds of years ago, there were 20.

There is the Gatehouse Tower, the Children’s Tower and the Drunkards Tower.

The sight of the latter makes him decide to get very, exceedingly drunk tonight. Celebrate the birth of his daughter with a bitter smile on his face and a filled cup of wine in his hand. Hopefully that will give him the strength he needs. And a good night's rest that he has failed to find for weeks.

He can hear Ser Brynden mock the castle and Catelyn tell him it's more formidable than it seems. Jon wants to tell them the castle is an exception, usually things are never more formidable than they seem, quite the opposite.

As Cat explains the strategic strength of the castle to her uncle, Jon waits until she finishes before he adds; ‘And when night falls the ghosts appear.. Angry, vengeful spirits hungry for the blood of Southerners.’

Ser Brynden laughs but Jon keeps looking at him as if it wasn't a myth he just told but the plain truth and the laugh fades off the man’s face.

‘I'll remind you not to linger, Ser, you and I are both from the South are we not?’

‘You were born and raised at Winterfell.’ Catelyn tells him but Jon purposely ignores that.

Robb is in a drafty hall surrounded by his father's bannermen, seated at a massive stone table with a peat fire smoking in a black hearth and a pile of maps and papers in front of him.

The wolf notices them first, Greywind lifts his head when they walk in. Robb looks up from his conversation with men Jon almost all recognizes and the lords fall silent one by one ‘Mother?’ Robb asks as if the red-headed woman next to Jon could possibly be anyone else.

When Jon looks at Robb, all he can see is a man that Rhaegar would've instantly declared a pretender, possibly even an actor, ‘One in a very convincing costume’. That's what Rhaegar would've said. Jon can hear him say it.

Jon wonders if he is going to continue thinking of his father as often as he has been doing these last couple of days. He has remembered him more often since his death than he ever did when the man still lived. Maybe it is because he died and because Jon feels far too sad about that. A million times more sad than he did with Aegon. Maybe it's because they are at war, and Rhaegar’s voice in his head is undeniably a wise one when it comes to warfare, politics and strategy. Or maybe it's because he is a father himself now.

_Freia._

It is a beautiful name. That is what Catelyn said and he agrees. It's Valyrian, Rhaegar must've liked it, but Jon likes it too. It has a Northern ring to it. And it's pretty. His daughter must be pretty, how can she not be? She's Sansa’s.

_And she's mine. I have a family._

Thinking about Freia, even without ever having seen her, makes him feel a sort of pride he has never experienced before. He feels almost unworthy of the pride. Maybe her eyes are as blue as Sansa’s, maybe she has auburn hair too. Maybe she has no hair at all. He remembers how Bran had hardly any when he was born, and Bran is her uncle.

The direwolf gets to his feet and pads across the room to where Jon stands. Jon misses Ghost suddenly. He stretches his arm out to scratch the wolf behind his ear and faintly hears Catelyn’s voice, ‘You've grown a beard,’ she tells Robb, who rubs his stubbled jaw. Jon looks up to see him look rather awkward suddenly.

"Yes.’ His chin hairs are redder than the ones on his head. Jon vaguely thinks he doesn't look anything like a Stark, not in coloring nor in posture. He looks like a Tully. But he has the Stark name and, even after all these years, after everything that has happened, everything he has now, that still makes Jon feel jealous.

‘It makes you look like my brother Edmure.’ Catelyn decides and, even though Jon has never met her brother, he is confident that's true.

Greywind nips at his fingers playfully before trotting back to his place by the fire. It is then that Robb sees Jon stand there and his eyes widen.

‘Cousin.’ He says and Jon suddenly feels relieved. They did not part well when he left for Winterfell, he hadn't realized it yet, but Jon felt far too anxious to see Robb again. Especially with Sansa in King’s Landing, a hostage to the Lannisters. Jon blames himself enough for that, he weakly realizes he won't be able to handle more blame from Robb.

‘You look all dressed-up.’ Jon tells him and Robb grins.

‘You do not.’

‘I have been on the road a tad too much lately to keep up my grooming routine.’

‘So I've heard.’ Robb doesn’t looks at him when he adds, ‘It’s good you're here.’

 _Is it?_ It doesn't feel good at all.

One knight is the first to follow the direwolf across the room to pay his respects, kneeling before Catelyn.

‘Lady Catelyn,’ he says, ‘You are ever, a welcome sight in troubled times.’

Then other men follow that Jon recognizes as the Glovers, the Mormonts, the Boltons and the Karstarks too, one by one, with Theon Greyjoy as the last.

Jon glares at Greyjoy and it pleases him that Theon ignores his stare while Catelyn introduces the Blackfish.

‘Winterfell is safe. We'll shove our swords up Tywin’s bunghole soon enough, begging your pardons, and then it's on to the Red Keep to free Ned.’ The Greatjon tells Catelyn and Jon can't help but snigger.

‘Now _that_ , my lord, is perhaps the finest piece of optimism ears have ever had the pleasure of hearing, I must congratulate you.’

The man frowns at him, as do both Catelyn and Robb, but then Roose Bolton speaks, ‘My lady, a question, as it please you,’ Jon never much liked the man and he knows Ned feels the same. His eyes are curiously pale, almost with no color, and his overall appearance is just disturbing on itself, ‘It is said that you hold Lord Tywin's dwarf son as captive. Have you brought him to us? I vow, we should make good use of such-‘

‘l did hold Tyrion Lannister, but no longer,’ Catelyn admits and Jon can't help but snigger again though he is grateful that this time no one hears him because a chorus of consternation greets the news. Catelyn presses her lips together, fully aware of her vague failure and then goes on to explain, ‘I was no more pleased than you, my lords. The gods saw fit to free him, with some help from my fool of a sister.’

At that Jon can't snigger, only roll his eyes. Fool is not the description he'd choose for Lysa Arryn.

Voices rise to question her further but Catelyn raises a hand, ‘No doubt we will have time for all this later, but my journey has fatigued me. I would speak with my son alone. I know you will forgive me, my lords.’

The ever-obliging bannermen bow and take their leave.

‘You too, Greyjoy.’ Jon tells Theon, who looks at Robb for confirmation he doesn't find, before he leaves.

Catelyn sits and fills a cup. As she nips she tries to make eye contact with Robb as she makes some more comments about his beard but Robb is too busy studying Jon to answer.

‘There is cheese and ale.’ Robb says, ‘Are you not hungry?’

Jon can't help but feel annoyed. The way they sit here, at this table, with food and wine and a nice warm fire in the heard. He doesn't want to sit down. When he was on his horse at least he felt like he was going somewhere, doing _something_.

‘I’m alright.’ Jon says.

‘Edmure was fifteen when he grew his first whiskers.’ Catelyn says and Jon’s annoyance rises.

‘No one cares about your brother's facial hair.’ Jon tells her.

Robb frowns, ‘There is no need to speak in such a tone to my lady mother.’

Jon doesn't answer but turns his back on them and stares through the window, at the camp down in the field.

Catelyn sighs, ‘Your cousin is cross with me and he has every reason to be.’

‘There cannot be a reason to-‘

‘I'm afraid there is.’ Catelyn says and Jon can feel her eyes pierce through his back. He really shouldn't speak to her like that, with such a tone. It is done now, it won't help anyone to keep acting like a displeased child. He doesn't feel like a displeased child, he feels like a chained direwolf who is piling up all his rage, unable to lose it. He really needs to drink.

‘How?’

‘Sansa is in King’s Landing, Jon left her because I imprisoned the imp.’

‘Father is in King’s Landing too.’ Robb says, ‘They imprisoned him, declared him a traitor. The Lannisters are the enemy.’

Jon remembers what Rhaenys told him a few moons back. _We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves, we have too many enemies._ He wishes Rhaenys were here. If anything she always knows what to say.

‘Jon is only worried. He is right, capturing the imp was a mistake.’

‘On the contrary, we ought to have kept him as a hostage.’

‘ _Hostage_!’ Jon turns back around and both Robb and Catelyn back away in shock of the sound of his raised voice, ‘Because what would that make Sansa? Right now she is only a guest of the king, I'd like to keep it that way.’ He looks at Catelyn again, ‘Capturing Tyrion _was_ a mistake, but we can't change what has already happened, it is done, now all we can do is hope for the best.’

Catelyn nods in agreement.

'I had hoped that you would still have him, a trade of hostages-‘

‘Do you have any letter from Sansa?’ Jon asks.

Robb shakes his head apologetically, ‘Only one from the king.’

‘The dowager queen, you mean.’ Jon says, ‘If we receive a letter from Sansa it will be Cersei’s words in her handwriting.’

‘The queen did not mention the both of them, not Sansa nor Arya.’ Robb says and he looks down at his food.

Jon tries to keep a slow breath, to keep his nerve down. That doesn't need to mean anything, he tells himself, it doesn't have to be bad news.

‘What about aunt Lysa?’ Robb asks, ‘Will she-‘

‘You’d better not expect any help from that corner of Westeros.’ Jon says, ‘Lysa Arryn refuses to pass the Bloody Gate.’

‘We brought only my uncle, the best of them, but he is a Tully first.’

Robb suddenly looks nervous, ‘What are we going to do? I brought this whole army together, eighteen thousand men, but I don’t… I'm not certain…’

Jon wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, tell him no one knows, no one is certain about anything, not him, not Ned, not Rhaenys, not Tywin, except maybe Joffrey. But Joff is a bonehead- a vicious and sadistic bonehead- but a dumb idiot all the same.

'What are you afraid of?’ Jon asks.

‘They hold father… and my sisters. They could kill them.’

‘They want us to think they will.’ Jon says.

‘But then how-‘

‘You have no choice.’ Catelyn tells him.

‘If you and I go to King’s Landing right now, swear out fealty, we will never be able to leave.’ Jon says, ‘If you turn around and stop this madness, you'll lose the respect of your bannermen and all the hope we have of saving you father.'

‘Some lords may even join the Lannisters.’ Catelyn says.

‘And then Cersei will be able to do whatever she likes with her enemies.’ Jon says and he clenches his jaw.

‘Our best hope, our _only hope,_ is that you shall defeat the foe in the field.’ Catelyn says and she looks at Jon, and he looks back at her, and Jon knows they both think the same, ‘So long as we frighten them, they won't harm your father or Sansa, or _anyone_.’

‘Cersei is just smart enough to know that she needs them to make peace, when she starts losing the war.’

The war has not even begun yet and already Robb looks scared, about as scared as Jon feels, really, ‘What if she won't start losing the war?’

Jon isn't the one to answer that question, he can't even properly comprehend what will happen if they'll lose, he leaves it to Catelyn to tell Robb, but she doesn't need to, he answers his own question, like a true lord.

‘They say there is naught but stone at the heart of Casterly Rock.’ There is a fear in his blue eyes, but strength as well, ‘We have no choice, we shall not lose.’

Then he starts telling them about the fighting in the Riverlands and Jon wanders off to the window again, he leans against it with his shoulder, his forehead to the glass. His breath creates shadows that he wipes away with his sleeve.

Jon looks down at the soldiers in the field, as far as he can see them clearly, they make him nervous.

This host Robb has assembled is not a standing army such as the Free Cities are accustomed to maintain, nor a force of guardsmen paid in coin, it is incomparable to the fast, one army of the Lannisters and Martells or the soldiers Jon always saw at King’s Landing, his father’s own army.

Most of these men down there are smallfolk and he wonders how many of them are hungry for plunder. When their lord calls, they come but not forever, they have fields to return to, families to take care of.

'The Greatjon thinks we should meet Tywin in battle and surprise him-‘

‘No.’ Jon says, ‘You wont surprise him, don’t ever think you'll surpise him.’ He shakes his head, ‘We have to meet the army of your uncle in the Riverlands.’

Catelyn agrees, ‘We can join our forces and we’ll equal the numbers, they have a langer army but if we reach Edmure... We could-‘

‘Join up against the Kingslayer.’ Jon says, ‘And if you defeat him, you can revenge Bran,’ he looks at Catelyn, ‘And we capture a hostage that will make Cersei tremble day and night.’

‘I’m not certain...’ Robb says.

‘Be certain Robb,’ Catelyn says, ‘You named yourself battle commander, _command_.’

Robb nods and points at a map on the table as he explains the current plan. Then Jon hears them mention the Frey towers and he feels anxious.

‘Walder Frey only takes the field when the scent of victory is in the air, all he smells now is ruin.’

‘I won't trust him.’ Robb says and Jon hopes he speaks truly because every experience he ever has been allowed to have with a Frey or two was as awful as the other.

Jon has to agree the plan impresses him, as far as his knowledge about strategies and military plans go, which, he likes to argue, is pretty far, he can't blame his father for undereducating his children, even his bastard. Yet, then he looks at Robb and it's as if Ned’s speaking.

_Ned has taught me as well, and my father too. I've not only listened to men from the Citadel with chains around their necks._

Every time, Jon believed his father was lecturing him, he had tried to teach him. Why did he do that? Jon doesn't really know, but he does know that he's going to use every bit of it, he'll need all of it.

‘Jon, what do you think?’

He looks at the wine on the table and thinks carefully before he speaks, ‘I think...’ he sighs, ‘I think that you have drawn up a good battle plan.’

‘Thank you.’ Robb seems relieved.

‘Just- don’t do what he wants you to do.’

Robb frowns.

‘You think that's obvious?’ Jon shakes his head, ‘This is Tywin Lannister, he knows a thing or two about war. There is reason for armies to go to war, even when they are the smallest, it's because they think they stand a chance if they play the game right. To lords... to commanders, war is a game. _Play the game_. Don't do what he wants you to do.’

Robb still frowns but Catelyn nods as if she understands. Jon hopes she does.

They discuss who they'll send off where and then Robb tells Catelyn he has arranged an escort for her North, to Winterfell, which she declines.

Jon wants to scream, smash something. If only he could go to Winterfell, if only he left Sansa there, the way Robb told him to. He could ride for Winterfell now and she'd be there, waiting for him with their baby in her arms.

Jon walks back, over to the table, and he picks up a glass and fills it to the rim.

‘What are you doing?’ Robb asks.

‘I plan on getting drunk tonight.’

‘I don't believe that is a very good idea.’

‘If life was full of good ideas it wouldn't be worth living.’ Jon says, ‘My dear uncle Tyrion told me that once... ask your lady mother, she must know now how terribly good he is at such peculiar wisdoms.’

‘Jon-‘

‘Besides, I have something to celebrate.’ Jon goes on.

‘Do you?’ Robb asks and in the corner of his eye Jon can see Catelyn watch him nervously.

Jon nods, raises his glass at Robb and tells him, ‘About four weeks ago, I became the father of a daughter.’

Robb’s eyes widen, ‘Why didn't you say? I didn't know-‘

‘No, I'm afraid Ned was unable to write letters to many people, he was too busy fighting off Lannisters and getting thrown in a cell because of a war _you-_ ’ he points his glass at Catelyn, ‘-started.’

Robb gulps and Catelyn looks as if she is about to start crying.

‘Sometime back then my father passed away as well, but I know you have already been notified about _that_.’

‘My condolences.’ Robb says.

‘Well, thank you.’ Jon says and he gulps down some wine.

‘And my congratulations.’ Robb says, ‘A daughter that is… quite remarkable.’

‘I agree.’ Jon says and he drinks some more.

Robb gets up and pours himself a drink too, ‘I believe you are right, we indeed have something to celebrate.’

Jon stares at Robb, perhaps a bit astounded, as he holds up his drink.

‘What's her name?’ He asks.

Jon needs a few seconds to realize why he asks and then he says, way too softly, ‘F-Freia.’ He doesn't recall saying her name out loud ever since Catelyn told him. That is three weeks ago.

Robb nods, eyes his mother, who quickly stands and lifts her glass up too, ‘To Freia.’ Robb says.

‘To Freia.’ Catelyn mimics, her voice hoarsely.

Jon closes his eyes and sinks down in his chair, his face in his free hand as he leans his elbow on the table. He feels Catelyn's cold hand on his shoulder and it reminds him of that time Sansa found him after he just heard of his father’s nearing death. When he was crying like a lost child. He is not going to cry now.

Jon shrugs off her hand and takes another sip from his glass, ‘Rhaenys is going to get herself killed, my father is already dead, the Lannisters put my fake bastard brother on the Iron Throne, they have my wife and daughter right under their nose, ready to make them their hostages and they put Ned in chains.’ He puts his cup firmly down on the table, ‘I have come here because I am loyal to house Stark, I will _always_ be loyal to house Stark, but if you think that we will simply march south and spear a sword up Tywin’s ass, free Ned and all will be well and happy, then I am gone because I don't believe in lovely tales from pretty songs and nor can you.’

Robb nods.

‘This will not be lovely and it won't be pretty.’ Jon realizes his cup is empty, ‘And I need more wine.’

Robb fills his cup for him, ‘So you’ll fight for us, then?’ He asks.

Jon takes another sip, ‘I'll fight with you.’ He says, he looks up, at both Robb and Catelyn, who has tears on her cheeks, ‘For Ned.’

* * *

 

A fortnight later Jon watches Robb and remembers a conversations they had, more than a year ago now, when they were outside, snow in their hair, young and happy.

_‘Maybe you can marry a Frey.’_

It was a joke, not a very funny one, but a joke. Robb was worried about the costs of the royal stay, and Walder Frey gives their daughter’s a dowry worth their weight in silver.

As it turns out, he's willing to give other things too. The opening of gates, among others.

‘ _Over my dead body_.’ Robb said back then.

But things have changed now. That time is gone.

After the scattering defeat by Tywin and Kevan Lannister at the golden Tooth, Jaime smashed Vance and Piper and then advanced to Riverrun where he imprisoned Catelyn’s brother.

‘He thinks some of them may be suitable.’ Robb says and it feels like he is trying to comfort himself, ‘I can choose.’

Jon nods. If he ignores their environment he can pretend they're at Winterfell, sitting in the great hall, drinking their ale, talking about politics or crops or other things. Jon remembers how they did that almost every night before he left.

He loved that, talking to Robb, laughing and joking and feeling like there is no real problem in the world that could ever concern him.

He'd drink his cup empty and bid his cousin good night and walk up the stairs to Sansa’s room where she was brushing her hair, sitting in front of her mirror. Every night she used to eat drapes, laying in bed, holding a book upright with just one hand.

They talked and she made him smile and he made her laugh and she was so sweet and innocent back then, all cheerful and bright with so much hope. Her optimism and rose tinted ideas about the world made him hopeful too, she almost made him believe the world is a song. _She_ is a song, the way she looks and the way she smiles and talks, the way she loves him.

She certainly was a song then, a girl in love with the idea of southron princes. Jon was never a prince, but she fell in love with him all the same. He still wonders how he managed. It says more about her, that she could do that, that she could cast away her crushed dreams and see him for something other than the cause of her future ruined. She looked at him and saw a _him_ , not Rhaegar's bastard.

‘Perhaps one will be nice, or two... what if you can't choose?’

Robb looks into his cup and scuffs, ‘Have you ever seen them? The Freys?’

‘Unfortunately, I have.’

Robb decides not to say much more.

Jon bites his lower lip and, lacking anything else to say, he says, ‘Sansa didn't want to marry me either, I don't think she regrets it now.’

Robb looks up and stares at him in wonder, ‘Did you want to marry _her_?’ He asks, ‘I never asked.’

Jon shrugs, ‘It didn't help to think about that, it was going to happen and all I did was hope I would not be too much of a disappointment.’

‘You have not been a disappointment.’ Robb says.

Jon smiles into his cup, ‘No.’

‘I remember hearing the two of you scream at each other once, through the door of her bedchamber.’

Jon can only frown at that. Back then they were good at screaming at each other and not speaking much, he kept from her whatever he could keep from her.

‘I told father that Sansa had angered you and he… he said; _no,_ _Jon has angered Sansa_.’

Jon grins, ‘Very likely.’

‘I'm glad you…’ Robb seems to have trouble finding words, ‘You've made her happy. I've not been a very good brother, but you have been a good lord husband.’

‘It's easy.’ Jon says, ‘Being a good husband, whatever that means.’

‘Not every man will agree with you there.’

‘Not every man is married to your sister.’

Robb smiles too now, he doesn't seem embarrassed, just proud, ‘You love her, don't you?’

Jon nods.

‘She loves you too. When she… after she lost it, the... the child, when it died, ad she was weak and ill, when you were still gone, she needed you, only you. She asked for you, even in her sleep, and when you came you brought life back into her. When she sees you she blooms like a flower of spring.’

Jon wouldn't use that description, ‘It was a… a really difficult time for her.’ He says.

‘I've never blamed you,’ Robb says, ‘I know I wanted to make it seem like I did, but I didn't.’

Jon pushes his cup away, ‘I know that.’

‘Do you?’ Robb seems to doubt it, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Jon wonders what to say for a second, ‘She has changed. She's not a girl anymore, I can see why you missed that but you have to realize… She has felt from time to time that you don't take her seriously, as you still treat her like a child.’

Rob nods once, ‘I know she's not a child, but she'll always be my little sister.’

Jon can't sympathize there, he has no little sister. Myrcella was raised far away from his presence and Rhaenys is everything but little, ‘Just don't… don't underestimate her.’

Robb nods once again, ‘I'm sorry.’

‘Don't be.’ He better apologize to Sansa.

‘After what happened I- I felt guilty.’

‘We all felt guilty.’

‘I should've realized.’

‘Realized what?’

‘That you were married.’

Jon knows what he means and he doesn't want to talk about that, ‘It's a long time ago.’ He says before he takes a gulp from his ale, ‘We have other things to worry about now.’

‘We’ll save her.’ Robb says, ‘I swear it to you.’

Jon wishes he wouldn’t, he has heard many people swear many different sort of promises, he has seen almost as many broken, ‘I hope so.’

‘And she'll manage, she is strong, she'll keep her head up, I know she will.’

With that Jon agrees, yet it makes him feel uncomfortable, he doesn’t want her to have to, he wants to be able to protect her. Rhaenys told him he can't protect her on his own, he hates to admit, after all these moonturns, that she was right.

‘We've crossed the river, with my uncle’s army we shall crush the Lannisters.’

Jon doesn't respond again. If he hopes too much he'll die when it doesn't happen. Ideas of what they may do to her take over his sleep and day. If they'll hurt her he swears to the old gods and the new that he'll hunt them down and kill them all.

‘You need to have faith, Jon.’

Robb wants Jon to have faith because he needs to have faith himself, ‘I'll try.’

‘You're like your father.’ Robb says, ‘Skeptical.’

Jon can only shrug. If anything both him and his father had good reason to be known for their skepticism. Life makes you that. Rhaegar always told Jon that ‘when you have nothing nice to say you are not being mean, just realistic’. It's among the many reasons why Sansa was so enchanting to him back in the days, the way she almost made him believe in songs, the least skeptical person to ever exist. Even now she still does that. The mere idea of her gives him hope.

Jon drifts of for a moment and can hear his father's voice in his head again, _‘Things always change Jon, nothing stays the same forever, nothing is permanent. Admitting that is not being negative, it's accepting the reality of life.’_

‘Mother thinks Joffrey will want you to join the Night’s Watch when he finds out you are here.’

‘I'll be lucky if she's right.’ Jon says.

‘Will you? Join the watch?’

‘Never.’

Robb takes a sip of his ale, ‘You'll give up your claim if you do.’

‘I don't have a claim.’

Robb only raises his eyebrows.

‘Should I declare myself king? The last surviving son of King Rhaegar, rightful heir to the iron chair... I don't want it, no one wants me on it, frankly there are already too many people who believe they belong on it, the Lannisters should not fear that prospect.’

‘I think they do.’ Robb says, ‘You _are_ the only son of king Rhaegar that is still alive and I disagree when you say no one wants you on it. There are so many rumors that say your father wanted you on it, some say they chained my father because he tried to do what the king wanted him to do. To be honest, I think most people would rather have you than Rhaenys.’

‘Rhaenys has groomed herself for this all her life, she has been my father's right hand ever since she understood the difference between winter and summer. She knows everything about everyone, she's clever and manipulative. Rhaenys is no tougher on the rest of us as she is on herself, trust me.’ Jon stares at his hands, ‘She has a sense of duty and discipline that will embarrass most maesters and make knights tremble in their armor.’

‘I wasn't aware you'd grown fond of her.’ Robb says.

‘Not fond exactly, but she has been there for me, and she took care of Sansa in ways I couldn't. She also has the trump card.’

‘The trump card?’

‘She's my sister.’ Jon says, ‘The only one who ever treated me like a brother. I’ve never liked her but I'll always love her.’

Much like Sansa, Robb doesn't seem very capable of understanding Jon and Rhaenys’ complicated relationship, but he doesn't say it aloud.

‘He should've named her his heir.’ Jon decides, ‘He made a mistake not to.’

‘Why didn't he?’

‘War.’ Jon says, ‘My father was always so terrified of war.’

‘Really?’

‘He used to say there is nothing worse than the sound of men looking the stranger in the eye as they beg for their mother.’ Jon moves a little in his seat, ‘He turns around in his grave knowing his own death caused the thing he feared the most.’

Robb looks guilty, rightfully so, and moves his hand to squeeze Jon's shoulder, ‘He is with the Gods now.’

Jon doubts it. Somehow he believes Rhaegar is somewhere else, somewhere better. If Rhaegar had any say in it himself, he is with Jon's mother now, with Lyanna, and she would've held her hand out to him and he'd take it, to be together forever. At last.

Perhaps they'll write a song that goes a bit like that. Sansa would love it, she'll never sing it in his presence though, thinking he hates it that they sing about his parents like that. He doesn't hate it, not really, despite popular believe Jon always wanted to believe his parents loved each other, he never really did, but that didn't make him hope it less. Now he knows they did, and he is glad. Freia's parents loved each other too, and that's good. It's important to have two parents who love each other, it makes you believe it's real and has you strive for the same.

‘I need sleep.’ Jon says. He gets up, squeezes Robb’s shoulder and leaves him there, to go to his cot in a tent. Not to Sansa, brushing her hair and singing to herself. Eating grapes in bed, stretching her hand out towards him.

When Jon wakes the next morning there is a letter for him, from his uncle, not the one he desperately wants a letter from, unfortunately.

Viserys’ handwriting is small and ugly and his words feel like thorns. Somehow the first thing that flashes through his mind is Daenerys. Poor, miserable Dany. Then it's Rhaenys. How could he? Just when Jon started believing things couldn't get much worse.

‘Viserys has declared himself the rightful king.’ He throws the letter in Robb’s face who can barely catch it and clasps it in his hands.

‘Your uncle?’

‘Aye, that one!’ He starts pacing around the army tent and pulls his hair, ‘He is mad, completely, utterly mad, this is all mad, he cannot, he will not _ever_ be king!’

Robb says nothing as he reads the letter.

 _Rightful king_! He'll be just as bad if not worse than Joffrey!’

‘Mad?’

‘Like Aerys.’

Robb nods and hands the letter to Catelyn who doesn't read it but asks instead, ‘Why does he not support your sister?’

Jon shrugs, ‘Read the letter, I can't believe I’ve not predicted this to happen! Joffrey and Tommen are bastards and Rhaenys is a woman, he has decided to name himself king as my father's only brother. He is my father's trueborn, male heir.’

Robb's words flash briefly through his mind. His claim. What is Jon’s claim? He is not the one to cause another Blackfyre rebellion but for the first time he wonders if he could… If he tried. Who would support him? Robb? Certainly not the Dornishmen, nor the Reach or the Stormlands... No one would, no one wants him as king, he is quick to decide. He is a bastard, and bastards are born from weakness and betrayal. They cannot be trusted. Who would ever want a untrustworthy, Northern-raised bastard to rule the Seven Kingdoms? There has never been a king Jon. There has never before been a king Joffrey neither, and when Jon thinks of it, his father was the first of his name as well.

‘But you’d think… with Rhaenys raising an army in Dorne… together they could-‘

Jon sniggers, ‘You have no idea Robb, truly.’

Robb decides to accept his word for the truth and puts the letter down, ‘We have two kings and one queen, Westeros can choose.’

‘Westeros doesn't want to choose,’ Jon says, ‘Westeros doesn't give a shit, peasants pray for rain and a long summer, it's only us who think it matters what sort of person sits on that throne.’

Robb nods, ‘I know that, but it doesn't change the fact that Rhaenys lost an important, necessary ally, she gained a new enemy and a new enemy for Rheanys is not a good for our cause.’

Jon has wondered what Viserys has been doing at Dragonstone. He realizes now that he may have gathered more swords than seashells. So here is Cersei’s nightmare: while her father and brother spend all their time battling Starks and Tullys, Rhaenys will raise a large army with all of Dorne to back her, ready to chop off her pretty son’s curly head… and her own in the bargain.

But Viserys… they always sniggered at his odd ideas, his remarkable behavior and views. He recalls the many times they laughed at him, sometimes even in his face, for he has always seemed so obviously mad, utterly insane... but never dangerous, never a traitor. If Viserys is going to raise his sword and battle Rhaenys he will be a traitor, he'll betray them, the family, whatever is left of them, and Jon hopes to personally chop off his head. Without Viserys backing Rhaenys from Dragonstone the way she must've counted on... Jon feels his hands tremble again. They tremble all the time.

Rhaenys may win the throne but the chances of Ned seeing it are dangerously slim. Perhaps his head on a spike will greet them when they ride through the city gates. If they ever will.

Cersei is no fool, he tells himself. A tame wolf is of more use than a dead one. That is what she wants, for them to all obediently serve her. Jon knows they won't. Rhaenys certainly won't., she'd rather die, and the likeliness of Rhaenys dying, seems slim to Jon. 

Cersei fears Ned, he's sure of it, but there are other people she fears more. Jaime is battling riverlords, she and Lysa Arryn never quite got along and Rhaenys… Cersei must tremble at the idea of Rhaenys. In Dorne the Martells still brood on the murder of their Princess Elia and Rhaenys’ uncles surely feel their day has finally come. They have hoped to revenge the brutal killing of their sister for years.

And then there's Robb, only a boy, as Cat keeps saying. Robb is just nineteen, more than a year Jon’s junior, but he looks older, with his beard.

He urged Jon to grow his own but Jon shook his head, ‘No, Sansa hates it, she doesn't like it when it scratches her.’

Robb looked down when he said that and the discomfort at his words oddly pleased Jon.

‘Now what?’ Robb asks.

‘I don't know…’ Jon says, ‘I have to- I think if I go and talk to him, to Viserys... I am his nephew, and I love Daenerys. If I can persuade him to change his mind… perhaps he can join our forces instead, we could use more men.’

Robb shakes his head, ‘I need you here until we free the Riverlands, I really need to get the Lannisters out of Riverrun.’

Jon nods once, ‘I'll stay.’

‘It will be a battle.’

‘I know.’ He agrees, ‘But after that I want to speak to Viserys, before this all goes out of hand.’

‘If you think it will help.’

‘I must try.’ Jon says, ‘I'll try and if I can convince him that we cannot battle each other... we… we have a common enemy, they must both fight to keep the true Targaryens on the throne.’

Robb frowns, probably because he doesn't believe Jon cares about true Targaryens, but there is one thing Jon knows, and that is that Joffrey is, a true Targaryen or not, the most unsuitable of kings and he must be defeated and they will need every man to do it.

‘We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves, it is stupid and dangerous and it will get us all killed.’

‘Don’t you want to go and speak to Rhaenys instead? I'd assume her army is bigger, if we have her as an ally-‘

‘There is no if.’ Jon says, ‘You don't have to worry about Rhaenys, she'll always be my ally.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

 

**Catelyn**

* * *

 

Catelyn cannot stop thinking of that day she brought Robb into this world, with blood and pain she gave life to him, not knowing if Ned would ever see him, as he was in King’s Landing, swearing his fealty to this newly proclaimed king, to this man who killed his childhood friend and might kill him just as easily.

He left Jon Snow behind in Winterfell and left her behind in Riverrun, much like his older brother had done before him, yet different, he did not leave her with promises, he left her with a son, a son born nine moons after.

Later she used to sometimes hate how Jon was born at Winterfell, while Robb came into the world in the south. It should've been the other way around. Jon was never supposed to be a bastard of the North, perhaps he was never supposed to be a bastard in the first place, but it is how Rhaegar wanted it and Rhaegar always made carefully sure that whatever he wanted happened, especially when it came to Jon.

Rhaegar is gone and it scares Cat how much Jon seems to mourn him. He doesn't say it, he doesn't show his tears, but he's hurt, she can tell. Catelyn has trouble understanding, for all she knows the man treated his bastard horribly, perhaps proof of that is the way Jon jumped on his horse today, in his Stark armor, a white direwolf on his breastplate. Not a black three-headed dragon.

She meant it, when she told him he is a Stark to her, he is a Stark to everyone, to his wife, to his family, his daughter will be a Stark and if the Gods are just so will all his latter children, plenty of them.

Jon rode out today to fight for his family, for the man who raised him, for his uncle, his true father in all but blood.

Yet, he mourns his dragon king father. She saw him pray in the Godswood, close his eyes, the tears on his cheeks he doesn't want anyone to see.

She wants to comfort him but chooses not to because she knows there is only one person who can comfort him, only one person he wants, and she is not here.

Jon too rode out and left his pregnant wife. Sansa too gave life to her first born never knowing if the father would ever see the child.

Jon is fighting for the Starks, for his wife’s kin, for his own kin, and it has little to do with his place of birth. It is all about duty, his duty to house Stark.

Robb was her smallest babe. Sansa was bigger, Arya too and her youngest boys as well. The first born is often the smallest. Robb was so small… she wonders how small her granddaughter is. If she has hair and if she often cries and drinks well.

Robb has grown so much, so tall, in such short time. Nineteen he is, only just.

He ought to be married. She realizes as she watches him, this tall young man with the new beard and the direwolf prowling at his heels, yet all she can see is the babe they laid at her breast at Riverrun, so long ago. They should have married him to someone, he had the age years ago and that way the Frey’s couldn't’ve forced one of their daughters on him. He should be married and be a father, like Jon. He'll be a good husband, like Jon too. They are so alike, and yet, so different. Catelyn wants him married, but to all the heavens no, not to a _Frey_. It took a man to accept a bride for political reasons, it takes an even greater man to truly marry that woman and be good to her. If only he will grow to love her, if only. After Freia’s birth, it seems one of the few thoughts that Catelyn cannot shed. Yet marriage is the last thing that's on Robb’s own mind now.

Robb decided to ride along the line of men, remembering how his father often told him to show yourself to your soldiers, to give them strength.

She wonders who is going to give her strength.

She insisted on men to guard him, and the lords bannermen all agreed. The young wolf, they call him now, and dressed in his armor, his helmet covering his face, a brave soldier sits on a grey stallion where only a moment before she could still see her son.

The wolf returns first. As a red dawn breaks in the east, Grey Wind begins to howl again.

Robb returns to her on a different horse, covered in blood but it seems to not be his own.

‘This is... Torrhen's blood, perhaps, or Jon’s…’ He shakes his head, ‘I do not know.’

‘Jon?’ She asks but again he shakes his head.

‘Just a cut I think.’ And it's true. The boy does not even notice the bleeding, or so it seems, because he jumps off his horse and, with a bleeding arm, throws down a man in front of her that was dragged between the Greatjon and Theon.

‘The Kingslayer,’ Hal announces, unnecessarily.

Lannister raises his head, ‘Lady Stark.’ he says from his knees. Blood runs down one cheek from a gash across his scalp, but the pale light of dawn has put the glint of gold back in his hair, ‘I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have mislaid it.’

‘We don't want your sword.’ Jon says, ‘Lady Stark wants her father and her brother. Give her Lord Stark.’ He moves his head closer to the man that was once sworn to protect both his father and grandfather, failed to do both, ‘And I want my wife.’

‘I have mislaid them as well, I fear.’

‘A pity,’ Catelyn says coldly.

‘Kill him, Robb,’ Theon Greyjoy urges, ‘Take his head off.’

‘No,’ Catelyn's son answers, peeling off his bloody glove, ‘He's more use alive than dead. And my lord father never condoned the murder of prisoners after a battle.’

Jaime doesn't look at her, he doesn't even look at Robb or any of the other lords present. The only person he looks at, is Jon, ‘A wise man.’ He says, ‘And honorable.’

For some reason Jon avoids his gaze and the look in his eyes is as scary to her as the sight of Robb in his blood clothed armor.

'Take him away and put him in irons.’

‘And make sure they guard him.’ Jon adds and he shares a look with Robb, ‘Lord Karstark will want to cut his throat.’

‘He nearly killed him.’ Jon says when she makes him sit down. Catelyn remembers the last time he was bleeding as he is now, when he got hurt during the hunt. He and Sansa were only married a few weeks, already in love, she could see it, how nervous they made each other, Sansa blushed and Jon stared and they were so giddy together. Sansa looked after his wounds like a proper lady wife ought to do.

Sansa is not here, she cannot clean his cuts and stitch him up, there is nothing she can do for him now, so Catelyn does it in her daughter's absence.

She takes a cloth and cleans the wound on his chest, just below his collarbone, close to the heart. As she moves her head over his skin she can feel it pound against her hand.

‘When he knew he was lost he made his way through and went straight for Robb.’ Jon says, ‘He almost killed him too, he would've killed him but then he saw me.’

No one has mentioned that detail to her yet, ‘What do you mean?’ She asks.

‘He moved his head to make his aim but then he looked aside and saw me and he… they want me dead.’

‘They want me dead too.’

‘You don't understand.’

‘What is there to understand?’

‘They have wanted me dead ever since I married Sansa.’

Catelyn realizes he is right; she does not understand.

‘They have tried to kill me, a couple of times they have.’ He looks down at his hands and his own bare chest, ‘They killed the baby.’

‘W-what?’

‘The first one.’ His hands turn into fists, ‘When Sansa lost it- it was because they killed it. I don't know how but they did.’

She feels speechless yet somehow she manages to ask, ‘How can you know?’

‘The same way you knew they pushed Bran.’ He says, ‘I just do.’

She nods once, he need not say more. She remembers how he looked when Greyjoy boasted about the taken men. Not only the Kingslayer but three more Lannisters, close to a hundred knights and a dozen bannermen, ‘They cut off the head of the snake but the rest of its body still twists around my father's castle.’ She says.

‘We won a battle,’ he says and he winches when she presses the needle in his skin, ‘Not a war.’

Always the pragmatist, Rhaegar was just the same, if Catelyn must believe Ned. Perhaps Jon is thinking of his father, perhaps he fought this battle for Rhaenys as much as for Ned. She doesn't want to believe it, but somehow she knows it's true.

‘Cersei will trade the Kingslayer for Sansa.’ Jon says, ‘She will, she must.’

‘Yes, I believe so too.’

Jon nods and it is the first time she sees him convincing himself of a good outcome, the first time he doesn't pretend to believe in certain defeat to shield himself, ‘Robb can do a trade of hostages, we can have them back, we won't need to fight, we won't need to wait, I can have them back with me.’

‘Yes.’ She says and when she looks at him she wonders if it's the lack of beard that suddenly makes him look so young, ‘Yes we shall have them back. Sansa and Arya and your daughter too.’

Jon nods again and suddenly there are tears in the corners of his eyes, ‘I failed them.’ He says, ‘Again.’

‘ _No_.’ She says and she takes both his shoulders in her hands, they are broad and the gesture is not as comforting as she hoped it would be because of it, ‘Listen to me Jon,’ she says, ‘There is nothing you could have done to stop this.’

‘I should not have left them.’ He says.

‘You had no choice.’

At that he snorts and she feels guilty again, ‘My father, he…’ he doesn't finish and she knows why he is reluctant to do so.

‘What about your father?’

‘My father would never have wanted this.’

‘He should've cut off those bastard heads when he had the chance.’

That shot of criticism doesn't fare well with him and she sees a gleam of anger in his eyes, ‘You cannot begin to comprehend what my father has done to keep the peace. All he ever did was because he believed it was right, you can't know what he _should've_ done.’

She wants to ask him if abducting Lyanna Stark is among these things he did because he believed they were right but she chooses not to, he is emotional enough as it is, ‘You are exhausted,’ she says, ‘This was your first battle, lets pray to the Warrior, to give you the strength you need for the others to come.’

He pushes her hand away, ‘I do not pray to the Warrior.’ He tells her and the gleam of anger has not faded yet.

She sighs, ‘I know that Jon, forgive me, we shall pray to your Gods if that is what you want.’

He doesn't respond and she returns to her stitching, praying silently to the warrior in her head.

It is silent between them for a few more minutes while he pretends to not be in pain until he says, ‘I will ride out to my uncle Viserys tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ She already promises herself she will not let that happen, ‘That is too soon, you are hurt.’

‘It cannot wait.’ Jon says, ‘I have to go, we need more men. Capturing the kingslayer is not enough, not at all enough.’

‘Will Rhaenys allow you to join forces?’

‘I have no forces to join,’ he says, ‘I can only speak to them, all of them, make them understand this is madness.’

She can only agree, ‘Will he listen?’

‘Probably not.’ He says, ‘But I have to try.’

‘Do you want your sister on the throne?’ Catelyn asks.

He shrugs, ‘I don't give a fuck about the throne.’ He says, ‘But I have to protect my family.’

She knows that when he says ‘my family’ he doesn't necessarily mean _her_ family. She knows he speaks of Sansa, of their daughter, but he wants to protect Rhaenys too. His sister, his _half_ sister. He wants to go to his uncle because he knows that if he can stop the man from raising an army against the princess Rhaenys he can protect her, stop her from being harmed, he’ll do it for her safety as much as for Sansa’s.

Not Robb though, not Ned, not Arya. It will not do much for their cause, and somehow, knowing that he puts Rhaenys’s safety higher up in his ranks than he does Robb’s war, makes her feel not only a little betrayed, but scared too.

‘We have the Kingslayer.’ He says again, ‘We can trade him for Sansa and Freia.’

_Sansa and Freia._

Not Arya, and not Ned. Jon is a Stark in all but name, but he has the blood of the dragon, and his own kin comes first. His own kin is his wife, his daughter and his sister. Only after that come the Starks. Apparently.

‘Yes.’ Catelyn says, ‘With the Mother’s protection, the Father's guidance and the sword of the Warrior to support us… we will have them back, soon.’


	26. Needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing everyone agrees on is that King Rhaegar died. The bells in the seven towers of the great sept of Bailor tolled for a day and a night, the thunder of their grief rolling across the city in a bronze tide, making Arya’s little niece scream at the top of her lungs. It's quite remarkable, that so much noise can come out of such an extremely small human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I beforehand apologize for the Arya chapter, I'm not much good at writing her, but I thought it would add something to see Sansa as a Mum through the eyes of someone else.  
> Super long chapter again, but I already explained why that is, hope it's okay!xx

**Sansa**

When Sansa returns from her questioning Jeyne is gone and all her things too. But Ghost is laying in front of the crib in the corner of the room, wide-awake and tense. 

Sansa rushes towards the crib to sink down in sobs right in front of it when she finds her little girl there, sleeping, her swaddling clothes all tangled and loosened in her sleep. She pats Ghost’s head and whispers a shaky ‘Thank you’.

After that Sansa pushes the crib further into the room, as far away from the door as she possibly can, right next to her own bed, where she can now see the baby at all times. 

Though she doesn't let the baby sleep in the crib during the night, Freia always lays in Sansa’s bed because in that way, Sansa will most certainly wake up if someone tries to move her during the night.

She is having one of her many naps after nursing with the baby laying in her arms when the door opens. 

She shoots upright and there is Arya, with dark circles around her eyes from sleep deprivaty and her lip cut but she seems unharmed.

Sansa gets up from the bed and pulls her little sister close. Arya looks more scared than Sansa has ever seen her look before. That night they hold each other like sisters should, their arms wrapped around the other, hands together, faces near as they can't stop looking at each other.

‘I’m sorry.’ Sansa whispers over and and over again, ‘I'm so sorry.’

‘They wouldn't let me see you.’

‘It's alright. We're together now.’

Sansa tells her about the letters she didn't write and Arya tells her about what happened to their father.

‘They say the king wanted Jon to succeed him.’ Arya says, but Sansa still can't believe that. Believe is so different from knowing. Everything in her screams that, of course he wanted Jon to be king, everyone should want that, it's rightfully his, yet still, she cannot believe it. If he should be king, she should be queen. Rhaegar told her to make Freia a princess, perhaps this is what he meant. Princess Freia sounds much better than queen Sansa. 

She can't think of that now. It won't help, it won't change things or make anything better. It doesn't get her father unharmed from the black cells. It doesn't bring her home, it doesn't get her any closer to Jon, or simply away from this place. It doesn't protect Freia. Not at all. And that is all she should think of now, protecting Freia. 

They have hit Arya quite a few times. Her arms were covered in bruises and she hurt her thumb when they pushed her to the floor, her hand was all blue and purple because of it and she still has trouble moving it. Since their reunion no one has hurt her, and Sansa means to do everything in her power to keep it that way.

‘My dancing master told me to run.’ Arya tells her, ‘But I couldn't. I promised you I'd stay with you.’ 

‘You should've done what he said.’ Sansa says, ‘You could've been home by now if you'd let him help you.’

But Arya shakes her head, ‘No, I promised.’ She says.

Sansa and Arya take one of the knives that come with their meal and keep it under the sheets of the bed. Whenever they change the sheets they stick it in their stockings. 

At first it is just a butter knife, then they exchanged it for a slightly more crenelated one that they should have used for a pie, and now they both have a nice sharp dagger that they stole from the plate that came with the meat. 

Sansa talks to Jon in her head all the time, she tells him everything, all her fears all her suspicions, she tells him she misses him, asks him to come home to her. To _them_. 

‘I’m sorry I told you to stop crying when you said you missed Jon.’

‘It's alright.’

‘I threw an orange at you.’ 

‘I threw one first.’

‘Well, you missed. I hit you.’ 

‘I would've hit you too if I could.’ 

‘I'm still sorry.’

‘Don't be. It doesn't matter anymore.’ 

Nothing matters anymore, none of that. Sansa can't even be bothered to remember. It's as if all her natural instincts are working daily and constantly and all the rest… everything that bothered her before- she cannot even remember that. 

No one comes, not during the day nor during the night. They don't tell them anything, they don't ask, they don't command. They don't take Freia away. 

Grand maester Pycelle tries to take a look at Freia, but Sansa won't let him. She doesn't trust him. Not after all he said to her during her conversation with Cersei. He asks if he needs to take a look at Sansa herself, but the mere idea of that old pervert touching her and looking at her makes the hairs in her neck stand upright. So she refuses. 

Measter Micken looks at her instead, tells her the wound is healing and that she'll be able to conceive again soon. 

Sansa highly doubts she'll conceive soon. Not with Jon a traitor. The information makes her uncomfortable and she wonders if Cersei wanted to know, why she would. 

No one has tried to touch either of them since. Not Sansa, nor Freia. Sansa remembers what Rhaenys told her maidens when they tried to lift her off the floor after Aegon killed himself. 

‘ _If you touch me I'll have all your heads on spikes!_ ’

Sansa won't be able to cut off heads and put them on spikes but she has her knife and she will cut off fingers if she needs to. 

She reads a lot, though she doesn't actually see the words, she sings even more, to Freia, because sometimes she believes that singing makes the baby smile.

Freia seems to actually listen when Sansa speaks to her, sometimes she even responds. She bats her eyelashes and turns her head in her mother's direction. She responds when Sansa whispers and Sansa is convinced that when she's exited she moves her arms and legs. 

Sansa loves the little sounds she makes, she coos and gurgles and it's terribly lovely. Her hands are so small but when they clasp around one of Sansa’s fingers while she’s nursing they are surprisingly strong. 

She drinks so much, sometimes it feels like she wants to drink every other hour. Sansa doesn't mind that, she loves nursing, she loves how intimate it is, like a special moment where everything around her seems to disappear but her baby and it's just the two of them. Even at night. Sansa wakes up to the sound of her crying and feeds her while it's dark and silent outside and Arya is peacefully asleep. It is all so serene that she almost feels safe. Afterwards is as if the baby is what Sansa calls ‘milk drunk’ and all sleepy and contempt and Sansa just stares down at her and falls in love like she never dared to experience. It's exceptional, extraordinary, intense and more powerful than any other feeling in the whole wide world, she's sure. Nothing has ever been so beautiful or fascinating as her baby. And she's hers, her own baby, living and breathing, her child and Sansa is so proud. She wishes she could show her to the world, mostly she wishes she could show her to her family. Her father, Robb, Bran and Rickon, especially her mother, because her mother is Sansa's mother and Sansa is a mother now too. Mostly Jon. She wants to show Freia to Jon. 

Sansa gently claps Freia’s hands together or stretches her arms but all Freia does is stare at her. With those big blue eyes and Sansa loves it. The baby can't do anything, not even lift her own head. It's not very much in proportion with the rest of her body. When she's being active she stretches or kicks with her legs and Sansa holds her hand up so Freia kicks against it, the strength is just as impressing as the one she has in her fingers. She grabs for Sansa’s fingers but she can't hold a thing, not a rattle or a cloth. She hardly ever opens her hands, they're always tiny fists and Sansa strokes the little fingers with her index finger. 

Freia's skin is so soft, ridiculously soft, and she smells so nice. When Sansa lays down on her side, with the baby next to her on the bed, on her back, she stares at her, sometimes for hours. 

Freia is as good a baby outside her womb as she was inside. Usually she calms down when Sansa picks her up and walks her back and forth through the room. Freia still only cries when she has to, or when Sansa leaves her alone. There is not a hair atop her head that makes her even think of leaving Freia alone for half a second. 

The queen gives them ‘freedom of the castle’ as a reward for good behavior. They leave them little opportunity to behave badly, sitting in that room, all alone, with only a small baby and a direwolf for company. Sansa wouldn't dream of doing something stupid, the anxiety that is with her at all times during the entire day won't allow her one misstep.

Freedom of the castle means that she can go wherever she wants to go within the Red Keep so long as she promises not to go beyond the walls, a promise Sansa is more than willing to give. She can’t go beyond the walls anyway. The gates are watched day and night by Janos Slynt's gold cloaks, and Lannister house guards are always about as well. Besides, even if she could leave the castle, where would she go? Walk out into the streets of King’s Landing, board a ship and go home? It's not as simple as that. As simple as Arya makes it seem. 

Arya takes the opportunity to look for a way out, but no matter how well she looks, how much she tries and how good she is at hiding herself and all these sort of things Sansa used to roll her eyes at- they are locked up. There is no way out, nothing for them to do but wait and pray and hope and wait some more. 

Arya quickly grows bored out of her skull. They took away that skinny sword of hers and she still enlarges in seize out of anger whenever it comes up. 

‘Were you going to stab someone with it?’

‘I'd love to stab them all if I could.’ 

‘Don't say that!’ It's frustrating to try keep Arya to shut her mouth, ‘Remember what we agreed on? To not rebel, not fight back or anger them in any way. We have to be the grateful guests and loyal subjects of the king.’

‘Yes, yes, his _loyal subjects_. While they let our father rot in a cell!’

‘ _Arya_!’ 

Sansa thanks the Gods every day that Arya is with her where she can keep an eye on her. She is her little sister after all. But she's still Arya. And she's not a proper lady and she's also extremely annoying. 

So while Arya complains and grows bored and starts practicing her ‘dancing’ without the necessary sword Sansa convinces herself to believe it is enough that she can walk in the yard to bring Freia outside where the air is fresh and the sun is bright. She places her baby in the crib one of her maids brings outside and picks flowers in Myrcella's garden while Myrcella coos over her pretentious niece. 

Sansa would love to visit the sept to pray for her father but she can't bring Freia so she won't go. Sometimes she prays in the godswood though, because it reminds her of home and because the Starks keep the old gods.

When she leaves her room everyone around her treats her as if she carries the plague. She looks for kind faces but finds none. Where is everyone? Jeyne and her father really are gone too, maybe they left for Winterfell, she hopes they did, but she knows better than that. If Sansa can’t go to Winterfell, Vayon Poole certainly can't. 

Everyone either stares at her or pretends she's not there. They avoid her eyes, as if she is a ghost, dead before her time.

She could have been. She almost was. But she lives, she chose to live and they must all have been so terribly disappointed. 

It is during king Joffrey’s first court session that he promises to be merciful. She is not there to hear it, because she can't bring Freia and these things last for hours, she needs to feed her baby. They offered a wet nurse but the idea alone makes her feel angry. She doesn't want other women to touch her baby. 

Tywin Lannister has been named Hand of the king and that doesn't surprise her, she knows that man has been Hand before. When lord Arryn died they all expected Rhaegar to replace him with his father’s previous adviser. Rhaenys told her the Lannisters were humiliated when he chose Sansa’s father instead.

‘A carefully calculated decision.’ Rhaenys called it, ‘Naturally.’ 

They gave Rhaenys's small council seat to Cersei. The queen must be so proud. After all these years, finally she is getting all she believes she deserves. Sansa suspects that once Rhaenys hears of it she'll start spitting fire like an actual dragon. 

Ser Barristan Selmy has been released from his vows. Arya says he threw off his armor and ‘vowed to keep his vows’. The King’s Guard is a sworn brotherhood. Their vows are for life. It isn't honorable to be freed from your vows. You die in the name of them. Her heart goes out to the gallant old man she'd seen of so much in these past few months. 

‘Did they say anything about father? Anything at all?’ 

Arya looks down at the floor for a second before she tells, ‘If he were to confess his crimes, they would know he had repented his folly.’ 

'Confess?’ Of what? What crimes?

 _Treason_ , yes she knows, but what is treason? Will her father admit to speaking the truth? Perhaps he will never take his words back, perhaps he won't give them what they want. He is an honest and honorable men, one there are not plenty of. Maybe they'll banish him from Westeros, like he used to do himself sometimes for unforgivable crimes. Her father has not committed an unforgivable crime, he has tried to do right. How can a man who is always honest, always loyal, always good and honorable, dutiful and kind, be asked to confess a treason he did not commit? It is wrong, so terribly wrong and she wants to cry, cry for her poor father, pray he finds the strength he needs. 

‘If he'll confess that piece of shit promises him mercy.’

‘Are you sure?’

Arya nods. 

Perhaps he will confess. Maybe they'll show him mercy and he'll go to the wall. They'll let him live. 

Maybe then Robb will not march south and Jon can come to her and bring her home to Winterfell. 

How she longs for Winterfell. Of snow, Bran, Rickon, the glas gardens, the great keep and even old Nan. She misses the courtyard and the broken tower. She misses her room, where she used to wake up with her bed all cold but it smelled of him. She loved that room. It was their special place. 

Sansa moves her hand over Freia’s small belly. She can't stroke it much, that is how small it is. Freia starts moving her legs, kicking the air and makes her baby sounds, the sounds that make Sansa feel a twinkle of love in her belly, it's so adorable and cute. 

Maybe. Maybe all is going to be well. Maybe this nightmare will soon be over. Maybe it won't be too long before she can place Freia in Jon’s arms and at night she can lay in her bed next to his warm body all curled up around him. The belly won't even be in the way anymore, she can press all of her to him. Naked and safe, with no fear. With that familiar contempt feeling she used to have in her lower belly while falling asleep that is now gone, completely gone. As if it never existed. But Sansa remembers, all of it, she remembers all he ever said to her, all he ever made her feel.

 

**Arya**

Arya is staying as far away from the heads rotting atop the high red walls as she possibly can. It does not matter, wherever she goes, she can still see the flocks of crows squabble noisily over each head, thick as flies. 

Unlike Sansa, who pretends to be king Joffrey’s loyal subject and spends every waking minute nursing an infant, Arya tries her best to listen to everything she hears the people around her say. 

Some say her father murdered King Rhaegar, others insist that Rhaenys killed the king after a quarrel, they say the princess accuses the king of killing prince Aegon. Why else would she have left like a thief in the middle of the night?

One story says the king died because he fell down stairs, another says he threw himself down some stairs and she’s sure someone somewhere believes he was pushed. Arya hears someone claim he died of a stroke while eating and others say he'd gone up in flames like a dragon, though she believes they're being symbolic when they say that. She even hears people whisper of the pox.

She hears a man suggest Varys the spider poisoned him, others say the queen did. Most people say the queen poisoned the already dead prince Aegon. 

The only thing everyone agrees on is that King Rhaegar died. The bells in the seven towers of the great sept of Bailor tolled for a day and a night, the thunder of their grief rolling across the city in a bronze tide, making Arya’s little niece scream at the top of her lungs. It's quite remarkable, that so much noise can come out of such an extremely small human being. 

Freia is ugly, Arya thinks. Sansa can't stop cooing over how absolutely perfect and lovely her real-life doll is, but all Arya sees is a red miniature human being with unproportioned legs and arms that screams and kept her awake at night when Arya was forced to sleep in the same room. She's not cute... puppies are cute. Freia is all wrinkly and the top of her head has some weird shape, like a peanut. She is incapable of doing anything other than sleep and eat and she cries when she needs either one of these. 

Sansa says the baby looks like Jon. Arya thinks that is the most gruesome insult she could possibly ever make her husband. Or anyone really. Freia doesn't look like Jon, she looks like a noisy nightmare. 

Jon is an adult and a man, with a normal shaped head, a nose that's not smashed to his face and he manages to grab things other than fingers. He doesn't scream either but manages to speak. He's not red-faced and toothless either. 

She misses Jon. Really, very much. They took away the sword he gave her and it makes her feel naked. She loved that sword so much, her needle. They called it needle together because they made fun of Sansa’s sewing. 

At one point Jon suddenly started liking Sansa’s sewing. She even heard him compliment her once on her sublime embroidery. It made Arya want to gag. 

She never understood why that happened, and when. All she remembers is Sansa crying her eyes out when they told her she had to marry Jon. She even asked her mother if Arya could marry him instead. When Arya saw Jon for the very first time when he came back she couldn't help but remember that. She even fantasized for a moment about how her mother might change her mind about her age. Sansa didn't want to marry Jon but Arya would not have been bothered by it at all. 

Then they got married and suddenly they liked each other. Suddenly they liked each other very much. Arya even asked Jon once. 

‘Why do you like her so much?’ 

‘She's my wife, I have to like her, my life will be miserable if I don't.’ He tried to joke about it, but she knew he was lying. He was in love with her. Long before Arya left for King’s Landing he was already in love with her and Sansa had him all wrapped around her finger the same way she had their parents. 

When Arya realized, she told him. She told him how Sansa threatened to run away when they were betrothed. Arya can still remember her bitter tears and her begging. She told Jon, she said, ‘When you weren't here all Sansa did was cry. She cried every single day from the moment they told her until the moment you arrived. She didn't want to marry you because they always told her she was going to marry prince Aegon. You are a bastard, and she thinks she's too good for you.’

Jon didn't really say anything, but she can still remember the look in his eyes. She'll never forget what he said when he eventually responded,

‘She was right, I am not good enough.’

Arya wanted to tell him that _he_ was too good for _her_. That she didn't understand why he liked her so much when all she ever does is boring things. She sews, embroiders and looks perfect. Arya wanted to ask if it's because Sansa's so _pretty_ , but she couldn't bring herself. 

She hurt him with telling him that. She should not have told him that, it was a mean thing to do and she still regrets it. She should've told him that she is sorry for telling him, and she should've told him that ‘Sansa likes you now’ and how ‘it's not like that anymore, I think she really doesn't mind being married to you’, but she didn't ever do that either. 

A day later they killed Sansa’s direwolf and Arya can still hear her sobbing when the queen told ser Ilyn to bring her the head. Sansa blamed their father, she even blamed Arya, but never the queen, or even Joffrey. She always does that, she blames the wrong people and forgives the ones to blame.

Then when Jon came back from the woods he didn't even ask her how she was doing or if she was okay, he just went straight up to Sansa’s room because he was probably so worried about her. And Arya felt that it was all so unfair. 

It's still unfair. All their life Sansa always got the nice things. She got their mother’s good looks and she was good at all the _important_ things and everyone always liked her so much. Arya was always a little jealous. Then Sansa got to marry Jon and Arya was jealous of that too. Jon liked Sansa so much as well and that made Arya even more jealous. It really, really was unfair. It still is. 

Sansa cries a lot. She misses Jon too. Arya thinks Sansa misses Jon perhaps a little more than she does. Arya is not a little girl. She's nearly sixteen, she knows what it means to be married. Freia didn't suddenly drop down to the ground from nowhere. They had to make her first. Thinking about how they made her makes her feel a bit sick in the stomach. It makes her feel lonely most of all. 

She's not jealous because it's Jon, she likes Jon but not like _that_ , it's just that she's curious to know what it's like. She'd like it if someone would like her like that too. For who she is. The way Sansa is liked. Or _loved_. 

Arya loves Sansa, she even loves Freia. They're her kin, yet she is really glad that they finally no longer have to sleep in the same bed. 

Freia grows everyday, sometimes Arya thinks she doesn't recognize her because she has changed so much. She lays on her back and hold a rattle and when she stares into the mirror she is utterly fascinated by her own reflection. 

Sansa tied an actual ruby to a ribbon and swings it slowly in front of her baby. Freia follows it with her blue and bulgy eyes and tries to take a swipe at it.

‘Freia… you're so pretty, look at you! Can you see the light! Look at how it changed…’

Arya wants to remind Sansa that Freia is colorblind, or so the measter claims, so she highly doubts she can see changing lights but she doesn't because the baby grins and Sansa always has tears in her eyes when that happens. 

Ever since they were allowed to leave their room Sansa moved back into Jon’s rooms, with Jon’s bed and Jon’s everything. She writes Jon all the time too, even though she knows they don't even send out the letters. They probably throw them all in the fire. Sansa doesn't care, she just keeps writing. Which is stupid and worthless. 

At least now Arya is finally not kept up all night because Freia wakes and starts wailing. Why, only the Gods know. And Sansa, who likes to pretend Freia is a super good baby who doesn't give them a hard time at all and never cries unless she needs something. It only happens to be that she needs something at every moment of every day. 

Yet Arya still feels a little lonely now she is all alone at night again, without Sansa’s warm body next to her in the bed and her twisting and turning because she couldn't sleep either. 

Sansa pulled Freia up in her arms from the crib and she'd stop crying the moment she'd hear her mother whisper to her.

‘It's alright sweet thing, mama’s here.’

Sansa would push her nightgown away so she could nurse the baby and in these moments Arya could understand why Sansa thinks Freia is perfect. 

The way Sansa would hold her and stare down at her looked almost endearing. When Freia drinks she wraps those super tiny fingers of hers around one of Sansa’s and Sansa kisses the top of Freia’s peanut head. 

Sometimes Sansa cried as she held the baby at night, as it lay at her breast, Arya saw it as she pretended to sleep and she thinks it is because she misses Jon. Arya knows how sad it is that he hasn't seen Freia yet, that he has been away for so long, she knows how desperate it makes Sansa that she doesn't even know where he is. It's wrong and cruel and she does feel so sorry for them, the both of them. They do not deserve this. 

Freia grins more and more everyday, very broadly, all toothless and happy and even Arya has to admit that looks really terribly adorable. 

'Arya she's smiling! Look at that! Look at her pretty smile!’ Sansa tickles her red and super small feet and the baby smiles. 

Then Freia gets ill. Her cry is high, weak and never stops, no matter how much Sansa bounces her in her arms and walks around the room while doing so. She is all warm and quiet, which should be a nice change but it's not. It's scary. 

She's extra cuddly, her cry is no longer a displeased one but a miserable one and she sleeps and eats less.

The measter tells them she'll be alright, that babies are sometimes ill, that she's only having a bit of a cold, but Sansa cries and prays and cries some more, until Freia wakes up after three days and smiles again.

All Arya wants is to go home but leaving King’s Landing is not an easy option. She knows that the most gates are closed and those that are opened only let people enter, no one is allowed to leave. Not that Arya believes there is an opportunity for them to even get near a gate. Especially not with Freia, who can't even sit up straight. She'd be quite a burden when they find a gap in the system and might see an opportunity to escape.

Sansa doesn't even think there is a chance for them to escape. She doesn't even look. She is all convinced that someone (Jon) is going to show up and safe her like the hopeless and tragic lady in a tower she likes to think she is.

Sansa is afraid they'll hurt them. When they found Arya with her dancing master and wanted to lock her up she tried to kick them and make them let go. They only held on tighter and kicked back. They hit her and hurt her and Arya understands why Sansa is afraid they'll do that again. If they'll get aggressive around Freia there is little to nothing the baby can do to defend herself. There is nothing Sansa can do to protect her child. Sansa doesn't want them to start hurting any of them again and that's why she pretends. She pretends because she believes that is her best chance at survival. 

Arya doesn't mean it to feel so annoyed but it’s as if Sansa just tries her best too much to be irritating. Doing _nothing_ and wait, that is her solution, and in the meantime pretend they are innocent and lovely and think that vicious piece of shit on the throne is a splendid idea. Never mind their father, who is a traitor and is rightfully put in chains. Arya is not like Sansa, she cannot control her emotions and sit and be pretty while doing _nothing_. She cannot pretend to be a dutiful subject who is not going mad out of her skull in boredom and anger and built up frustration. Doing _nothing_ is not what she's good at. It's what Sansa is good at and she and Sansa are as different as the sun and the moon.

when the day comes for their father to confess to his crimes Sansa is overjoyed. Why? Because he’ll have to confess on the steps of the sept of Bailor. According to Sansa that is very good news because they never convict traitors to death on the holy steps of the sept. Arya can only feel anger well up. Why in the name of the Gods is she happy that they won't kill their father but merely condemn him to to Night’s Watch instead? He did nothing wrong! Sansa probably thinks that when her father gets convicted to the Watch she'll finally be able to go back to her husband and be all happy and perfect with her own happy and perfect family.

Every time Arya gets upset or angry Sansa urges her to ‘keep your voice down!’ or ‘don't say that!’, she seems to believe even the walls have ears. When Arya tells her she's exaggerating she even says that it's because ‘the walls have ears!’ and Arya can only roll her eyes. 

They call princess Rhaenys the ‘Dornish Queen’ now and Sansa thinks it's insulting. Arya doesn't really understand why she thinks that. The princess was always wearing Dornish styled clothes and her mother came from Dorne. Sansa herself still wears her hair in Northern braids. 

‘They don't call me a queen of the North, do they?’ 

‘Maybe that's because you're not a queen.’

Some people whisper she should be. Arya heard them, even Sansa heard them once or twice. Many people believe Rhaegar wanted Jon to be his successor and if Jon becomes king, Sansa will be his queen. How typical. Sansa always gets everything, the looks, the skills, the praise and even Jon. Of course she'll be a queen too. Only Sansa manages to, against her own will, marry a bastard and still end up queen of the seven kingdoms. 

As they stand in front of the sept of Bailor Arya can only feel annoyed. About all of it. Angry too, angry most of all. In front of her stands Sansa. Her red hair forever a stand-out. She's dressed in black, mourning her father-in-law and though her belly is gone she still looks a lot chubbier than she used to be before Freia was coming. Her breasts are huge because of the milk and her upper arms less thin, her hips broader. Sansa's hair is washed and silver bracelets are around her wrists. Arya has never seen her look this pale, she looks sick, tired and frightened.

Then Arya sees her father. 

She has missed him so, thought of him constantly, tried to find ways to go down the steps to the cells where she could speak to him. Comfort him and hear his voice. 

Lord Eddard stands in the high septon’s pulpit outside the doors of the sept, supported between two of the goldcloaks. 

Arya can see the high septon with his golden rainbow crown, she sees Joffrey with his golden crown, amidst his banners, all dragons and lions. His queen mother is entirely dressed in black too, a veil of black diamonds in her hair.

There is Varys and the man who once fought a duel for mother, with uncle Brandon. 

When her father starts to speak she cannot hear him, his voice is weak and around her no one shuts up. 

‘I am lord Eddard Stark, and I've come before you to confess my treason in the sight of the Gods.’

_No._

In front of her the crowds start to scream and Sansa hides her face in her hands.

‘I betrayed the faith of my king, I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Targaryen is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the Gods, lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm.’ 

Arya wishes needle was with her. 

The high Septon bowes to the king and his queen mother, speaks to them as Arya prays silently. 

‘As we sin, so do we suffer.’ 

‘My mother bidst me to let Lord Eddard take the black and lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell has promised us her family’s loyalty,’ 

Joffrey looks at Sansa and _smiles_ and for a moment Arya believes her prayers have been answered, but Sansa doesn't smile back. Arya can see the lack of color in her sister’s face, as white as a cloth and she trembles all over, as if her fever has returned. It is then that Arya knows she made the right decision. She promised Sansa she'd stay and she is glad she did. 

‘But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!’ 

Dimly, as from far away, Arya can hear her sister scream and as the queen mutters to Joffrey, Varys waves his hands and the high septon clutches the king's cape, Sansa sinks to her knees. 

Joffrey shakes his head and Arya throws herself forward so she can start running, running towards her father, but someone grabs her by the back of her dress. 

As she tries to aggressively loosen herself, she can still hear Sansa’s screams. 

Ser Ilyn lifts a sword she immediately recognizes, its Ice, he has Ice, her father's sword. He lifts the blade far above his head and sunlight ripples and dances down the dark metal. 

Arya doesn't see it when the sword comes down, but she hears it, and that will haunt her for the rest of her life all the same. 

 

**Sansa**

Awake or asleep, she always sees him, sees the gold cloaks fling him down, Ser Ilyn striding forward, unsheathing Ice from the scabbard on his back. Then there is that moment when she wanted to look away, she wanted to, her legs gone out from under her and she fell to her knees, yet somehow she could not turn her head, and all the people were screaming and shouting, and the prince smiled at her, he'd smiled and she'd felt so angry, so terribly angry... And then he said those words, and her father's legs... That is what she remembers, his legs, the way they'd jerked when Ser Ilyn... when the sword... 

Arya is not here, she's in her own rooms probably. Sansa cannot see her, she doesn’t want to. Arya must be so angry, Sansa can totally imagine what she is like. What if she'll blame her? What will she say? What is she doing right now? Sansa doesn't want to know. Arya is not what she needs. She can hear her speak her words and the idea of truly listening to her gives Sansa a headache.

Jon is not here, she doesn't know where he is. She wants to believe he is coming for her, but what if he's not? What if he thinks they'll chop his head off too?

The thought of them chopping off his head makes her want to throw up, but there is not enough food in her stomach to empty it.

_Please don't cry._

She can't stand the wailing sound, it makes her head hurt, even more than it already does. 

Sansa wants to comfort Freia but she can't, because there is no one to comfort Sansa. She needs someone to tell her that all will be well, but nothing will be, not anymore. 

If only she'd written these letters, if only she'd begged him for mercy. 

_Sans, Joff is cruel and vicious and a sadist._

Would it have mattered? Could she have stopped it? Would he have listened to her pleads? Would he have cared?

_No._

He would not have, because Sansa is a Stark, her blood is the blood of a traitor. She is married to Jon, the only son of king Rhaegar left in this world. Not a trueborn son but a true son all the same. A true king too. She knows that. Rhaegar wanted him to be king, he said so, to her, when he was dying. Jon should be king, and it frightens her because she doesn't want him to be. 

Maybe if she tells Joffrey that. If she tells him Jon doesn't care about the iron throne, or about the Targaryens, or the blood of the dragon and the red keep and King’s Landing and all of that. 

Maybe if she tells him that they will be his loyal subjects… maybe he will believe her and Jon can come to her and hold her, stroke her hair and tell her all will be well.

He has to come home, he has to come for her. They belong together. She told him and he agreed, even though he doesn't believe in meant to be, they still are. They were always meant to be. The Gods brought them together once and they will do it again.

Freia doesn't stop crying. The screams make Sansa clutch her hair and firmly shut her eyes. 

Joffrey tells her of the betrayal of her kin, he comes to her, walks in the bedchamber when she is dressed in only a nightgown, ‘Mother says you are our hostage, your brother is a traitor, your husband is a traitor, your father was a traitor, we cannot let you go, so you'll stay here, and you'll obey.’

‘My husband is no traitor! He loves you like a brother!’

‘ _You’ll stay here_!’

Sansa stares at him, seeing him for the first time. She wonders now how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips are as soft and red as the worms you find after rain, and his eyes are vain and cruel. She hates him. Jon was always right, he always is. Joffrey is mad and vicious, cruel and sadistic. He is dangerous and now king. What is she going to do? Obey him? Pretend to love him like a sister should? 

‘My mother tells me that it isn't fitting that a king should strike a lady... Ser Meryn.’ 

Ser Meryn hits her in her face and Sansa tastes her blood on her lips. 

_Jon will kill you._ she thinks, _if he finds out you hit me he will find you and he'll kill you_. 

Joffrey glares at her, glares at her bloody nose.

Sansa cannot look up as she feels eyes that belong to the hound look at her, he scans her entire body, he looks at the blood on her face, at her tight nightgown, her breasts, her arms, her messy red hair, the legs that are so clearly visible underneath the see-through white cotton. He looks at all of it. All of her. Everything he should not be looking at, he has no right to look at her. But he does and she can feel it. She could feel it when Jon looked at her too, but this is different. Jon's eyes either tickled, caressed or felt like a promise. She loved to feel his eyes on her. Now all she feels is a sickening combination of pity and desire. The man is deciding which of the two it is. Before he comes to a conclusion, however, he follows his master and Sansa is all alone again, with her daughter. 

The hot water of the bath reminds her of Winterfell, and it strengthens her. She waits until it's warm, not hot and she holds Freia as she bathes, her hand carefully holding the neck and head.

The baby relaxes in the warm water, as if she's back in her mother's belly. If only she'd stayed there, not out into this world, where people like Joffrey exist, people who can harm her, people Sansa may not be able to protect her from. 

She's so small, growing every day, but still so small. Sansa strokes her dark hair with her index finger and presses soft kisses to it. It's dark like Jon’s, perhaps it will curl like Jon’s, maybe if she holds her as close as she possibly can it will be like she holds him close, a part of him, a part he left behind. 

Freia loves bath time. She moves her fisty hands around in the water and stares up at her mother. After Sansa pulls her out she lays Freia against her own shoulder and wraps the blanket around her small body, that she can still hold against her with just one hand. She dries the baby and as she does she cries and swears it will be the last time.

She remembers her mother, when Bran fall from the window and the measter feared his life. How she had not washed, not eaten a thing, neglected Rickon and stayed by Bran’s bedside for days on ends. 

Sansa cannot afford that. She's the only person who can protect her daughter, the only one who can stop them from harming her, the only one who cannot die. 

Her father died, all his men probably too... Yet the sun came up in the morning and the sky is still blue. He's gone but Sansa is not, and she cannot follow him anytime soon either, no matter how much she thinks she wants to. She cannot stop eating and hide in her bedroom and lay in her bed for days. 

She has to be strong, for Jon, for her kin, for Rhaenys but for Freia too, for Freia most of all. 

No one will harm her daughter, no one, especially not Joffrey, she'll kill him before he'll ever have a chance, she swears it.

‘I will protect you Freia, I promise, I will always protect you.’ 

' _If I or anyone else hurts you, you must tell me and I'll do whatever I can to stop it. I promise_.'

Freia looks at her with her big blue eyes and though they have the Tully blue, they remind her of Jon’s. If she does her very best to pretend it is almost as if he looks at her and tells her to be strong, to not give up. She can hear him tell her he loves her, how he’ll come back to her as soon as he can. He promised and he isn’t the person to break his promises, she’ll have to put her faith in that, trust him, pray for him, and wait for him. 

Like a princess in a tower, waiting for her knight to come. It’s almost like in the songs. Almost. 

She's not frightened to leave Freia behind anymore. Ghost stares at her intently as she goes to get him from her own rooms and brings him to Jon’s bedchamber.

‘You stay with her.’ She tells him, ‘I'll be back, make sure no one hurts her?’ 

Ghost doesn't nod nor tells her he'll make sure of it, but she knows he can hear her all the same and she strokes his head before she leaves.

The balcony is deserted safe from Arya and when Sansa moves over to her she can see different colors of blue, purple and red in her face. Sansa grabs her hand and Arya squeezes hers back, yet they do not say a thing. They both turn towards the iron throne and silently watch as Joffrey does exactly what Rhaegar never did. 

He leaves everything to the council except the things that interest him.

Sansa can see frog-faced Lord Slynt, dressed in his black velvet doublet that reminds Sansa of something Aegon used to wear. He nods every time Joffrey says a thing. 

If only Aegon had not died, if only he could have been king. She would not have minded that, at least Rhaenys would still be here, and Jon too. Her father's head would never have been chopped off and she could be on her way to Winterfell right now. Jon would've seen Freia. She wants him to see her so badly. 

Look at what we made, she will tell him, _Isn't she perfect? Look at what you gave me, thank you, thank you so much._

He will love their baby, she knows he will, he won't be able to not love their baby. It's _theirs_. 

A plump tavern singer, accused of writing a song that ridicules the late king Rhaegar, is ordered to perform. 

It is about Aegon, about how he died, and Sansa wonders how the man knows. The singer sings how the king killed his own son and how the king then had two sons left, or only one? 

Sansa wonders if he means Jon.

But then it's as if the singer means Rhaenys, ‘the truest son his grace ever saw’ and Sansa decides to agree until he starts a chorus on ‘the icy bastard’ and she feels like crying again. 

The song is supposed to be funny, but it truly isn't and when the singer starts to sing about how the king died and mentions a cold heart, it's almost as if he sings about the queen.

Joffrey decides to be merciful again and allows the singer to choose between his hand or his tongue. 

It is the last business of the afternoon but Sansa's ordeal is not over yet. 

‘You look much better than you did.’ 

‘Thank you, your grace.’ 

Rhaegar had always been so worthy of his title, he was extremely graceful and so terribly impressing. Joffrey only gives her chills and makes her nauseous. 

The hound and Ser Meryn are with him again and Joffrey tells her to follow him after waving Arya away.

Sansa looks over her shoulder as she moves to accept his arm and Arya can only look down at the floor, avoiding both her eyes and theirs. 

‘You are truly a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so.’ 

‘If she says so it must be true.’ Out of all the things that could still hurt Sansa, Cersei's opinion is not among them.

Her answer doesn't seem to please him, ‘Yes, she thinks your child will be stupid too.’

‘Why would she care?’

‘It may reflect badly on me if my niece is stupid, but then, my bastard brother was stupid too.’ 

‘No one believes he reflects on you in any way.’ It's the truth. 

The sun has fallen below the western wall and the stones of the Red Keep glow dark as blood. Sansa used to think it was all so beautiful, this place, this keep, everyone that lived in it. Now she can barely stand the glare.

‘This way.’ 

Sansa jerks back away from Joffrey, because she realizes where they are going, ‘ _No_ ,’ she says, her voice a frightened gasp, ‘Please no, don't make me, I beg you…’ 

‘I want to show you what happens to traitors.’ 

Sansa shakes her head. 

‘I can have Ser Maryn drag you up. You won't like that so you better do as I say.’ 

‘You are not my husband.’ Sansa says, ‘I am not your property.’ 

‘ _I am your king_!’ He points at her and she can see his finger tremble, ‘You will obey your _king_.’

Never in those moons at King’s Landing had Sansa ever heard king Rhaegar tell anyone that he was the king. He didn't need to, everyone knew. 

‘Do it girl.’ Clegane pushes her back towards Joffrey and Sansa shrieks away from him. 

She remembers that one time Aegon came into their bedchamber, when she was almost naked and Jon was in her bed and she was warm and safe. 

Clegane was there too. To see him now, push her to her father's chopped off head… _If only Aegon had never died_. 

From the high battlements of the Gatehouse, the whole world spreads out below them. 

She has been here before, when Jon gave her one of his tours around the keep. 

‘ _Don't look down_ , he said, ‘ _If you do you’ll feel like you're falling down. You may lose your balance and we can't have that_.’ So Sansa didn't look down, and she doesn't now. 

She turns the way she did then, when he lifted her hand up and pointed with the back of her hand in his palm at all the places that spread out in front of her, his face close to hers and his warm breath in her neck.

The blackened ruins of the Dragonpit, the Gate of Gods that nearly hides the golden sun, the salt Black Sea, the fish market and the docks, the swirling torrent of the Blackwater Rush. Sansa can see Visenya’s Hill, with the Great Sept of Baelor, where her father died.

Sansa can only see the city but she knows that beyond that lie open fields, farms and forests and beyond that, North and North and North… that is where Winterfell is.

Sansa closes her eyes and pretends Jon's here, his face buried in the crook of her neck and she can smell his hair… 

‘What are you looking at? This is what I wanted you to see, right here.’ 

The heads face out over the city and Sansa noticed them the moment she stepped out but the sight of the city is so much prettier and if she looks away she can pretend they are not here now, but that time she was here before, when no one had been beheaded, not one man. 

_He can make me look at the heads, but I won't see them._

‘This one is your father.’ 

Clegane takes the head by the hair and turns it so she can see. But she doesn't see. He doesn't even look like her father. It doesn't even look _real_.

‘How long do I have to look?’ 

Joffrey seems disappointed, ‘Do you want to see the rest?’ 

‘If it pleases you, your grace.’ 

There are so many heads.

‘I'm saving those spots for my half-sister Rhaenys and my uncle Viserys, the traitors.’ He explains.

Sansa can't recognize the other heads, they have all been dead for a long time. 

‘That one over there is your Septa.’

‘Arya’s.’ Sansa corrects, ‘I had no Septa she… I am a married woman.’ 

Sansa wondered what happened to Septa Mordane, but she realizes now that she already knew all along. 

‘Why did you kill her? She was godsworn.’

'She was a traitor!' Joffrey bellows, ‘Do you know who else is a traitor?’

‘My husband.’ Sansa whispers. Is he with Rhaenys? Maybe he is with Robb. If only she could be with them too.

Joffrey walks over to her and his face is too close to hers when he says, ‘Yes.’ Sansa tries not to close her eyes but the sight of his face makes her want to collapse, ‘Your husband.’ 

Sansa wants to tell him it must be a mistake but she knows it can't be. Not after this. Jon can't come to her, they will kill him too and he knows that. She really is all alone and he cannot safe her. 

‘And your brother too.’ Joffrey says, ‘They have captured my uncle- your husband and your brother- they have my uncle Jaime. My mother told me, she cried when she heard because she is a weak woman, all women are weak, even she, though she pretends she's not.’

Sansa won't be weak. She'll have to be strong, for Freia and for Jon. Weakness means giving up and Sansa will never give up, she promises, she promises Jon. Weakness is a choice, Rhaenys told her, Sansa chooses not to be weak. 

‘You're weak too. With your tears.’ Joffrey turns around, back to the heads, ‘Maybe I'll give you your brother’s head as well, I'll kill him myself and serve you his head.’ 

Sansa closes her eyes and hears Rhaenys again. 

‘Sansa, men are all idiots. They think we are weak and that gives us so many possibilities.’

She asked what she meant and Rhaenys said;

‘ _It makes them underestimate us. Let them think you're weak, you know better than that and it's all that matters._ ’

‘Maybe he'll give me your head.’ 

There is a fury in Joffrey’s eyes that reminds Sansa of Viserys. He's mad, just as mad, just as insane. 

Sansa has woken the dragon. And the dragon doesn't do his own torturing. 

Ser Maryn hits her face twice, once left once right and she feels blood seeping down her face. 

_Jon will kill you_ , she thinks again, yet this time her thoughts move on her lips. 

_If I or anyone else hurts you, you must tell me and I'll do whatever I can to stop it. I promise._

‘Jon will kill you.’ She whispers with blood in her mouth and for a moment she believes he did not hear her, but she knows he did. 

She sees fear. She never expected to see that. She didn't see it when she spoke of Robb, not even a glimmer, but she sees it now. It's gone before she can memorize the look of it but it was real. The idea of Jon scares him. And it should. 

When the knight raises to hit her again she tells him, ‘You are no true knight Ser Maryn.’ But his fist hits her face all the same and the last thing Sansa sees is Joffrey’s smug grin that reminds her of Cersei’s before she looses consciousness. 

 

 **Jon**  
Jon dreams. He's certain that he must be dreaming because the world has never been this colorful before, not even during summer, and summer is long over. Winter is coming. His father is dead. 

He dreams of a baby, the baby cries, like all babies cry but different. The sound turns his limbs weak and makes his head ache.

_Traitor._

‘They named you traitor.’ 

How is he a traitor? His father would not have wanted that. What did his father want? For Jon to stay in Winterfell? Locked away and not near the court to embarrass the family? Did he want Jon to choose the Starks over Rhaenys? Never, not that. 

Did he choose the Starks over Rhaenys? It doesn't feel like he did. He wonders if it feels like he did to Rhaenys. It can't, he won't ever let her think that. She's his sister and he is as strong as she is. They promised each other, they were going to protect each other, he has to, he will. His sister, his beautiful, arrogant, witty, intelligent and sweet sister, his emotional and vulnerable sister who is the strongest person he knows. The only one he has left. 

Myrcella is not his sister, has never been, but Rhaenys… who else is left now in this world that can still say they knew Rhaegar Targaryen? Truly knew him. One day they may be the only two left in the world who'll be able to say that. They share his blood, he and Rhaenys, the blood of the dragon. They are his, and he is theirs. Jon feels like he and Rhaenys belong to each other, together, and he'll die screaming if it means protecting her. 

Rhaenys, Rhaenys… He should go to her. She always knows what to say and that would be nice for a change. he'd love to hear her say something clever, to remind him of Aegon, of their brother, who's dead. Like their father, both dead. 

_It’s just you and me now, Jon._

He wants Rhaenys to tell him what to do, to look at him with her judgmental eyes, to make him feel like a stupid boy who knows nothing, to be his older sister who always knows what to do, is always confident and proud. He needs that, he needs to hear her say that everything is going to be alright, he needs to hear it and he needs to hear it from _her_ to believe it. 

Why did Jon not go to her? Why is he not with her? Would his father want him to go to Rhaenys? 

Yes. If he knows anything it's that. His father would want them together, not separated, not apart. 

Would he disagree with Jon’s decision to fight for the Starks? He probably would have. Would that have mattered to Jon? He knows it would have mattered a great deal. Would his father hate him for it? Never. Would he have understood? Perhaps. 

Rhaegar was always so terribly good at that, understanding. The thing he was best at was doing everything, in his life, always, for the greater good. 

What is the greater good?

Protecting Sansa isn't the greater good. But Jon is not his father and he's not a king. The only vow he has ever sworn is to her, in the Godswood, a vow to protect her and love her and care for her. He's not done that in five moons now. He has not seen her for nearly five moons. He's afraid he'll forget her face if they'll be parted much longer.

Never, no, he will never forget her face. Not if the fever continues, because all he sees is her face. She cries or she smiles, sometimes she's angry too, she's _disappointed_. 

She asks him why he left, how he could've done that, leave her behind with all these people.

‘ _Rhaenys was with you._ ’ he tells her, ‘ _I thought she would protect you, my father was alive, Ned…_ ’ How could he have known? How could anyone have known? Not even his father apparently because Jon knows that he never would've send him away if he'd known. 

His father… 

Is he in a better place now? Like everyone keeps repeating to him? Is he with the Gods? Is he with Lyanna? Has he finally found some rest? All these hours of sleep he needs to catch up on... 

Is he watching Jon? Looking over his shoulder or down on him from up at the sky? Maybe he is still with him, somewhere, in his bones or in his flesh or even his heart. He's in his blood that's for sure. Perhaps that will protect him. The blood of the dragon of old Valyria. Jon still has so many questions he wants to ask, so many things he still needs to know. He’ll never get those answers. 

_Why_?

What did I do? What could I have done? Could I have changed things? Could I have done things differently? Was it _me_? Was it because she died? Do you think it was my fault? Do you truly believe I killed her? Was it because I look too much like her? Because I reminded you of her? But everyone always tells me I remind them of _you_. I don’t know why, do you? Who are you? Did I ever truly know you? Why did you try to protect me if you didn't care? Why did you try to protect me? Did you try to protect me? Did you care? What did you want? What _do_ you want?

_Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…_

He sees her face and now he knows she's crying. She's upset, he made her cry. He hates it when she cries. He can take his own pain, he'll be fine, he has always been fine, but _her_ pain… That is simply too much. 

_Jon_!

She screams his name, a high-pitched yell and it goes through his skull to pain his brain.

In his dreams he talks to her, he cannot stop talking.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry- I failed you, I know, I never meant to, I wanted to be _good_. I vowed to you, I promised to not be like him. 

But it's like she never hears him. As if she's gone or somewhere else, in a different place where they can't touch each other, as if there is something between them and they're reaching out but the thing, whatever it is, that separates them is too strong, too big, too _high_. 

His skin burns, it’s like needles pricking through his clothes and there's blood, it stings, it's unbearable.

He misses her, wonders what she looks like now. Freia… what does Freia look like? She was born four moons ago, he keeps counting the days, weeks, moons. He hates knowing so little of babies because if he would've had any idea he might've been able to imagine her better, knowing how old she is. He could know how big she might be or if she can already roll over or sit up straight or hold things. How old are they when they start walking and talking? He knows it's definitely older than four moons. She must still be so small, terribly small and vulnerable. As innocent as a newborn. Maybe she can crawl, he wonders if she can do that. 

If he rides to them now it will cost him a full moon to reach them and he'll have missed the first half year of his daughter’s life. She won't be able to remember that when she grows up.

Maybe they'll forgive him, maybe they’ll forget about it. Maybe everything will be fine, maybe this is a nightmare, maybe his dreams are true, when he dreams, and she smiles and he hears a baby cry. All babies cry. But this is _his_ baby. 

He sees Ghost. He sees Ghost all the time and Ghost just stares at a baby, at _his_ baby. 

_Sansa, I’m sorry._

He sees his father, and he looks Jon right in the eye, the way he so often tried not to. He looks sad, not disappointed, not at all. He never looked disappointed, only indifferent, apathetic, _unconcerned_. 

But not angry either, or upset or frustrated. Always the same calm demeanor. 

His father had been forever calm and careful the way Rhaenys aspires to be. Jon used to hate that so much, he used to think that it meant his father had no emotion nor feeling, he believed it meant he _didn't care_ , but perhaps it was not at all that. Perhaps it was his greatest strength, to hide whatever it was he wanted no one to know. Perhaps his father had been strong. 

_I have to be strong too, I have no choice._

He wakes up sweating in a room that has about the size of Sansa’s in Winterfell. The bed stands against the wall and though it is smaller than Sansa’s, the furs atop it are much alike, all white. Far to warm en the sheets stick to his skin. 

Where is he? He doesn't know. All he knows is that he's alone. Sansa is not here, the baby isn't either and his father and his brother are still both dead. 

His hands tremble and he feels a stream of sweat down his forehead, in his palms, his neck, his bare chest and everywhere else, damping the bed. It's freezing in the room, but he can't breath, when he tries it is as if his throat is burning, as if he has been eating too much spicy food. 

Perhaps he doesn't want to know where he is. Maybe he doesn't care. So as long as he's not with his family, it doesn't matter where he is, it's the wrong place either way.

He touches his own chest and feels the wound there prick. It must've been infected. They probably gave him milk of the poppy. The Gods know how long he's been sleeping. Days, weeks… 

He feels complete frustration suddenly, his heart starts racing below his wound and he can feel the blood pump through his veins at his wrists. 

He pushes the blankets aside and tries to get out but his knees are weak and his whole body trembles as bad as his hands. The nauseous takes over and his fever gains all the power, over his mind and body both and Jon forgets everything, where he is and who he is and even though he fights it, he likes the numbness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back at my update schedule of Wednesday and Sunday. I actually finished chapter 40 and I'm working towards the wrap up which feels weird especially since I'm only updating chapter 26.  
> Anyways, I'll see you guys next Wednesday! X


	27. Sigils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Freia is only a baby.’ 
> 
> That comment angers Jon more than he ever expected to be angered by a plain fact. Yes, Freia is a baby, but she's _his_ baby, ‘She's my daughter.’ Jon says, ‘She is Rhaegar’s grandchild. She's more valuable than you will ever be.’

**Jon**

Jon opens his eyes and finds the room bathing in daylight. His wound still aches, his head still hurts and the clock still ticks. Angrily he pushes himself up and he has no time to realize what it is that angers him exactly because Catelyn walks in to find him awake. She tells him to get back into his bed and he wants to angrily tell her he can't but then her bottom lip trembles.

‘Jon…’ she whispers and he sees it. A look in her eyes that he has never seen before. She looks as if her heart will never lift again.

‘Is he..?’

Catelyn shakes her head, her eyes red and bloodshut, fresh new tears forming in the corners, ‘No.’ she whispers, ‘He is gone.’ 

‘ _gone_?’ Jon cannot believe it. It can't be true, of all the things he expected to happen… He was so certain, so _sure_ they wouldn't hurt him, perfectly confident that Cersei would not make that mistake, that she would understand that an alive lord Eddard was worth more than a hundred dead Starks. He told Robb that, he said that the chances of them killing Ned were small so long as they did not attack King’s Landing, so long as they captured the Kingslayer...

He wants to shake his own head. Cersei is stupid, she'd always been stupid and overconfident and arrogant most of all.

She has to be brought to her knees. Defeat her, humiliate her, strip her from all her powers. The way Rhaenys always wanted, the way she told Jon she would, the way she must dream of at night, to chop that pompous head of those shoulders, a blade through that long neck… 

He feels the need for vengeance and an anger he has never experienced before. Who does she think she is? To challenge them like this, think of them as equals. How dare she put that bastard on Jon’s father's throne. It's embarrassing, humiliating and insulting. And she will have to die. If they hurt Sansa they'll die. They chopped off Ned’s head and they'll pay for it. 

‘They'll pay.’ Jon says, ‘I swear it to you, we’ll make them pay.’ 

A tear rolls down Catelyn’s cheek, ‘Oh Jon…’ she whispers, ‘I can't bring myself to care for such things. He's gone, and I'll never have him back, no matter how sweet the flutter of revenge may be. 

Jon grabs her hand and squeezes it tight. 

Jon nods, ‘Your grief is not only yours, we all share it with you.’ He says and he means it. 

Yet a voice in his head, only a soft whisper, tells him it's her fault. If she had not taken Tyrion for a captive Jon would never have had to leave King’s Landing, he could've been there when his father died, perhaps he could've been in the room. What if he died alone? The thought makes Jon feel not only angry and guilty but miserable too. 

‘We've brought Jaime Lannister along in irons and Riverrun is free again.’ Catelyn says.

‘Where is Robb? I must speak with him.’

‘I will get him, he'll visit you when he hears-‘

‘No.’ Jon pushes the blankets off himself and raises, ‘I need to get out of this bed. I can't do nothing, Cat, I have to get out, I can't feel like I'm waisting my time.’

‘You are not waisting your time when you're getting better.’ 

‘I can't stay here. How long have I been here?’

‘Do you not remember arriving?’ Catelyn asks.

He does, vaguely, hardly, there are only parts of it he can recall. He'd been sweating already, unable to ride his horse much longer, and when he sat in the boat that brought him to the castle the water seemed to move and thrust towards him, pulling him towards the deep, black darkness of the bottom. Then he found his room and after that he doesn't remember waking up. 

‘How long have I been sleeping?’

‘Only two days and a half.’ Catelyn says, ‘The battle was too much for you.’

Jon cannot remember the battle. Or perhaps he can. He can remember Greywind, how the Lannisters looked as if they saw the Others themselves when he ripped off a man’s arm. 

Such a pity, that arm. The man could've made himself quite useful in the world with that arm. What will happen to him now? Will he live the life of a cripple? Will he be an outcast? Does he have a family? Maybe he is dead and feels no pain. Jon hopes he is, it would be for the better, except the family… all these men who have already died, what about their families? 

Jon's glad most of the battle has disappeared from his memory, he fears it might've haunted him elsewise. 

‘I need to speak to Robb.’ Jon says, ‘Discuss with him the… I need to go to Viserys. To my uncle, speak to him.’ 

Catelyn doesn't try to stop him anymore and gets up from the bed as Jon pulls the clothes on that they laid down for him on the chair.

‘Has Cersei written? About Sansa? Freia? Do we know anything at all?’ 

Catelyn shakes her head, ‘I'm sorry.’ She says.

‘But they are still in King’s Landing? We know that?’

‘We assume it.’ Catelyn says. 

‘ _Assume_?’ Jon asks, ‘Where else would they be? Cersei would never let them go.’

‘That is why we assume it.’

Jon just nods, grabs his sword before he leaves Catelyn and still feels lightheaded when he walks down the stairs, asking men and women where his cousin is.

He finds Robb in the Godswood and the fresh air and scent of the grass and trees along with the river wind on his cheeks makes Jon feel instantly much better. 

This is not a real Godswood, he thinks. A couple of trees but the real one is missing. The one who keeps a careful eye on you. 

Robb gets up quickly when he sees him and sheaths his sword.

‘We have to talk.’ Jon says, ‘We need to discuss the Kingslayer.’ 

Robb nods again, ‘Yes, and we will, but first there will be a council and I need you to be there, I cannot have a council without you by my side.’ 

Jon feels flattered, surely, but uncomfortable as well. If Robb won't even have a council without him, what else can't he do on his own? Jon has to go to Viserys, the Gods know how long it will be until he’ll return. Moons maybe. 

‘A letter from Joffrey came for you.’ Robb hands him an official letter with the official three-headed dragon. The sigil is different from the way Jon remembers, the way it always used to be. The three-headed dragon is accompanied by a lion, both equally big, the lion’s head even larger than the three dragons.

How disrespectful. To all Jon’s ancestors and to the great Targaryen dymnasty it is a plain outright insult. 

Jon breaks the seal, splits the dragon from the lion and looks at the sight of it before he starts reading.

‘What does it say?’ Robb asks.

‘His grace declares me a traitor.’ Jon says, ‘But for the love my king and brother bears me, he has chosen the path of mercy and allows me to join the Night’s Watch.’ 

‘Like mother suspected.’ Robb whispers.

‘Yes,’ Jon says, ‘Like your mother suspected.’ 

‘You won't do it.’ Robb says, ‘You cannot.’

‘I can.’ Jon says, of course he can, ‘But I won't.’ 

‘Good.’ Robb seems almost relieved and Jon wonders if he ever believed even a small part of Jon would consider leaving his wife and child, his sister and the rest of his kin behind to join an ancient order that makes you give up everything you love. 

No. Jon will swear it now, he'll never do that. He'll never say those oaths. Never. 

‘He calls me his bastard-brother.’ Jon says, ‘He writes that despite my bastard blood, my traitor family and my whore mother I am his father’s son and he has decided to be merciful.’

Jon's hands shake with anger. _His_ father's son? Bastard blood and traitor family? _whore mother_? 

He balls the letter in his fist and squeezes it like a biscuit. 

‘Joffrey is the bastard son of Jaime Lannister and he dares to name me his bastard-brother? He ought to wish to be _my_ bastard brother!’ 

Robb seems a little scared now, Jon's anger shocks him and he looks as if he did not see it coming. 

‘I'll kill him with my bare hands.’ Jon tells Robb who nods.

‘I can see why you would want that.’ 

‘ _Can_ you?’

‘I think so, yes.’ 

Joffrey is not Rhaegar's son, but Jon is. Jon is the only son who's left, and that is why he can’t join the Night’s Watch. His father will come back to life and kill him if he even thinks of it. 

_‘No son of mine will ever join the Night’s Watch!’_

Maybe Joffrey should join the Night’s Watch, he's not a son of Rhaegar’s.

‘Do you understand why he wants me to join the Night's Watch?’ Jon asks. 

‘To decline your rights?’

Jon nods, ‘If they kill me I could become a martyr like your father and my rights will go to Freia, but if I join the Night’s Watch… Freia is only a few moons old and she's their hostage.’

‘But you always said… you are a bastard, you always say that there is nothing for you to inherit, that you would never be your father's heir-‘

‘That was when Aegon was still alive, Aegon is dead, my father has only one living and breathing son left. _Me_ , I am his son.’ Jon says, ‘It's more than Joffrey will ever be and the mere idea makes Cersei fear me more than your whole army and Rhaenys’s army and your uncle’s army combined.’ 

‘Do you think so?’

‘I _know_ so.’ Jon says, ‘If I'll join the black I'll never have a son. If I never have a son Rhaegar will never have a grandson who can raise armies and fight for his right to that fucking throne.’ 

‘Do you want your son to fight for his right to the throne?’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘Thank the Gods Freia is a girl.’ He realizes, ‘If she'd been a boy… the Gods know what they might've done to her then.’ 

‘But you _won't_ join the Night’s Watch.’ Robb says, ‘So what will you do?’

‘I have to speak to Viserys.’ Jon says, ‘I have to speak to him and convince him to join his forces with Rhaenys. This has been going on for far too long.’

Robb agrees with a nod of his head.

‘And I need to get my wife and daughter back, before anything befalls them, I need to protect them. So long as the Lannisters have them they hold a force over me and I cannot allow them that strength, I cannot afford these weaknesses.’ 

‘How will you want to do that? They won't give them up, just like that.’ 

‘They won't,’ Jon agrees, ‘Not just like that.’ 

‘Then how?’ 

‘It’s what I wanted to discuss with you.’ Jon says and he puts the letter in his breastplate to stop himself from ruining it. He better not make it unreadable, Cat will want to see it too. 

‘The Kingslayer?’

Jon nods, ‘Cersei may consider a trade of hostages. The Kingslayer is not nearly worth as much as Sansa and Freia in their eyes, not nearly, but he’s Cersei’s lover so she may consider it all the same.’ 

‘Do you believe they'll hurt them?’

Jon bites the inside of his cheeks. He wants to tell Robb that if they dare touch them with only a finger he'll kill them all, but it is not the right informative answer to his question. 

The truth is that he knows. He saw it and he knows. Blood and a knight in white armor, blue and purple and red skin. 

‘They won't hurt them as much as they would like. They are far too valuable, both Sansa and Freia.’ 

‘Freia is only a baby.’ 

That comment angers Jon more than he ever expected to be angered by a plain fact. Yes, Freia is a baby, but she's _his_ baby, ‘She's my daughter.’ Jon says, ‘She is Rhaegar’s grandchild. She's more valuable than you will ever be.’ 

Robb frowns at the comment but apparently decides not to press the matter further, instead he asks, ‘So you think we must try to trade Sansa and Freia for the Kingslayer?’ 

The question annoys Jon again, _of course_ he does, how can Robb speak of them as if they are a military strategy? They need to get them out of King’s Landing and they need to do it soon. Trading them for the Kingslayer may be the only opportunity they'll ever have, ‘We have no choice.’ 

Robb nods as he takes everything in, ‘We will discuss it with my bannermen.’ He turns to walk away but Jon grabs him by his lower arm. 

‘ _Robb_.’

Robb looks at him and he seems almost scared, ‘Jon I-‘ 

‘We’ll _have_ to do it.’ Jon says, ‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘I don't know how-‘

‘I do.’ Jon says, ‘I know how. I need my wife back, I cannot- I cannot leave her there, Sansa she's.. _Sansa_. We have to get her back with us, the both of them. They're hostages Robb, we cannot allow them to be _hostages_.’

‘I know I… I understand.’ 

Jon doesn't let go of Robb's lower arm. Perhaps it's because it stops his hand from trembling or perhaps it's because he can read faces like he reads letters. He lived at King’s Landing for nearly half his life. He can see fear, he can see worry and he can also see Robb’s uncertainty. There is no time for uncertainty. 

Jon I-‘

‘Promise me.’ Jon says, ‘I need them back, they're my kin. I have to protect them. _Swear it to me_.’

‘I can't I-‘

‘You can.’ Jon knows he's hurting him now, so tight does he grab Robb’s arm, ‘You have to.’

Robb accepts because he's afraid, he agrees because he doesn't dare to say no but it matters not, all that matters is that he nods, ‘Yes.’ He says.

‘Yes?’

‘Whatever you just- we’ll do it.’

‘You'll offer a trade of hostages?’ 

‘I will, of course, they're my sisters, we need to get them back.’ 

‘And Freia.’ 

‘Sansa, Arya and Freia, we’ll offer a trade of hostages.’ 

Jon nods and lets go of Robb’s sleeve, ‘We will.’ He says and he knows there is a threat is his voice, a warning, and he doesn't mind, he meant for it to be there. 

The war council convenes in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square.

Jon feels like the odd man out. Though he sits besides Robb like a brother he is not that. A brother-in-law, yes, a cousin too, but not a Stark. They may call him Winterfell’s bastard but he is as southern as the men from the Riverlands. Yet he is not a man from the Riverlands either. 

What is he? He always used to be so convinced that he belonged in the North, in Winterfell, with his kin. Back when the Starks were his kin, the only family he had ever known. 

Rhaenys is his kin too, his father may be dead but he will always be Jon’s father, always, much like his mother who will always be his mother. And Aegon… Aegon will always be his brother too. 

If they are his kin… then how can he belong in the North? How can he ever be a Stark? He may be a bastard but his blood is the blood of the dragon, he is a descendent of the high lords of the ancient Freehold of Valyria. 

He stares into his cup and sees his vague reflection. He doesn't need to see it to know what he looks like. Dark, curly hair, grey eyes and a long face with the evident jawline and some full lips. 

His heritage is not proclaimed by a striking beauty of lilac or indigo or violet eyes. His hair is not silver-gold or platinum white and his appearance has never been proclaimed to be inhuman. 

Jon looks like a Stark. His wife is a Stark, his daughter is a daughter of Winterfell, like her grandmother before her and her grandfather too. 

Jon is a Targaryen. Like his father and his father before him and all the others burried in the great sept too. Rhaenys has been right all along, but he carries the North in him all the same. 

So where does Jon belong? 

Things have changed. He doesn't feel the need to belong somewhere, the North, the Starks the _Night’s Watch_. He doesn't even feel the need to be part of anything. He's not sure where he belongs, except that it's with Sansa, so long as he's with Sansa he's home, she is his family, he belongs with her. Everything else is just... he doesn’t care, not anymore, not like he used to. 

Jon sits and listens and for some reason he feels his annoyance grow. Robb waited for him to be strong enough to be here, yet no one asks him a thing. They complain and ask questions yet no one turns to him. 

He _knows_ these people they speak of. He knows Cersei and he knows Tywin and Joffrey and Viserys and his sister... no one knows Rhaenys like Jon does, no on here has spend years of their life sitting at a round dining table watching a displeased and arrogant Queen Cersei. No man here has thrown a ten year old Joffrey of the docks. No one visited Casterly Rock and sat in on council meetings where their father discussed the letters he received from lord Tywin. No one but him. Yet no one asks, it's as if he's not there, and Jon refuses to speak, refuses to guide them in their world of unknown without a simple ask. 

That is until they mention Rhaenys and decide she is not worthy of their trust. 

‘She is a woman!’

‘I assure you she is a woman that can make men like you tremble in their armor.’ Jon raises his voice. He cannot sit there and let them insult Rhaenys like that.

‘Is that so boy? I would like to see her try!’ 

‘You would not, my lord,’ Jon says and he raises up from his chair, ‘If she shall not be the one to shudder you it will be her army, 30.000 men strong, have you heard?’ 

'That sounds too much like a threat, careful you bastard!’

Robb stands up too, ‘My lords, there is no need to use such harsh words, we are among friends and I would care to remind you that you speak to my brother-in-law.’ 

‘A Targaryen bastard, who no doubt supports his Martell sister, what is his word’s worth?’ 

‘A great deal!’ Robb proclaims, ‘It is not up for debate!’ 

The lords mutter and Jon sits down, wanting to gulp his wine down but he chooses not to, only barely capable of stopping himself. 

‘The truth is that there are multiple kings is this realm, and no agreement.’ 

They discuss Harrenhall and Moat Cailin and the re-formed battered remnants of the other Lannister hosts at the mouth of the causeway. Then they discuss the new lord of Storm’s End who has sworn his alliance to Rhaenys, when the Tyrells seem to favor the Lannisters, though it doesn't seem all too clear. Which they are surprised about and Jon wants to drown in his wine. 

Has anyone here ever met a Tyrell? Of course they have not clearly chosen sides, they're far too cunning to side now, when there's too much smoke up in the air. They're the fancy version of Walder Frey, a more charming version of he Lannisters, more powerhungry than the Starks. Never mind them being at a constant violentless war with the Dornish, it's highly unlikely they'll side with Rhaenys when it's Dorne that will be her main support. There is no need for clarity when it comes to the Reach, it's the Stormlands that will be interesting, especially with Renly dead. But nobody even mentions the freaking Stormlands. 

Some men urge for a strike at Casterly Rock while others want to defeat the Lannister army right in the heart. Others prefer patience to give their troops rest. One lord wants to finish the work they started in the Whispering Woods. 

Then someone urges to march down and join forces with Viserys Targaryen. 

Before Jon can open his mouth and speak with shaky words Robb says, ‘Viserys is not the king.’ 

‘You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey my lord,’ Galbart Glover says, ‘He put your father to death.’ 

‘That makes him evil.’ Robb says, ‘But it does not make Viserys king. Joffrey is still Rhaegar’s eldest trueborn son, so the throne is rightfully his by all the laws of the realm.’ 

It is for the first time that Jon can feel many stares upon him and he fails to stare right back. Instead he moves his cup in his hand and watches his wine turn around. 

‘Were he to die, and I mean to see that he does, he has a younger brother. Tommen is next in line after Joffrey.’ 

‘Tommen is a bastard too.’ Jon says and his voice is surprisingly loud for the amount of breath he filled his lungs with, ‘He is no son of my father.’ 

‘As you say.’ Robb says and Jon knows he's looking at him but he suddenly feels the deep piercing eyes of Catelyn on him and in the light of the candles they remind him too much of Sansa's to not look back. She looks terrified. 

‘It is the truth, my father knew of it but he feared war, so long as my brother Aegon lived he saw no threat yet the Gods took his life away and a crisis arose.’ 

‘If neither one is king how can it be the princess Rhaenys? She is a woman.’ 

‘Aye a woman,’ Jon says and he feels a frustration rise in his belly that must resemble the incredible hopelessness that pulled Rhaenys down her entire adult life, ‘Though the sex to which she belongs is considered weak you will nevertheless find her a rock that bends to no wind. She is my father's daughter.’

‘A queen on the iron chair is out of the question!’ 

Does anyone here know how the Dornish view their women? As equals. Rhaenys has three Martell cousins, two boys one girl. The girl shall succeed her father upon his death. They will support their niece in her conquest for her rightful throne. For them, it will not be out of the question. It will be only natural. They always expected a child of Elia on the throne, with Aegon dead they will raise their swords for Rhaenys without a doubt. If Storm’s End will choose her side her army will be twice the seize of Robb’s, about five times bigger than the one Viserys claims. 

A loud rustle goes through the hall and Jon picks his cup up and drinks. There is not much else for him to say. They either believe him or they don't, the Gods know they'll regret it if they choose the wrong decision. 

‘Rhaegar has a brother, Viserys has the stronger claim.’ 

‘Viserys is said to be as mad as Aerys!’

Everyone starts speaking again. Is this typical for the North? Jon has never witnessed so many people together so incapable of listening to each other. At King’s Landing, his father used to make carefully sure that when one man spoke the many others kept their mouth shut. Here the one who screams loudest gets to say as much as he likes. 

Jon could confirm Viserys’s madness, he could tell them all about it, he would if they asked, but no one does, nobody fucking asks. 

‘Rhaenys has the largest army,’ Marq Piper says, ‘The whole of Dorne supports her claim, from Summerhall to Salt Shore, The Arbor to the Shield Islands. I believe the lord of Storm’s End has already-’

‘She is a Martell queen!’

‘But if Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to hers, she will have four of the seven great houses behind her, five if the lord of Highgarden decides to support her claim, _six_ if Arryn does so to.’

‘These are many ifs, my lord, far too many.’ 

Jon wants to loudly explain to them that if they choose Rhaenys’s side they'll unravel a war that will see the Lannisters attacked on two fronts, two large fronts with large armies- if that happens at the same time... they could have a chance. 

‘Six against the rock! Within a year we could have all their heads on spikes.’ 

That does sound lovely. Jon still looks down in his cup and decides to get drunk again, it will hopefully stop his wound from throbbing and might give him the opportunity to sleep. 

‘What does prince Viserys offer that should make us cast aside a victory?’ 

‘The right,’ Robb says stubbornly and Jon wants to throw the content of his cup in his cousin’s face. _Damn you_ , what a fool. 

‘So you mean us to declare for Viserys?’ 

Jon finally looks up to see the expression on Robb's face. Jon knows that if Robb declares for Viserys, he'll go. He will no longer support his brother-in-law in this war, he cannot and he will not choose the opposite side of Rhaenys. Never. 

Jon wonders if Robb knows that. What if Robb takes his fealty for granted? 

‘I don't know. I prayed to the gods to tell me what to do but they have not answered.’

Jon knows why they haven't, it's because the weirwood at Riverrun is no real weirwood. It’s merely a place to relax and read your book in the summer sun.

‘The Lannisters killed my father for a traitor and we know that is a lie, but _if_ Joffrey is the lawful king and we fight against him, _we_ will be traitors.’ 

‘My lord father would urge caution,’ aged Ser Stevron says with the weaselly smile of a Frey, ‘let’s wait, let these dragons fight, let them play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend our knee to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Rhaenys arming, likely lord Tywin would welcome a truce… and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him at Harrenhal and arrange good terms and ransoms…’

‘Ransoms be damned we must _not_ give up on the Kingslayer!’

Jon agrees. He wholeheartedly agrees. He notices the white knuckles of his fists and he tastes blood in his mouth there where he has been biting the inside of his cheek. 

He wants to scream and bellow and kick and throw things. How can anyone speak of truces with the Lannisters? How can Robb even consider Tommen on the throne? Or supporting Viserys against Rhaenys? Because she is a woman? Does is not matter that she has the greatest army, the strongest claim and the best experience of a royal heir in years all because… she is a _woman_? Will they truly consider a madman on the throne? What fools.

Has everyone forgotten what this is all about? About Ned who's head they chopped off, of Joffrey slaying all the Stark men in the capital, of the Lannisters keeping the lord of Winterfell’s sisters as their hostages. This is about Joffrey’s total unfitness for the crown that should never have landed on his head in the first place. 

‘Why not a peace?’ Catelyn asks. 

‘My lady, they murdered my lord father, your husband.’ Robb says grimly. He unsheathes his longsword and lays it on the table in front of him, ‘This is the only peace I have for Lannisters.’ 

Jon wonders if he looks as scared as Catelyn does. He hopes not, he doesn't want them to think he's weak, at least not as weak as he feels.

‘Robb if that sword could bring him back I should never let you sheath it until Ned stood at my side once more… but he is gone and all these other men who died in his name shall never return. Must we really have more deaths still?’ 

‘You are a woman, my lady,’ the Greatjon says, ‘Women do not understand these things.’ 

‘You are the gentle sex. A man has a need for vengeance.’ 

‘have you ever met my mother-in-law lord Karstard?’ Jon asks, ‘I suspect you haven't when I hear your words. I can assure you she knows vengeance as well as you and I. We have not only her brother but her lover for a hostage.’

Jon looks sideways at Catelyn who doesn't seem disturbed by the humiliation they decided to make her suffer. 

‘Women may know little of strategy and tactics but they understand futility. You went to war to defend the Riverlands and safe my lord uncle’s life, win his freedom and defend yourselves.’ 

‘Well the one is done and the other forever beyond our reach.’ Catelyn says, ‘I will mourn Ned until the end of my days but now I will think of the living. I want my daughters back and the queen holds them still.’ She looks at Jon, and she reminds him of Sansa again, she still does, she has not stopped reminding him, ‘If we must trade their four Lannisters for our two Starks I will call that a bargain.’ 

Two Starks. Two Starks and one Snow. Jon wants to walk away, he wants to scream too. He wants to tell them that there is a Snow and she is his daughter, and he is Rhaegar’s son. Why do they forget? 

The hall goes quiet when Cat finishes.

‘Peace is sweet but on what terms?’ 

‘What did we fight for if we return to what it all was before?’ 

‘If the lions defeat the dragons what does that leave us then?’

‘I shall never call a Lannister my king!’ 

Again the shouting begins and Jon shares the same look with Catelyn he has shared with her a dozen times. They almost listened, almost. 

Jon is thinking of Sansa, of Freia, Rhaenys and Arya… wondering if he'll ever see them again, if he'll ever meet his daughter when the Greatjon lurches to his feet, ‘MY LORDS!’ 

Jon looks up and the strong taste of wine makes tears appear in the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it's something else. Perhaps it's a combination of depression, hopelessness, powerlessness and the damn stinging of his wound. 

‘Here is what I say to these kings and queens! He spits, ‘Rhaenys Targaryen is nothing to me, nor Viserys Targaryen either. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Dorne?’ He teachers back over his shoulder and draws his immense two-handed greatsword, ‘Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!’ He points at Robb with his blade, ‘ _There_ sits the only king I mean to bow _my_ knee to, m’lords,’ he thunders, ‘The King in the North!’ 

‘I'll have peace on those terms,’ lord Karstark says, ‘They can keep their red castle and their iron chair,’ he too eases his longsword, ‘The King in the North!’ 

Maege Mormont follows their example and the riverlords rise too. Houses that have never been ruled from Winterfell, yet Jon watches them rise, draw their blades, bend their knee and shout the old words that have not been heard in the realm for over three-hundred years. 

‘The King in the North!’

Jon wonders if his father is already twisting in his grave or if he is looking down at Jon now, rubbing his forefinger to his thumb and shaking his head. Perhaps he mutters ‘ _fools_ ’ under his breath. Perhaps he is looking angry or upset or maybe he doesn't care. He is probably glad he's dead and likes it that this is all no longer his problem. 

‘The King in the North!’

It is very much Jon's problem and he wonders how he managed to end up here, looking and feeling like this. 

‘The King in the North!’

Maybe Jon's mother actually likes this from wherever she is watching. She was from the North. 

‘The king in the North!’

If only Jon could speak with Sansa. He used to tell her everything, nearly everything. At the end of every day he'd see her and tell her everything. He grew used to that and he has not yet managed to get used to not being able to do that. He misses her. If only she were here. He could explain to her what a stupid mistake this is and she'd listen to him and ask him questions. _Good_ questions, better than the ones those fool lords of Robb’s have asked. If only she were here. If only this is all a really awful, dreadful joke. Perhaps they could laugh about it.

‘ _THE KING IN THE NORTH_!’ 

 

**Sansa**

‘At least we can be sure it's his,’ Cersei says as she stands next to the crib and looks down at Freia, ‘She looks so _Northern_.’ Freia starts crying the moment Cersei’s face peeks into her safe haven.

Cersei raises her nose up at the sound and seems insulted. Leave it to Cersei to be insulted by the responses of an infant. 

‘Are you still feeding her with your own milk?’ 

Sansa nods once.

‘The time has come for her to start weaning into solids.’ 

Sansa is confident that Freia’s mother is the only one who makes any decision regarding Freia’s menu yet she chooses to simply nod again. 

Cersei turns her back to the crib and with Freia crying in the background she moves her eyes over Sansa's body, from top to bottom and up again, ‘You have lost all the fat you gained.’ 

Sansa doesn't know what to say so she decides to keep her mouth shut, Cersei prefers her that way.

‘You look like a bag of bones now.’ 

Sansa knows she lost some stones, her cheeks are hollow and she can wrap her hand around her upper arms. The milk from her breasts is all fat and thick but the fastening removed her from all her curves. 

‘Happy girls are the prettiest girls, little dove.’

If that is true Cersei is as ugly as Sansa. 

‘You better not be unhappy at Joffrey’s nameday tourney, he won't like it.’

Sansa knows what happens when Joffrey is not happy. He is terribly unhappy every time Robb wins a battle, and he makes Sansa pay for it. 

Sansa makes carefully sure to dress appropriately, in queen Cersei’s favorite styles, with long, winglike sleeves that hide the bruises that cover her arms. 

She does not tell people anymore that Jon will kill them when he finds out, when he knows that they paint her skin blue and red and yellow with their hateful touches. Yet when their fists reach her skin the sentence echoes through her mind like a song with only four words, repeating over and over again.

_Jon will kill you, Jon will kill you, Jon will kill you…_

Sansa keeps telling herself that she can handle the abuse, she can stand the beating so long as she's not raped. They can hit her all they like but the pain won't kill her spirit nor her good faith. So long as they don't touch Freia, and as for now, they haven’t.

Sansa always makes sure Ghost is not there when they hit her. She remembers what Nymeria did when Joffrey striked Arya, she can only imagine what Ghost will do when he sees them abuse her like that. She cannot allow them a reason to have his head the same way they demanded Lady’s life. Aside from Freia and Arya, Ghost is all she has, he sleeps in her room, at her footbed at night and by day he never leaves Freia, never.

Jon always let him go out for a hunt in the Kingswood, but Sansa doesn't dare to let him out. Jon told her that direwolves are wild animals and they need the freedom of the outside world or they'll go mad. But Ghost doesn't go mad, he understands, he seems to know that if she lets him out of this room, into the keep or the city or beyond that he'll never find his way back to them, and he is not going to leave them behind. 

Though Sansa knows it's the queen who embodies the real danger, the one she should fear the most, yet she still feels safer when she is around, ‘Will you attend the tourney, your grace?’

‘I'm afraid not.’ Cersei says, ‘Urgent business with the council. Something about a rebellion in the North.’ 

Sansa smiles kindly, ‘I do admire you, for all your hard work and wisdoms.’ 

‘Thank you, sweetling,’ Cersei says, ‘Your brother has send us his peace demands. One is for us to send you to him. You must understand we cannot do that.’

‘Of course, I understand, your grace.’ 

‘He also wants his father’s bones and for us to accept their self-declaration of Independence.’

‘My brother is a traitor.’ Sansa drams, ‘My father was a traitor too.’ 

‘Joffrey plans on feeding him to the wolves when he has captured him.’ 

‘He also told me he plans on challenging my brother for a single combat.’ Sansa says, ‘I cannot wait to see it.’

Joffrey may have wondered if she is mocking or not but Cersei is harder to fool. 

The queen eyes her and then makes a headgesture to Freia who continues to cry, ‘She's not a very bright babe, is she?’

‘Quite the contrary, your grace.’

Freia fills Sansa’s days with a certain joy that makes her sometimes vaguely believe that she is actually happy. Truly happy. She makes Sansa forget that Jon is not here and that they killed her father. For a few seconds she believes it, when Freia smiles her toothless grin, happily moves her legs and arms and stretches them out towards Sansa when she wants to be picked up. Sansa can put her weird faces on and make her laugh, actually laugh and when she does that, Sansa is happy, and she forgets everything, for a small second, she believes it. 

When Freia wriggles her rattle and responds to sounds and songs she makes a genuine smile appear on Sansa’s face, one that must make her look like a pretty girl. When Sansa holds in the middle of a song Freia seems to anticipate what's coming next as if she remembers the words and rhythms. She does love it when Sansa sings to her and Sansa is glad because it is what she is good at. Those damn songs. 

Freia cannot sit up straight without a mountain of cushions behind her back keeping her upright but she can roll over on her own. She gave Sansa quite a fright when she did it for the first time and almost dropped off the bed. She lays on her tummy and raises her head and make her sounds. She can pronounce a ‘ga’ and ‘ma’ and ‘ba’ and it’s ridiculously endearing.

Sansa listens carefully to all the babbling and she's confident that she can hear consonant and vowel sounds. Sansa knows it when she's unhappy, she can hear it, and she can hear it when she's happy too, she sounds all guttural then. 

‘Mama.’ Sansa often tells her, ‘I am your mama. Can you say it?’ 

People have told her many times it's far too soon but Sansa doesn't care. She can try, she can always try and sometimes she really feels like Freia actually listens to what she says.

Cersei looks back at the crib, ‘Does she always cry as much as this?’ 

‘No, your grace.’

‘Then why is she wailing right now?’

‘She's not very fond of strangers.’ As unkind as it is to say it, as much as Cersei will be terribly offended to hear it, it's simply very true. Freia cries whenever Sansa moves out of her eyesight and Sansa is not sure her eyesight is very wide, she still seems to prefer to look at things up close, but when Sansa moves around the chamber her big blue eyes follow her every move. 

Freia is clingy and starts crying when anyone who's not Sansa comes near, she makes her whiny sounds when even her maids move close and aside from Sansa only Arya can hold her without giving up after half an hour of heartbreaking screams. 

‘She can still die, you know.’ Cersei says, ‘Many do when they have her age, she could catch an illness or simply not wake up in the morning.’ 

Sansa stares at Cersei's smiling face and finds no words of response. She cannot and will not come up with a proper response to the suggestion that her child may still die. 

‘Of course we all pray for her health.’ 

‘She's as healthy as a horse.’

‘So I can hear.’ 

‘Is there anything I can do for you, your grace?’ Sansa asks. 

Cersei waits a moment until she says, ‘Your husband has been condemned to the wall.’

‘The wall, your grace?’

‘The Night’s Watch of course.’ Cersei smiles at Sansa's stupidity, ‘His grace has shown him mercy despite his grotesque betrayal.’ 

Joffrey chopped Jon’s uncle’s head off and sits on his father’s throne that should belong to him now, she wonders what betrayal is in Cersei’s eyes. 

‘If he shall decide to join that will make you a free woman.’

Sansa gulps. _He won't join_ , she tells herself. _Never. We belong together and he will come for me, he promised to come back as soon as he could._

‘Do you know what that means?’ 

‘That I am free to go home?’ 

‘It means we can think to find you a new lord husband.’ 

‘I already have a lord husband.’ 

‘If Jon Snow joins the black-‘

‘He will still be my lord husband.’ 

‘You are a foolish girl.’ Cersei tells her, ‘Very stupid indeed.’ 

Sansa doesn't respond again. 

‘Is there anyone you'd like to marry, Sansa?’ Cersei asks and she takes a step towards her. 

‘I am already married.’ Sansa responds and she walks around Cersei, to the crib, and lifts Freia up in her arms. She can't stand to listen to her crying like this, knowing she's upset because Cersei scared her.

‘He'll be a man of the Night’s Watch.’

So far as Sansa knows he is not a man of the Watch yet and she doesn't enjoy speculating about it either, ‘You'll choose to remain married to a man sworn to the black?’ Cersei doesn't only mock her now, her voice is drawn by disbelieve too.

Will Sansa choose to remain married to Jon when he is sworn to the black? Yes. Of course. Always, ‘Our vows are for life.’ 

Cersei’s brow is one of anger as well as annoyance, ‘Vows are never for life.’ She says, ‘They last only as long as they lay on your lips.’ 

She wants to tell Cersei she disagrees but it won't change much, it will only worsen her mood, even more so she wants to tell Cersei that if she truly believes that, she is much of a hypocrite for beheading as many men for breaking their vows as she has, ‘If you say so, your grace, I'm only a stupid girl, how could I know?’ 

 

**Catelyn**

‘Cersei Lannister will _never_ consent to trade them for a couple of worthless cousins!’

‘Jon, I-‘

‘You _know_ that, you know that perfectly well!’

‘It wasn't-‘

‘It's her brother that she wants!’

‘We cannot trade them for the Kingslayer! We simply cannot, not so long as the Lannisters rave and reap the Riverlands, I have told you-‘

‘Me? It wasn't you who told me, they have all told _you_ and a parrot repeated their words to me!’ 

‘Don't speak to me like that!’ 

Robb’s face is red as he gets up from his chair, he looks at Catelyn who feels almost embarrassed as she looks down at her hands in her lap, embarrassed of the words they choose to call each other and the anger they bestow upon the person they need to trust, now more than ever. 

Jon raises his nose up. Robb is taller than he is, but he is still younger and his beard does not fool anyone, he is not yet twenty still. Jon loves Robb, Catelyn is certain of it, but she cannot recall ever seeing him this angry. There is something deep and sharp about his anger now… Jon feels betrayed. He is disappointed and the feeling is combined with a certain hopelessness Catelyn feels too and a desperation dat must be natural after half a year of separation from the people you wish to protect the most.

Catelyn feels so terribly sorry for him, she does, but at the same time his attitude makes her worry because she feels she sometimes cannot recognize the man he has become and though she doesn't believe that it makes him less trustworthy it does make him harder to read and his responses less easy to predict. This response, however, she saw coming. 

‘I will speak to you in the way that pleases me the most,’ Jon says, ‘ _Your grace_.’ 

‘You don't have to call me that.’ 

Jon narrows his eyes, ‘I know I don't. I don't have to call you anything, I hope that is as clear to you as it is to me.’ 

Robb presses his lips together and then says, ‘I cannot release the Kingslayer, my lords would never abide it.’ 

‘They made you their king.’ Catelyn says. 

‘They can unmake me just as easily.’ 

Jon huffs, ‘I'd say that makes your title simply a funny name. My father would never have allowed his lords to force him into-‘

‘I am not your father.’

‘If only you were!’ 

‘Jon!’ Catelyn gasps, every mention of his father that comes from Jon’s mouth tends to make her uncomfortable. She knows his loyalty lies first with Sansa, but the second place is vague to her still, and it worries her. Robb needs Jon. It is odd to admit it but King’s ears listen not as well as sons do, he doesn't listen to her anymore but by the look of it, Jon can still leave an impression. Sansa's lord husband is the late King’s bastard, he spend almost the entirety of his adult life at court, he knows the queen regent and grew up along the boy king, more importantly, he appears to have the support of his sister, the one they call the Dornish Queen. Jon's advice is valuable and she hopes Robb knows that. 

‘If your crown is the price we’ll have to pay to get Sansa and Freia back we’ll pay it!’ 

‘And Arya,’ Catelyn adds, her shock at his outburst has faded along with her silence, why do they constantly forget Arya? ‘We need Arya back as well.’ 

Jon turns his back to Catelyn and takes a step towards Robb, who straightens but can't keep a look of void from his stare, ‘Half of these lords of yours want to have Ser Jaime killed. If the man dies a prisoner-‘

‘They'll say he deserved it.’

Jon clearly can't help himself when he raises his voice and bellows, his face still close to Robb's, ‘And WHAT about _my wife_?’ 

‘Sansa cannot-‘

'If any harm befalls the Kingslayer they'll pay us back with her blood!’ 

Catelyn shuts her eyes at his words, he's not holding back, with good reason and she fears an anger he has kept in for too long is all coming out now. If only they will not say things they'll regret after. 

‘No harm will be done to him, he has more comfort than he deserves. But I won't free him, not even for Sansa.’

_Not even for Sansa_. These words seem to turn Jon’s gray eyes to purple and he looks every bit his father when he doesn't continue his screaming but simply nods as if he understands the state of the situation.

‘You promised.’ There is betrayals in Jon’s voice, an unbearable sort of betrayal that stings in Catelyn's heart. never before has she heard his voice speak this way, ‘You said it, you'd trade them, you _promised_.’

That is all news to her. She had no idea they already had a conversation about the matter before Robb announced the peace deals to them. She knows they spoke of Robb's plan to send Theon to the Iron Islands. Thank heavens Jon managed to change Robb’s mind there. She knew Jon doesn't favor Ned’s previous ward, obviously he didn't believe he would ever think it is a good idea to offer independence to the Iron people, to trust them and hope for their alliance. Let alone leave it to Theon Greyjoy of all people. However, that small victory seems to not make much difference now. 

‘I was not king when I promised.’

‘You are her brother.’ Jon says, ‘And my cousin. What is more important to you Robb?’

‘You make it seem as if I have to choose.’ 

‘Let’s hope you won't, I fear you choice.’

‘Jon!’ Catelyn gasps again. 

‘You betray me.’ He is still talking so softly she has trouble hearing him, his eyes do most of the speaking for him. 

‘How is this a betrayal to you?’

‘They hold my wife and daughter captive. They are their _prisoners_. You promised- you _swore it_ to me.’ 

‘I might've been able to persuade them to trade the Kingslayer for father but the girls are-‘

‘ _Girls_?’ Jon asks, ‘Not important enough are they? I have explained to you, I _told_ you how important it is to get Freia back, how important _she_ is, have you forgotten?’ 

‘I won't be persuaded, I cannot show my lords any sign of weakness.’

‘ _Weakness_? How weak are you to do exactly as they tell you? There is a difference between persuasion and guidance, don’t mistake their commands for council.’

Rob seems to be getting annoyed, the situation is hopeless, Robb is not going to back down and Jon is never going to get over his emotions, never mind accept that this is simply going to be the way of things, ‘This is no longer about us!’ 

‘I can assure you it has never been about _me_ , you are the ones who forced me all into this from the start!’ 

‘That is enough!’ Catelyn gets up and moves a few steps towards them, ‘We are all doing what we believe best, Robb wants Sansa and Arya back as much as you and I do.’ 

‘And Freia.’ Jon says, ‘They'll _kill_ her, she's a threat to Joffrey, to his seat on the throne, we have to get her _back_!’ 

‘Yes, Freia too, we’ll get them all back.’ Catelyn tries to hush, ‘Robb wants that too, don't you? Tell him, Robb.’ 

‘I'll do all I can for my sisters.’ Robb says, looking at his mother not at Jon.

Jon nods again, then he opens his eyes and turns Catelyn’s insides to dust when he says, ‘If they kill her you have her blood on your hands.’

‘Jon!’ she gasps, again, how many times will she do it?

Robb doesn't say anything, just stares with eyes filled with anger, his blue eyes, the ones she gave to him. 

‘If she dies… If _Sansa_ dies-‘

‘you'll never forgive me?’ There is a mockery in Robb’s voice that scares her, not the mockery but the knowledge that it will anger Jon only more. She'd hoped they'd spare each other and not say anything they'd regret, but it's far too late for that now, the damage in done. 

‘I'll make you pay for what you did.’ 

‘That is enough!’ Catelyn pushes Robb away when his face flashes in an aggressive anger that she has only ever seen on the face of men, not boys, and goes to stand between them, ‘If the plans work we’ll trade them still, after the Lannisters have left the Riverlands.’ 

‘If the queen has any sense she'll accept my terms. If not I'll make her rue the day she refused me.’ 

‘The queen does not have sense, I have told you that _many times_.’ 

‘’I have told you that this is simply going to be how things go _many times_ as well, I can't listen to you if you refuse to listen to me.’

‘It has nothing to do with listening, you're being a fool.’

‘I cannot please everyone.’

‘I'm glad to know that I am considered to be among everyone.’ 

‘You are not.’ Catelyn tells him, ‘Robb wants Sansa and Arya _and_ Freia back as much as we do-‘

‘No he doesn't.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘Nobody wants them back as much as I do.’ 

Catelyn’s heart breaks again for the hundredth time. Her poor heart, as broken as Jon’s must be. If only Ned were here, he was her rock, her steady rock and kept her going. She feels like one leg of hers is already in the grave now, with him gone. 

‘You must be sensible, I understand that you want them back with you, but we are at war.’

‘ _Sensible_?’

'Now, mother can go to the princess Rhaenys-‘

‘ _Why_?’ 

‘To be certain of her support.’ 

‘We can be absolutely certain of her support, as I have _told_ you.’

‘You said so but she promised you her support before we proclaimed our independence.’ 

‘She is not like you.’ Jon says, ‘She swore to me, and she'll keep her word.’ 

Robb ignores that comment, ‘Even so, I think there would be no harm in a visit.’ 

‘I'll go to her.’ Jon tries.

‘No, I command you to go to your uncle Viserys.’ 

Jon looks at Robb for a moment, his eyes emotionless as he carefully watches his cousin and then he takes a step forward yet again, except this time, the distance between them makes Catelyn feel uncomfortable, she can see it makes Robb uncomfortable too, and that may be exactly what Jon wants. 

‘Do you think that you are my king?’ Jon asks, his voice husky yet soft and his words give Catelyn goosebumps. 

‘My lords-‘

‘Your lords, yes. You are the proclaimed king of your lords, from the North and the Riverlands.’ 

Robb does not seem to understand what he means but Catelyn bows her head. She has been fearing what he is about to say for months. 

‘But I am King Rhaegar’s bastard son, I am _still_ King Rhaegar’s bastard son, always will be. I am not one of your lords, I am not from the North, I'm not from the Riverlands neither. I am a Targaryen baseborn and you are not my king.’

‘Jon I did not mean-‘

‘You do not command me. I do not obey you. I will go to my uncle Viserys in the morning because I do so from my own free will, because I knew, before your lords told you, that going to him would be what I need to do to try and end this war you and your _lords_ seem so eager to keep going.’

‘I am grateful that you-‘

‘I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for my wife and my daughter and my sister in the south too. I'm not sure if I will ever do anything for you again.’ 

‘Jon that is-‘ Catelyn tries but it won't help, she knows that, nothing will help. There is a feeling of betrayals evident in every limb of Jon’s body, she can see it in his eyes too and hear it in the way he pronounces his words. 

‘And I'll repeat again that if you think I will ever forgive you for this you are scarcely mistaken.’ 

.

Later that evening Catelyn sits in her chamber, on her bed, dressed in her nightgown, reading a book, when there is a knock and Jon opens the door. 

‘Am I disturbing you?’

She shakes her head and pushes the book away.

‘I'm sorry if I have said things today that disappointed you.’

‘Not at all.’ And that is the truth.

‘I lost my self-control, I shouldn't have.’

‘We all do sometimes.’

He sits down on the stool in front of her dresser and leans his elbows on his upper legs, ‘Will you go to Rhaenys?’

‘I will.’

‘You better go to Bran and Rickon, I'm sure they are afraid. They need you more right now, your visit to my sister in unnecessary and staying here is worthless, Robb doesn't listen anyway.’

‘I wish I could, but they are right that someone must go to the princess Rhaenys and it can't be you, you have to go to your uncle.’

‘I know that.’

‘Do you want to speak to your sister?’ Catelyn asks. 

‘Desperately.’ He admits. 

She nods, ‘I shall speak to her… and tell her you miss her.’ 

‘Don't tell her I miss her.’ He says and he moves to sit up straight, ‘Tell her I long for her guidance and advice, that will please her far more.’

That seems odd to Catelyn, but she has heard from Ned that Jon’s relationship with his only living sibling is a complicated one. 

‘Tell her I miss her cleverness.’

‘I will.’

‘Thank you.’ He says, stares ahead of himself for a while, then opens his mouth before he closes it again, ‘Cat I... If Robb won't trade them I will go to King’s Landing.’ 

‘You cannot-‘

‘I have no choice.’ 

‘They'll kill you too.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘If I swear my fealty I will be worth far more alive than I'll be after I'm killed, they'll turn me in a martyr like Ned when they chop my head off, that is the last thing they need.’ 

'Are you sure of that?’

A faint and unhappy smile crosses Jon's face, ‘No.’ 

‘Are you willing to take the risk?’ 

‘I cannot leave her there Cat, I cannot.’ He looks conflicted then, ‘I just keep having dreams of them hurting her, of her face bleeding and a baby crying... I think they're- if they hurt her I'll kill them all.’

‘They're just nightmares.’ 

He doesn't seem so convinced, ‘I promised to always protect her- that is what I must do.’ 

‘Will you be of use to them when they put you in chains?’

‘I promised.’ Jon says, ‘I promised to protect them and to come back, I cannot leave her there.’ He rubs his legs with his palms, ‘You don't know Joffrey the way I do, the knowledge that he has them makes me- it just makes me want to scream.’

‘What do you mean?’ Catelyn knows her voice is a whisper.

‘He is vicious and cruel.’ Jon says, ‘What I mean is that- have you seen Ser Jaime? The way they treat him?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘I can't let them hurt Sansa.’

‘Why would they hurt Sansa? She is still his sister-in-law.’

‘Yes, you see, she is their captive, Joffrey can do with her whatever he likes.’

Catelyn can't breath for a second, ‘Do you mean he-‘

‘No, not that.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘If he does I swear to the Gods… but I don't think he does. I think he… I think he hits her. I'm not sure how hard or how often but they hurt her and I cannot let them do that. I'll break my vows if I let them do that, the only vows I have ever sworn.’

‘Jon that is-‘

‘I have to protect her. I cannot let her rot there in a golden bloody prison, I need to go to her.’ 

Catelyn nods, ‘I understand. It is that… I highly doubt you’ll manage to persuade Robb.’ 

‘I'm afraid you are right.’

‘Did you mean it?’ She asks, ‘Did you mean it when you said that you will never forgive him for this?’

Jon gets up from the stool, ‘I meant all I said.’ He says, ‘I'll leave you now, in the morrow we shall both depart on a long travel.’

Catelyn looks down at her feet, ‘I understand.’ She says, ‘All of it, you must know that, I want you to know that I understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘The conflict.’

‘Conflict?’

‘When I told you that you are a Stark to me the Gods know I meant it, I hope you do too, but I know that… I know that your loyalty does not fully, not _only_ lie with the Starks, with my son.’ 

He doesn't deny it. 

‘And I understand the conflict.’ 

‘I wouldn't call it a conflict. Not after today.’ 

‘I understand that too.’

‘Thank you for that.’ 

‘You'll have to keep faith in a good outcome Jon,’ she tells him, ‘Don't give up on us, on Robb, he is only a boy.’ 

‘I’m not giving up. If I give up I'll loose myself and I don't have time to find it back.’ 

Catelyn smiles, the way he looks reminds her of Ned the way Robb never does. Robb tries to do good just like Ned, but on the outside he looks like a Tully. Catelyn had a son that looks just like her but is his father on the inside. Lyanna Stark did exactly the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just so glad I got all these chapter out, cause they were both awful to write and I'm sure a bit predictable.  
> Like I said, I don't want to drag the Jon is hopeless storyline, he is a bit lost now but he won't be for long. If anyone wonders, NO, he's not gonna join the watch.  
> In any case, next chapter is Dragonstone and it's called 'Stones of Hell' for more than just one reason.  
> Please still let me know what you think! I always appreciate that  
> See you next Sunday x


	28. Stones of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Do you think I am stupid, bastard?’ Viserys asks him, ‘Do you think I am blind? Or deaf? Or a fool? You think I am as mad as Aerys and I can still see you whisper behind your hands, laughing about me. With her. With that Dornish whore. Now you ask for my trust? My support? I see no reason to support any of you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of hope this is painful to read because painful is totally what I was going for.

**Jon**

The black stones that were used to built Dragonstone are ‘the stones of hell’, if old tales are true. It looks different than any other building Jon has ever seen in his life as it was built using old Valyrian techniques that have all been lost since the doom. The towers are shaped in the form of dragons, they arche into the sky, screaming defiantly. 

Grotesques and gargoyles serve as brooding crenellations along the three curtain walls and everything about it make Jon feel uneasy. But perhaps it’s the entire look of Dragonstone that makes him feel lightheaded, and not the staring stone eyes. Dragon stone is stronger than diamond and this building is all any man needs to see to know that's true.

Despite all the famed stories he heard, after all the built-up expectations, he has already decided that Dragonstone is the ugliest castle he has ever seen, worse than Castle Black. It reminds him of the throne room, but this is not a room, this in an entire isle of dragon reminders. No matter where he looks he sees dragons, they lay still or are carved out as angry, screaming monsters, some spit fire, some appear wide and patient. They're all ugly. As ugly as the skulls in the throne room. Aegon would hate this.

He doesn't know where to look when it's no one but Ser Barristan Selmy who awaits him, bows his head, calls him ‘my lord’ and tells him the ‘king’ is expecting him. 

He wrote Viserys many times, they all went unanswered so he wondered if they ever reached him. Clearly they did. 

He doesn't feel like he knows how to ask Ser Barristan what he's doing here, and why, and since when he's been here, ‘So it's true?’ He asks, ‘Joffrey released you of your vows?’

‘’I cannot be released of my vows.’ Ser Barristan says, ‘Not by him, not by anyone.’ 

‘I see.’ Jon feels the urge to tell the man that his father would never have released him, but he believes ser Barristan knows that so he only nods his head and allows the man to bring him to his uncle. 

He meets the throne pretendent in Aegon’s painted table room. Rhaenys so often told him of this room, and old Nan, and Daenerys… even his father once. 

This is the room where Aegon the conqueror planned for the invasion of Westeros. 

‘Viserys.’ 

‘I am your king.’ 

‘Your grace.’ Jon manages to raise his eyebrows as he refuses to bend even his head. The table is indeed painted, exactly like they so often told him it is, with a detailed map of all the Seven Kingdoms. The room is round, with four tall windows, overlooking the north, south, east and west and it's terribly gloomy. Dark and scary and worse than old Nan made it seem, much worse. 

‘I suspect you have come here to swear me your fealty.’

‘Alas no.’ Jon says, ‘Though I can assure you that my fealty is not what you need.’ 

Viserys looks at him suspiciously, ‘Has my traitor niece send you?’ 

‘I have not seen my sister is many moons.’ Jon says.

‘Then for whom have you come?’

‘Myself, mostly.’ Jon says.

‘Don't lie to me!’ Viserys says and he raises his voice. 

‘I am not.’ Jon lays his hands on the table, where it covers the Water Gardens, ‘What are you doing?’ 

‘What a stupid thing to ask!’ Viserys doesn't seem happy to see him at all, he appears nervous and desperate. Jon would be too, if he were him. Viserys is digging his own grave. 

‘I assume it is your wish to defeat the Lannisters?’

‘The boy king is an usurper.’ 

‘Indeed.’ Jon clears his throat, ‘Then why are you here?’

‘This is my seat. My rightful seat as rightful heir to the throne!’

‘How?’

‘I am Rhaegar’s trueborn brother, he has no remaining sons and that means-‘

‘He has a daughter, a trueborn daughter, with an army ten times the seize of yours.’ 

‘Rhaenys is a traitorous woman! She does not have the blood of the dragon, she even smells Dornish, the throne does not belong to her it is mine, mine by right, mine by blood and mine by birth.’ 

‘Yet Rhaenys has the bigger army.’

Jon turns when he hears a voice he has never heard before, an odd, sonorous voice, with an odd exotic accent. 

‘The lord of light has seen a victory in the flames.’ 

The woman he sees must be the red lady. There is no doubt in that, red is all he sees when he scans her appearance. Her hair is red, but not auburn like Sansa’s, it's the color of flames, the same color as her silk gown. 

He has heard mentions of her so often, of what she says and claims. He has heard the stories about her God, the one with the funny name, the lord of light and fire and all things red. The God from Essos, only one God. Rhaenys mocked it so many times.

She stares at him, her ruby red eyes remind him of Ghost, and there's something deep in them that gives him chills. It's awfully cold in the room and the air is so salty it's as if he's standing outside on the shore. 

‘If you will not swear fealty to me you are a traitor.’

‘The boy is not an enemy.’ The priestess tells Viserys, she walks over to him and moves to stand behind him, to literally whisper in his ear, ‘He has the king’s blood.’ 

‘He is a traitor.’ Viserys says, as if Jon's not there, failing at hiding the fact that he carefully and awkwardly listens to their exchanging, ‘If he chooses their side he is my enemy, he’ll betray me.’

Everyone seems to think Jon’s a traitor lately, though Jon wonders what they all expected him to do differently. There is nothing he has done that he might've been able to avoid doing. 

‘Not yet, not yet…’ the woman says, ‘There is so much betrayal in the flames…’

Jon can imagine there is. 

‘I will ask the lord to tell me about his future.’ 

‘I don't really want to know.’ Jon presses an uncomfortable and hideously fake smirk on his face that is left unanswered. 

‘So much king’s blood…’ The red lady whispers. 

‘My father was a king, but I'm a bastard so I don't think my blood is very kingly.’ 

The woman only stares, ‘I'll ask the lord of light.’ 

‘Ask him if we can trust him.’ Viserys says.

‘Viserys,’ Jon tries, ‘I want to talk in private, you're making a mistake, this is all-‘

‘Why would you want to speak to me in private when you are not my enemy?’

Jon sputters a bit until he decides to ask for his aunt, ‘Where is Daenerys?’ 

‘Crying in the sept.’

‘The sept?’

Viserys shrugs, ‘It is gone… al these statues, the ones with the ruby eyes and those molten gold hairs… they are gone.’ 

‘You did what?’ 

‘I burned the statues from the sept.’ 

That makes Jon's eyebrows shot up, ‘Well that is… was that necessary? Aegon the conqueror prayed in that sept before he-‘

‘Aegon the conqueror was in this room when he planned to take what was his. Here he looked at the Seven Kingdoms and prepared his conquest.’

‘The blood of the dragon.’ The red lady says. 

‘Aye, the blood of the dragon.’ Jon grabs the pommel of his sword, ‘Viserys you must help me, help us, to defeat the Lannisters.’

‘The lions will suffer.’ The Red lady tells him, yet she looks at Viserys when she speaks, ‘Suffer greatly…’

‘That would be nice.’ 

She raises her eyes at him, ‘Fire and Blood.’ 

‘Preferably soon. You don't have a very large army Viserys, the smallest of everyone who-‘

‘The king has faith in the lord of light.’ The priestess says, ‘The lord of light will give the promised prince victory.’ 

‘Did the lord write that down?’ 

A smile creeps in on the lady’s face and she takes a few steps away from Jon, ‘His flames told me. They tell me many things.’ 

Jon feels the urge to tell her he's happy for her, but instead he tries to keep pushing, ‘I'd like to speak to you privately.’ 

‘What is it you wish to tell me?’

‘I have come here to give you this.’ Jon says and he places Robb’s letter, sealed with the Stark sigil, on the table, to cover Sunspear. 

‘What is that?’ 

‘A letter from my brother-in-law, who urges you to think wisely.’

‘The lord of light gives us wisdom.’ 

Jon wants to tell them to fuck off with their lord of freaking lights, but instead he focuses on Viserys’s face, ‘If we wish to defeat the Lannisters we must work together, to make the common enemy succumb.’ Jon remembers Rhaenys’s words and carefully adds them, ‘We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves, we have to set our differences aside-‘

‘Differences? She means to take the throne for herself, she is my enemy as much as the boy king, as much as that Stark son is. They are all usurpers.’ 

‘My brother-in-law has been chosen to be the king in-‘

‘Your brother-in-law will pay for his betrayal.’ Viserys says and the Red Lady picks up the letter, moves to the fire in the corner and almost manages to gracefully throw it in the flames that rise when the paper hits their core and Robb’s words turn to black ashes before Jon can blink his eyes to comprehend the odd movements of the burning. 

‘Viserys…’ Jon suddenly feels very powerful and desperate, he wants to sigh or scream or run away, ‘You have an army of not even five-thousand men, you _cannot_ defeat anyone or make them pay for betrayals.’

The red lady looks as Viserys, ‘Have faith dear king, faith in the lord of light.’ 

‘Rhaenys wants to defeat the Lannisters, I must urge you to support her to defeat the common enemy, for the good of the realm, for our family-‘

‘Rhaenys is Dornish filth.’ 

Jon feels angry now. No one calls his sister filth, no one gets to call her anything, he's the only one who can do that, ‘Rhaenys is my father's daughter.’ 

‘She smells Dornish.’ 

‘Aye, what if she does, she has their whole army behind her, she'll crush you if you dare take it that far. I must urge you to stop it now you still can, she'll forgive you-‘

‘I won't forgive her. I'll burn her body.’ 

‘I'd rather have it you won't.’ 

‘You learned that trick, did you not? Those jokes. At court some always try to be funny, to hide their true intentions.’ 

‘I've got nothing to hide.’ Jon says, ‘I am here to stop you from making a mistake, a mistake I will suffer for. I do not come here because I care for you or because I think my words will guide you. I came here for the selfish reason that I need this war to end before they kill my wife and child.’ 

‘The boy speaks the truth.’ 

‘My father would never have wanted this, he would want you to-‘ 

‘Do you think I care about what he wanted?’

‘You should care about what he wanted, he was your brother-’ 

‘he shipped me off to Dragonstone when it was the small council seat where I was supposed to sit. Instead he put that foreigner’s daughter of his at that table, she thinks she's so clever, she thinks she's better than me, she is not! _I am the dragon_!’

‘You won't be after you die.’ 

‘Refused me everything he could refuse me.’ Viserys goes on, ‘He never treated me like a brother, I was a burden to him, a reminder of his father. He showed Daenerys more respect than me. He couldn't even look at me.’ 

‘His grace had that problem with most.’

The red lady seems to have many problems yet looking someone in the eye is not among them. She makes Jon feel uncomfortable and she scans him as if he's standing there bar naked. 

‘The only person you come for here today is yourself.’ She tells him.

Jon shakes his head, ‘I don't care who of you sits on the iron throne, so long as it's not Joffrey. Join your forces with the Stark army up North and together we’ll defeat the Lannisters.’

‘Why should I trust you?’

‘You're my uncle.’ 

‘Do you think I am stupid, bastard?’ Viserys asks him, ‘Do you think I am blind? Or deaf? Or a fool? You think I am as mad as Aerys and I can still see you whisper behind your hands, laughing about me. With her. With that Dornish whore. Now you ask for my trust? My support? I see no reason to support any of you.’

‘We’re family Viserys.’ Jon says, he realizes that telling Viserys his army will be crushed during the first few moments of battle isn't going to help, he seems confident the lord of light will guide him through that dead sentence. 

‘You are a bastard.’

‘I am my father's son.’

‘So am I.’ 

‘We can work out our quarrels when the war is over, first we defeat our common enemy.’ 

‘It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and break their promises when you turn your back.’ The Red lady tells him and with a few steps she is standing far too close, ‘Tears, I see, and a lone wolf howling. I see a very high wall, long, red hair and a baby laying in her arms...’

Jon feels his throat tighten suddenly, when she goes on, and describes his nightly nightmares. 

'I see a weeping child, her mother kisses her forehead.’ Jon feels a sting when the woman lays her hand on his cheek but he can't find the power to push it away, ‘Dark hair and blue eyes… the wolf keeps staring. So vulnerable. A sharp blade and bleeding thighs… a ship sailing through the darkness of night. You see it too, do you not, Jon Snow?’

‘No.’ Jon whispers. 

‘The night is dark and full of terrors.’

The moment she pulls her hand away Jon's sanity returns to him and he feels the urge to shake it all off. 

'I have seen you in the flames.' She tells him, 'Sometimes all I see is snow… it falls down from the sky and it melts on skin until a warm breath turns the flakes to salt and on these high cheekbones they rest, glittering like tears…’

‘I'm sure you can see many things, when you have the patience to stare long enough.’ Jon says and he means to mock her but he fails as she doesn't let him.

‘You do not fear the true danger. These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends. Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire.’

Jon feels the urge to tell her to fuck off, she's making this conversation exceedingly more complicated than he expected it to be, he's not prepared for a talk about the darkness and the lord who'll shield them all to the true dangers. All Jon knows is that this madness must not be allowed to spread beyond Dragonstone.

‘Where is Daenerys?’ Jon asks. He has not seen a glimpse of her and he hopes that maybe his expectations are right, that she is not here. He desperately hopes she's with Rhaenys. Daenerys hates and fears Viserys, his obsession with this religion scares her.

‘The Queen needs to stay away from wars. Peace and rest is all she needs.’ The Red Lady whispers, the way she moves around Viserys makes Jon feel nervous.

‘Rest? Is she ill?’

‘When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst the cold, surrounded by betrayal, to wake dragons out of stone.’ 

Jon is losing his calm now, ‘Viserys!’ He calls out, ‘What in the seven hells is she talking about! Who's Azor a-something and where is Dany?’

‘In bed!’ Viserys calls, ‘Carrying my child.’ 

‘A Prince that was promised.’ The red lady says, a smile creeping around her lips. 

‘A-a child?’ The information that Daenerys is with child is new to him, ‘How is she?’

A fire unleashes in Viserys’s eyes, the concern in Jon’s voice angers him more than anything, ‘Stay away from her!’ Viserys says, a finger pointing in his direction, ‘You bastard! She's mine, my queen, my sister-wife, they gave her to me, she was always mine! You treated her like she wasn't but she always has been. I can do with her whatever I please, I could let my whole army and all the peasants of Westeros fuck her if I want to!’

‘I bloody well hope you won't!’ 

‘Do you think I do not see the way you look at her? See the way you pretend she's yours?’

‘Daenerys is not mine!’ Jon feels as shocked as he feels disgusted, ‘She- she's nobody's! I'm married to someone else, Daenerys is my aunt!’

‘Stay away from her! I forbid you to see her!’ 

‘I- I won't!’ Jon makes the quick calculation that Viserys’s support in this damn war is more important right now than Dany’s happiness. He feels only a little bit guilty, ‘I don't care about Daenerys, she is your queen, they wedded me to another.’

‘You promised her you would wed her.’ Viserys says and Jon feels warm and nervous, ‘I heard you say it once. You wanted to marry her, you promised her, did you forget? She never did. You planted lies in her heart, gave her false promises. You are a liar and a thief.’ 

‘I never- we- we were children! We were only… I never meant to marry her! I never wanted to!’

‘You told her all the same!’

‘Young love is innocent but the feelings do nothing but confuse.’ The red lady sings.

‘I never loved Dany! The old Gods are my witness, I speak the truth!’ 

‘The old Gods!’ 

‘The Gods of my ancestors.’ 

‘False… all false.’ The red lady lays her hand on Viserys’s shoulder, ‘I believe we have spoken too many words. There is nothing left unsaid.’ 

‘I need you to go, bastard.’ 

‘Viserys I…’ 

‘You can stay for the night but tomorrow I need you gone.’ 

Jon knows that the red lady finally spoke something of sense. There is nothing more to discuss. Viserys is mad. He has always been delusional and blind to reality but as it turns out Aegon was not the only Targaryen who proves to Jon that he always underestimates those with ‘disturbed minds’. 

Jon decides to nod and when he turns he sees Barristan Selmy in the door opening. He opens the door for him and Jon feels like he lost a battle when he moves and leaves the famed room. 

‘You are serving the wrong cause, ser.’ Jon tells him as he's being escorted. 

‘Joffrey Targaryen is not the true heir.’ 

‘We all know that, but Viserys is not either, I know little of what my father wanted but I do know that it was not his mad brother on the throne.’ 

‘Madness… your grandfather was mad once.’ 

‘And your served him all the same.’ 

‘I vowed to do so. I will hold that vow, even if I must protect a mad man once again.’ 

Jon nods, ‘I see.’ He really doesn't, but perhaps that is because he has spend too much time listening to Rhaenys rambling on about how there has to come an end to cruel madmen in their family tree. 

‘I vowed to your father to protect his family.’ 

‘You served my father well.’ Jon says, that he is certain of, which is nice for a change.

‘King Rhaegar was noble and dutiful. Brave too, I fought by his side on the trident. He was an honorable man who spend his last years protecting those he loved.’ 

‘I'd say he spend his last years avoiding an unavoidable war.’

Ser Barristan stops and so does Jon, ‘I am an old man, an old knight, and I have seen more battles than you have years. Nothing is more terrible upon this earth, nothing more glorious, nothing more absurd.’ 

‘What are you saying?’

‘That a king who fears war is a wise king.’ 

‘You cannot deny my father had plenty of battle experience, he knew much of life and death both. He unleashed a war once, I dare say he didn't want to do it again.’ 

‘King Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it.’

Jon hates it when people bring up his mother in the hope of making him either emotional or sympathetic and people try it so often, ‘And thousands will die again if this new mad king gets what he wants.’

‘I do no support Viserys. Viserys looks like your grandfather in a way your father never could.’ 

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Daenerys.’ The knight says, simply, and then explains, ‘She is her brother’s sister and needs protection far more than you or Rhaenys Targaryen do.’

Jon finally understands, he feels nervous knowing Daenerys really is here, ‘Does Viserys… does he hurt her?’

‘No. Not anymore.’

Jon urges the man on to start walking again, ‘I must ask you, have you seen my lady wife? Daughter? Before you left?’

‘I did not see your lady wife, but I know that the girl was in good health when she came into this world. I saw your uncle bring her to your father before he died.’

Jon tries not to show any sign of weakness or emotion, to just nod to let the man know he understands what little there is to understand, ‘And my lady wife?’ 

‘She did not see the king after birthing. When they arrested lord Stark they refused to let her out of her room.’ 

‘Did they hurt her?’

‘Not that I know of.’ 

That is all Jon needs to know for now, he feels like finally some of the stones that have rested on his chest are lifted, ‘Thank you, ser.’

‘The babe was healthy and it gave the king strenght while dying to know that he left a legacy behind.’ 

Jon’s not sure if the king saw his bastard’s daughter as a legacy but he remembers how the first thing he hoped for when he learned of his father's faltering health was that he would live to see his grandchild. 

Apparently he lived long enough to see the daughter that even Jon himself has not laid his eyes on yet. It should make him happy, but it only makes him sad. His desire to go to them grows more fiercely. He wanted his father to know his daughter because he wanted to see the look in his eyes when Jon presented her to him. He wanted to show his father that he can do things right. Have a daughter, a real one, one as sweet and gentle as Sansa, he wanted his father to see that he did that. Jon wanted to tell him, ‘Look, is she not perfect? I did that, I made that, she's mine.’

Maybe the thing Jon longed for most was his father’s approval. His father's pride. Sansa said that his father loved him and wanted to protect him. She even said his father was proud of him, but Jon never believed her. All he ever saw in his father’s eyes when he looked at him was indifference. 

When Jon finally reaches his room he starts crying. Like the weak bastard he is. He misses Sansa. He doesn't want to lie down in a bed without her. The emptiness is the worst of all. Knowing that she's alone too eats him alive. The empty bed reminds him of his inability and he curses both Viserys and Robb. That messed up insane Red woman too. Whatever her name is. 

He lays in his bed, turns and twists while he curses and prays. He doesn't know whom to pray to anymore. If it's true what Viserys said and he really did destroy the sept and burned the Godswood this is a godless place. 

When he dreams every night he sees her face and it bleeds. She's sleeping in his bed. In that bed, she is not as alone as he is. And Ghost presses his nose to an arm that's scattered with blue and purple and some yellows. 

But ser Barristan said they did not hurt her. He said so. He didn't see her but he'd know if they'd beat her or anything of that sort. She couldn’t leave her room, but at least they didn't hurt her.

He said the king saw his daughter. Did he really find strength in Jon’s daughter? Did he really die, thinking he left a legacy behind? What legacy? A prosperous, peaceful, summer reign? Or a string of heirs to pass on the blood of the dragon? Jon doesn't know and he's ready to accept he'll never find out. He knew that when his father was dying Jon would have to accept his father as the man he is, forget and burry the person he never was, the person Jon needed him to be. Now when the time has come, he's ready to do that. He's ready to live the rest of his life with the memories that he has. He is ready to forgive. 

_I forgive you, father._

He may not have had the chance to say it to Rhaegar’s face but he hopes that he already knew, he hopes that he can maybe hear him say it now, from wherever place up above in the sky he is, together with Lyanna, the way he must've wanted, looking down at Jon, pretending to feel indifference.

He's nowhere near drifting off to sleep when he hears the door of his room open. He's ready to jump up in the bed but something keeps him down, maybe a lack of adrenaline, maybe it's fear, or maybe he knows that it's better to pretend to be asleep for another moment. 

The shadow of the man that walks in moves over towards the bed and it's too dark for Jon to see who it is. It's too dark for Jon to have to close his eyes to make his sleep seem believable and he's ever so glad for it because through his opened eyes he sees a raised arm, a hand with a dagger clutched between fingers, the end pointed at him. 

Before the unknown man can lower the dagger with force and kill Jon in his sleep Jon kicks him. The kick was unexpected and the attacker stumbles backwards, groaning in pain. The dagger falls down and Jon pushes himself off the bed to wrap his arm around the stranger’s throat, ready to choke his enemy. They both drop down on the stony floor and Jon knocks his head against the foot of the table next to the bed. He sees lights dance in front of his eyes and the pain takes away the strength in his arm. He gets up but fails to push the man away who has found the dagger underneath the bed and is ready to place it to the thin skin of Jon’s throat. Jon wraps his fingers around the man’s wrist, the blade nears his collarbone and Jon starts pulling and moving away as aggressively as he can but it's not what saves him.

Suddenly the power of the arm around his neck falters and the man once again drops to the floor. Jon turns around just in time to see the surprise on his face, his mouth opened in a silent gasp. His failed assassin shakes on the floor, cursing as blood pours from the wound that he grabs in fear until he jerks, stiffens, and dies. 

Jon grabs his longsword from the table and unsheathes is as he points it at the figure of the man who saved his life. 

It's not a man. In front of him stands a woman. He doesn't see it at first, but he knows. He knows her. He has seen her before.

‘My lady, forgive me.’ He says, dropping his sword, he feels the urge to climb back in bed to hide his bare chest from her view.

She doesn't seem shocked at all, with the door opened behind her he cannot see the look on her face but he can imagine what it must be like. 

‘W-what is- who is- that man tried to kill me.’ He stammers. 

‘I think there are plenty more people who want to kill you.’

Jon has to agree. Somehow the comments puts it all in perspective and he turns towards the chair with his clothes and grabs them all, ‘I have to go.’ He decides, right now, as soon as he can, as fast as he can and as far away as he can. 

‘You saved my life.’ Jon says and she doesn't respond, she doesn't confirm nor deny it, ‘thank you.’ Again she ignores him.

‘We have to go, my lord, you must come with me, we have to leave this castle.’

He doesn't ask why she saved him, how she knew she had to be here, why she has decided to protect him suddenly but it does not matter. He nearly died. That dead man on the floor nearly ended his life and he has to get on a boat and row away before someone else tries again and manages to succeed. He cannot die, that would be terribly unfortunate. 

Jon quickly puts on all the clothes he has with him, grabs his sword and his cloak too, everything he brought. 

‘What are you doing here?’ He hisses when he walks through the hall, side by side with the lady of Tarth, ‘You are sworn to Rhaenys! You should be in her Queen’s Guard!’

The lady doesn't respond to his anger and the stunned stares he gives her but merely continues to walk. 

On their way to Malckom’s room they suddenly stand eye to eye with Daenerys.

He can clearly see her in the moonlight that shines through the wide windows behind her. She's hugging herself and her swollen belly.

‘Dany..’ he breaths and she runs towards him, in his arms. 

‘Jon!’ She buries her head in the crook of his neck and he feels her body tremble against his, ‘You really are here!’

‘I am I-‘

‘I heard voices and I- why are you here? It's the middle of the night… Why is there blood on your hands?’

Jon looks at his own hands and moves away from her, ‘Someone tried to kill me.’ He says.

‘I’m so sorry I… You should not have come here, I tried to write you but I couldn't I- I wanted to see you and Viserys he-‘

Jon makes the quick calculation that tells him she better come with them, ‘We’re leaving tonight.’ He says, ‘And so are you.’ He pulls her with him back through the door into her bedchamber, ‘Put on some clothes, we’re leaving and you're coming with me.’ He refuses to leave a pregnant Daenerys behind with that crazy priestess. 

The promise of getting to come along makes her grab a dress. She moves to stand behind a curtain but he can still see her figure as she pulls her nightgown over her head. She's rather far along.

Daenerys’s belly has the seize that Sansa’s had when Aegon died. She must've been pregnant when he last saw her. At Aegon’s funeral reception. He remembers how odd she looked. Maybe this is why. 

He feels annoyed when she takes her time to get dressed. They don't have the whole night to decide what to wear. He was nearly _killed_ for crying out loud, what is she trying to do? 

Finally she fastens her cloak and lets him nearly drag her through the halls again. 

‘Get out, we’re leaving.’ He tells his personal guard, who pulls the blankets of his bed over his head. 

‘My lord?’

‘They tried to kill me.’

‘W-what?’

‘Just get out of the bed!’ Malckom is not happy when Jon pulls Dany on her arm with him through the sleeping castle, he is never happy, but now his face is so red and frustrated that it makes Jon wonder if his head will soon turn into one giant tomato. 

Daenerys can't stop crying, ‘Why are you here? You should not be here, she'll hurt you!’

‘She?’

‘Mellisandre.’

‘The Red Woman? Does she hurt you?’

‘No. not me, but everyone else… he let her destroy all the statues in the sept when he found me praying to the mother...’ 

‘Why are you not with Rhaenys?’

Daenerys pulls her hand from his and shakes her head, ‘I don't want to.’

He stops right on the spot and he can see Brienne look at the floor and Malckom glare at him from the corner of his eye, ‘Why not?’

‘My child… he is the prince that was promised.’

Jon looks down at her belly and it makes his head turn,‘Rhaenys would've protected you.’

Daenerys only shakes her head, ‘No.’

‘You can still go to her.’ Jon urges on.

‘No, never, she betrayed me, when I needed her most she let them marry me to Viserys.’

‘Dany, you know Rhaenys could've done nothing to stop that!’ 

There is something in her eyes he has never seen before, it's unrecognizable and scares the seven hells out of him, ‘I needed her support and she wasn't there. The only one that ever concerned her was her new confidante, and I became her second place.’

When Jon realizes what she's talking of he feels disgusted, ‘Don't you dare blame Sansa for anything.’

‘I wouldn't dream of it.’ Dany says and he knows that's the biggest amount of crap he has ever heard come out of someone's mouth. 

Ser Malckom has to kill a guard when they find a door and Brienne knocks another one to unconsciousness which causes Dany to start crying. Jon takes her hand but she grabs his upper arms and sobs in the crook of his neck. 

‘You have to calm down…’ he tells her, ‘We have to leave, quickly, and no one can know, we cannot wake the castle.’ 

‘He _killed_ the guard…’ she keeps whining until they finally find the beach. Jon can see the rowing boat in the distance, the one that brought him here. All he knows is that when the sun comes up, he needs to be far away from this place. 

He runs towards the boat and together with ser Malcolm and The Lady Brienne he manages to push it towards the water as Dany looks on, her face hidden behind her hands. 

‘Daenerys get in the boat.’ He says.

‘No!’

‘Don't be a fucking fool, get in the damn boat!’ for some reason, her tears annoy him. They don't have time for crying. 

Dany sinks down, half in the salty water of the sea, there where the waves can reach her dress and her hands sink away in the sand. She starts sobbing like a child. 

‘Jon, Jon, Jon…’ tears stream down her face, ‘What can I do?’ 

Jon stares around the beach as if the solution to this problem is behind a non-existing tree, with the answer to her question, ‘You can't go back there.’ He says as he let's go of the boat and moves towards her.

‘I can't take his son from him!’ She sobs, ‘He’ll never forgive me if I leave him now. He'll haunt me down!’

‘He won't find you.’

‘You said you'll take me with you!’

‘I'll bring you to Rhaenys, I promise.’

‘Why should I believe anything you promise me?’ She cries some more, ‘Nobody ever does as they promise.. not even you.’ 

He doesn't want to know what she means but he's afraid he does. He needs to get her in that damn boat. In the moment he wishes he is the sort of person who lifts her up and throws her in the boat, ignoring her protests. 

‘Dany just.. _Please_ , father will come back and haunt me if I don't protect you.’

She snorts and she looks up at him in pure disgust, ‘Your father? You care about your father now? Because he's dead surely, for he never treated you with kindness. The only one who ever treated you with kindness was me. But when they married you to that red-headed _fool_ child, you forgot all about me, had only eyes for her.’

He doesn't believe this is the right moment for her to start accusing him of these things, he has no prepared defense, if truth must be told he knows he can't defend himself. Telling a fifteen year old Dany at the age of sixteen that he was going to marry her and make her happy was maybe the stupidest thing he's ever done.

‘I'm sorry Dany, you know how sorry I am, don't you?’ He tries to lift her up by her arm but she doesn't let him and she weights too much, especially with all the water in her skirts, ‘I did care about you, I always will. That is why you must get in the boat.’

‘I want to come with you, you'll protect me won't you? You are gentle with me, the only one who ever was.’

Jon looks down at her, still a hopeless bag of misery on the ground, ‘I will protect you.’

She nods, ‘I knew you would.’ She says, ‘You won't leave me again.’ 

He won't make her promises he can't keep. He has too many of these already.

What would his father do? Tell her to fuck off and figure it out on her own? He can try and convince her when they are away from this place. That is what his father would've done. His father would use his words to get what he wants.

‘Dany if you get in the boat we will see where to go once we're away, okay? We need to get away first, once we are we’ll decide what to do together, you and me.’

Daenerys finally nods, ‘You and me.’ She repeats and in that moment she reminds him of Viserys for the very first time ever, and it terrifies him to the bone. 

‘thank you.’ Jon breaths, his feet sink deeper in the sand as he moves closer to the boat, standing in the water up to his shins, ‘Come on.’ He says and he holds out a hand towards her that she takes.

As he looks at Daenerys and the castle behind her he fears that he really is like his father after all. They were all right. He is his father’s son, always has been.

‘Viserys won't want me to-‘

He feels angry suddenly, ‘I don't give a fuck about what he wants!’ The sound of his own voice surprises him, ‘He tried to _kill_ me!’

‘No!’ Daenerys screams, ‘Don't say that!’ 

‘It's true!’

She starts pulling on his cloak, ‘Jon please, Jon…’

He wants to tug himself loose but the desperation in her voice makes him feel awfully sorry for her and he turns to the two people who have silently witnessed this hopeless situation, ‘Could we maybe..?’

‘I thought you wanted to leave right away, my lord?’ Malckom asks.

‘We will!’ Jon says, ‘Just a moment, don’t drag it out!’

Ser Malckom glares at him but takes a few long strides out of the sea, water splashes everywhere as he drags the boat back to the shore again all on his own and then marches away from them, Brienne following him closely, to a distance of which Jon is sure they cannot hear them yet still see them clearly, exactly the way Malckom must prefer it.

Jon kneels down to wrap his arms around Dany’s shaking shoulders, ‘He is not a good man, Dany.’ He whispers to her hair.

‘He is my brother.’ Daenerys cries, ‘Once he was all I had.’ 

‘I know that.’ In truth he doesn't, Viserys always treated her like crap for as long as he can remember.

‘Rhaenys wants to kill him...’ Deanerys says and she sounds as if that is incredulous to her.

Rhaenys always used to say Viserys would kill them all if he could- she has certainly decided to bite him to it. But what can he say to Daenerys? 

‘He is the rightful king! He is Rhaegar’s brother, he is a dragon, and so am I! Rhaenys hates Viserys, she wants to keep him away from his throne _by right_ , she takes away what is ours because she-‘

‘Viserys is mad! You of all people should know! Rhaenys loves you-‘

‘ _Loves me_? She wrote me to tell me that if I stayed with Viserys she'd never want to see me again!’ 

‘I'm sure she didn't mean it.’ 

‘I want to come with you.’ She looks at him for a second, the tears glister in her eyes and her skin seems so thin, he can see the veins all blue and red right through it, ‘You will stay with me, won't you?’ She breathes. 

‘I'll take you away from this place.’

‘Where will we go?’

‘I must go to King’s Landing.’ 

‘ _No_.’ She says, something in her face frightens him, ‘You cannot, I won't let you.’ 

‘I have to.’ Jon says, ‘Sansa she's-‘

‘They'll lock you up, the way they did with your uncle, they'll kill you too!’

‘They won't kill me,’ he tries to sound as if he is sure. He's not, but he won't admit it to Daenerys.

She grabs his shoulders with her hands and her nails dig in the leather of his doublet, ‘I forbid you to go!’

He pushes her hands away, ‘You cannot forbid me! I have to go!’

‘ _Why_?’ 

‘Because Sansa is-‘

‘You’ll do that for her? Get yourself killed because you don't think she can take care of herself?’ 

There is mockery in her voice that makes his heart skip a beat, he feels cold and terribly angry, ‘It’s not about that.’ He says and he gets up. 

‘What is it about?’ 

‘I can't leave her there and let her think I don't care enough to come for her. I promised I would always protect her. I don't want to fail her, I can't.’ 

Daenerys looks away, at her hands in her lap, a small, almost spiteful smile on her face, ‘You can't go back to her.’ She whispers. 

‘I have no choice.’ He says. 

She shakes her head, ‘You don't understand.’ 

'I don't care what you think, I don't need your-‘

‘You can't go to her.’ Daenerys says again and she stands up too. The way she raises reminds him of someone who's sleepwalking, she doesn't lift her head and her hair falls over her shoulders and hides half of her face from his view, ‘She's not there.’

‘What do you mean?’ 

Daenerys finally looks up and her eyes are cold, cruel, as if she pities him, ‘She's dead.’ 

‘No.’

She nods. He hates the way she nods, he hates the way she stands there, her voice too and her violet eyes. He hates her most of all, ‘I'm sorry, Jon.’ 

‘You're lying.’ 

‘I'm not.’ 

He takes a few steps backwards and hits a black stone with the back of his calve that should hurt like hell but he hardly feels it, ‘You're lying.’ He repeats.

Daenerys shakes her head, ‘I saw her, she was dying.’ 

Jon turns away from her. The sight of her makes him feel sick, she does. Her words are a freshly stealed sword pressing through his guts, turning and turning, the silver blade makes him feel like succumbing right there. He feels like he's falling, he's dumb and blind and deaf, all he hears is a rustling in his ears.

‘I was there, when your child was born, I saw it.’

There are wounds that are deeper and hurt more than anything that could ever bleed. He feels something that isn't real, but it makes him gasp for air and his hand grabs for his heart. 

He feels her long arms wrap around him, her muddy hands grasp his doublet as she presses her face to his back. He's glad she doesn't make him look at her. Maybe that is why he doesn't push her away. 

‘I’m sorry…’ she repeats, but he doesn't believe her. She never liked Sansa, he can still vividly see the spite in her eyes. Sansa saw it too, she felt bad about it. 

Don't.’ It's a soft whisper, he doesn't think she can hear him, perhaps he hopes she doesn't because if she does she'll tell him again, she'll tell him things that will make this real. 

‘Jon I…’

‘Ser Barristan said…’ He suddenly pushes her away, with his arms lifted up to make her let go, he turns and faces her, his cheeks burning and a finger pointing right at her, as if he's Joffrey, maybe this is what Joffrey feels like, because Jon feels like he's going mad, ‘I have been here _all day_ , you _knew_ but you said nothing!’

She looks away into the darkness, ‘Viserys didn't let me near you and I… I thought you knew.’ 

‘ _Do you think I believe that_?’ 

She still doesn't look at him but shakes her head, ‘I saw her, the measter wrote the letter to inform you of her death. He was going to send it-‘

‘But he didn't?’

‘I don't know.’ 

‘You don't _know_?’

‘I'm sorry.’ 

‘Stop saying you're sorry!’

‘But I am!’ She takes a step towards him, her eyes begging him to speak softly to her, to be nice and kind, gentle. He wants to push her in the water and leave her there, to drown. 

‘No! No you are not, you hated her!’

She doesn't deny it. 

‘Why did the measter not send the letter?’

‘I don't know… perhaps he did, perhaps it never reached you.’ She takes another step towards him, ‘You have to believe me Jon.’ 

He shakes his head. He cannot believe her, all common sense tells him she must be lying. 

‘She's gone.’

_She can't be._

Daenerys doesn't say anything but moves her hands to cup his face.

‘Don't.’

‘Jon….’ She whispers and he sees her eyes move down. He can't do it, her hands itch on his cheeks, her breath warms his face and makes him nauseous, ‘Please Jon…’

‘She must be alive.’ He says and he squeezes his eyes shut, to hide the view of her big purple eyes, her silver eyelashes and her perfect nose that she presses to his. 

‘I'm so sorry. I don’t ever want you to be hurt.’ 

He forces his eyes shut more fiercely. 

‘I hate to see you in pain, I couldn't tell you because I can't stand to see you like this… you must know that, you must know how much I care for you.’

Of course he knows. Rhaenys never made it a secret, her comments were both rude and unnecessary, yet he always felt like she put it all a bit in perspective by pointing it out clearly. She always used to say things no one else dared to. When they were teenagers that was her thing, her own rebellion. 

‘I care about you so much Jon.’ Daenerys moves her nose and places it to his cheekbone with a kiss to his cheek, he feels her tears on his skin, ‘I know you care about me too.’

Does he? He did. He always cared about her so much. He remembers kissing her, when he was seventeen. It happened once, it never should have. Then she left. Then he married Sansa. 

‘I can’t.’ He says, his eyes still closed, ‘I- I love Sansa, I do.’ 

It is then that her lips burn his and it's not a soft kiss, it feels like a bruising. 

He sees colors behind his eyes, colors that don't exist. He feels drunk. The whole world is falling apart. Everyone is fighting each other, his uncle tried to kill him and he has a daughter who’s six moons old and he's never seen her. His father is dead, Ned is dead and Sansa… Sansa is not dead. If she's dead he'd know, he would be able to feel it. It's the most important part of himself that he left behind with her when he jumped on his horse and rode away. If she is no longer keeping that part of him safe… he would know. 

_Jon, it's okay, you can go, we'll be fine_.

He moves his hands to her hips and pushes Daenerys away, turns his face from her and takes a step back.

She doesn't say anything, but moves her hands to wrap them around his wrists. 

‘Why did you do that?’ 

‘I love you.’ She says and she means it. He knows how people sound when they truly mean something, ‘You love me too?’

‘No.’

When he looks up she nods as if she understands but he doesn't think she does. She finally lets go of him, ‘Why do you love her so much? She's a stupid girl.’

Jon thinks of reminding her that once she was a stupid girl too, but he doesn't, because Sansa is not a stupid girl, ‘She is a thousand times the woman you will ever be.’ 

Her bottom lip trembles and finally it’s not Deanerys he's looking at, it’s Dany, ‘How can you say that to me?’ 

‘You… you _kissed_ me.’

‘I’m sorry I… I'm sorry.’ She turns around, with her back towards him, ‘Do you hate me now?’

‘No.’ It turns out he's not very good at hating his own kin, no matter how messed up they are. 

‘I love you.’ She says again and she turns back around, ‘I know you love me too. You are the only man who has ever been good to me. You are… you have to…’ she looks as if an idea crosses her mind, ‘Come with me.’ 

‘What, where? To King’s Landing?’

‘We can’t go to King’s Landing.’

‘I have to.’

‘No Jon,’ that odd annoyance returns, ‘You can’t, there is nothing there for you!’

‘There is!’ He feels angry again, the fog that she created by kissing him moves away and takes place for rage, ‘She’s NOT dead!’

She doesn't back away from him, if anything she challenges him, ‘She is dead.’ She says again.

A creak in the darkness informs him of the return of Brienne of Tarth. He turns his head to look at her but then Daenerys opens her mouth and speaks. 

‘I saw her, with my own eyes I saw her. I saw them pull the sheets over her head, I saw her breathe her last breath, I saw her fever and I saw her moveless body. She is gone. The silent sisters came. She is dead. Why else do you think Rhaenys ran off?’ Jon shakes his head but she continues, ‘Your child ripped Sansa Stark open and killed her. She is as dead as her father.’

With as much force as he can bare he shoves her, he pushes her, to her shoulders, away from him and she falls down, backwards, in the muddy ground, her dress ruined, her hands planted once again in the dark, watery, stinking muck. 

He feels extremely embarrassed for a slight second, to push a pregnant woman down to the ground, but then he gives in to the urge to turn around and runs further towards the boat. 

‘Jon!’ Dany screams and she comes right after him. He grabs the rims of the boat and starts pushing it back towards the water again, it's too much, he can't do it on his own, not in this state, yet he keeps pushing.

She grabs his arm, 'Don't touch me.’ 

‘Jon, don't go, don't leave me, please…’

He pushes her hands off him, ‘I said don't touch me!’

She drops her hands to her sides and she's sobbing the way she was when they came here.

‘What do you want, Daenerys? Do you want me to take you with me? To my family? I _can't_.’ Even if he’d wants to, and he really, really doesn't. 

‘Come with me,’ she says and she raises her shoulders, ‘Lets go away together, the way we always wanted, you promised-,’ despite him telling her not to she moves her hands back to his shoulders, ‘We’ll go wherever we want to go, far away from this place, just you and me.’ 

He looks at her fingers grasping his cloak and then back up at her face, ‘I have to protect Sansa.’ 

‘She's _dead_.’

‘Even if she is, I have a-a daughter.’ 

‘You have never seen her.’ 

‘She's mine all the same, as much as Sansa is, they're my responsibility.’ 

'She killed your wife.’ 

‘No.’ Jon says, ‘She's a baby.’

‘You'll let them capture you for a baby?’

‘She doesn't… she's innocent and vulnerable and I _have_ to protect her, I am her _father_.’ 

Behind Dany’s silver-haired head he can see the shadow of Brienne the beauty and he knows she's been listening. 

‘If they have not killed her too.’ Daenerys says and finally he finds the strength to push her away. 

Jon looks at the rim of the boat in his hands, the water that has crept up his breaches, ‘Even if Sansa is gone- Even if she's no longer h-here… it doesn't mean I will ever love you.’

Her eyes are all bulging, her bottom lip trembles, and she takes a step back.

‘I will never love you.’ He looks at ser Malckom in the distance, Brienne who doesn't hide her listening ears, ‘I won't, you have to… you have to give up on me. I will never make you happy, I belong to someone else.’ 

Daenerys takes one more step away from him, ‘I have to go back.’ She says, ‘I am his sister-wife.’ 

Jon feels only annoyance at what she says, ‘If you must.’ 

'I carry the prince that was promised.’ She says, ‘He who shall safe us all when the darkness will gather and the long night arrises.’

‘If you want to go, go.’ 

‘I do.’ She turns around and walks away, slowly at first, then she runs and she disappears from his view. 

He wonders if she wants him to come after her. Maybe she'll come back if he doesn't. He can't speak to her anymore. The mere idea of her makes him tremble with anger.

Then he does run after her, but he doesn't intend to follow her back inside. Instead he finds ser Malckom and grabs him by his collar, ‘Go after her!’ 

‘What?’

‘Go after her and make sure she gets out of here, bring her to the Princess Rhaenys.’

‘My lord I am your sworn protector I-‘

‘I need you to do this!’

‘I will not leave you! I am your sworn shield!’

Malckom has been Jon’s sworn shield ever since he picked him up in Winterfell and personally delivered him to his father’s doorstep. 

‘I demand you! You go after her, deliver her to my sister in Dorne and when you return to me you'll have done your duty.’ 

‘My lord-‘

‘It is a demand.’

The look in the knight’s eyes is one of anger, desperation and displease, he doesn't want to do it.

‘Please? Tell me you will do it.’ 

Jon saw him look at Dany, today and in the past, he doesn't feel much for protecting the princess, but he nods all the same.

‘Thank you.’ Jon breathes.

‘I'll come back,’ ser Malckon says, ‘You better make sure you're still alive when I do.’

‘I will be.’ Jon says, ‘Don't worry about me.’

The man huffs, ‘ _Don't worry about me_ ,’ he shakes his head, ‘Don't get yourself killed or I’ll find your grave, dig you up and kill you again!’ 

Jon would grin if he wasn't cold, scared, trembling all over and nauseatingly sick and miserable, ‘Just go!’

The man turns around and follows Daenerys with very little eagerness in his steps.

Jon turns his back to the sight, takes a shaky breath, wipes tears from his face that he didn't know were there and then runs back to the boat again. He needs to get out of here before the castle wakes up.

He starts pushing the boat back to the sea again when someone calls for him. 

‘My lord?’

Jon doesn't look up. 

‘My lord, where will you go?’

‘Who are you, my lady?’

‘My name is Brienne of Tarth.’

‘So I've been told, what I mean is, who _are_ you?’

‘I am a knight of the Princess’s Guard.’

‘Rhaenys?’ He whispers.

She nods again, ‘She send me with princess Daenerys to protect her, to wait for you my lord, she told me to protect you too.’ 

‘Protect me? Did she know I'd come here?’

‘She said she expected you to think you could talk sense into your uncle.’

Jon laughs a humorless laugh, ‘She's clever isn't she? My sister.’ 

Brienne doesn't respond. 

‘And she wanted you to protect Daenerys?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

So long lasts Rhaenys swearing to never want to see Daenerys again. She is weak in some regards, sometimes, when she believes no one notices. 

‘She told me to swear my fealty to you, she told me you are of her blood.’

‘Y-your fealty?’ He shakes his head, ‘You shouldn't.’ 

‘Why not my lord?’

‘I am only a bastard.’

‘Will you truly swear fealty to king Joffrey?’ 

Jon looks from her to his feet and back, ‘No.’ he says, ‘I don't think so.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘To my brother-in-law...’ Jon says and the moment he says it is the moment he makes the decision, ‘I have to arrange a trade of hostages.’ 

Brienne nods, ‘Then I shall come with you.’

‘Don't you want to go back to Rhaenys?’

She shakes her head.

‘Rhaenys told you to protect princess Daenerys.’ The Gods know she'll need all the protection she can get. 

‘I wish to serve you, my lord.’ 

'My lady I am... My father was a king but not me, I am just a bastard.' 

'I disagree, my lord, and so does your princess sister. I serve her by serving you.'

'There is no need to swear me fealty then, those who serve my sister will always be deserving of my trust. She is the queen.'

'Your sister disagrees.' Brienne says, 'The princess Rhaenys insist the throne belongs to you.' 

Jon gulps.

'You are your father's son.'

'S-she's lost her mind.' Jon says, he doesn't mean it, he has known for a while. Rhaenys never made it a secret that it is what she wants. It never mattered to her what he wants. 

Brienne ignores him but only unsheathes her sword. 

'You wish to be a knight do you not? My cousin's enemies are Rhaenys's enemies too. He is a battle commander.'

'I do not know your cousin, my lord.' 

'So you wish to serve me?'

The girl nods.

‘A-are you sure?’

‘I am.’ She says and she sinks to her knees, in the watery, clayey sand, the same way Daenerys did, yet not at all the same, with her longsword down in front of her, at Jon's feet, 'I'm yours if you will have me, your liege man or... whatever you need me to be. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.' 

Jon nods, 'And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I s-swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.' As he clasps the woman's hands between his own Jon tries to smile but fails. He heard men speak these words to his father and Ned. He wonders what they would say if they knew that Jon just let a woman swear her fealty to him. Jon decides he doesn't want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this so so long ago, it's maybe one of the five things that have been in the plot since the beginning and remained there- you have no idea how nervous I am about it, actually, I haven't been this nervous since I updated the chapter of Rhaegar writing his will. I know this may not be the course some of you expected this visit to take but, just, please please let me know what you think and please be kind... :S
> 
> Ps. If anyone is wondering why Melissandre didn't kill Jon with a shadow baby... I'm gonna defend that by stating that Mell probably saw some vision in the flames that told her they have to keep Jon alive so the killing was all Viserys's doing.


	29. The Docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he needed to find the strength he feels right now, were her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice comments, you guys are the best!  
> For those of you who still think I was being vague about what the hell it is/was Rhaegar tried to do, Jaime is going to explain it to you again, I loved using him for that. I just love Jaime, really.

**Sansa**  
The imp came to court and became the first and last to give Sansa condolences. It shook her until he turned to Joffrey to give him the same. Joffrey didn't even know what he spoke of.  
‘Your royal father? A tall, proud man with silvery hair and purple eyes- didn't smile much... You'll recall him if you try, he was king before you.’

‘Oh, _him_ , yes it was very sad but everyone saw it coming, he was always sick and he looked dreadful in the end.’ 

Septa Mordane used to tell her that a lady’s armor is curtesy. Sansa doubts Rhaenys would agree but she remembered her sister-in-law telling her to praise loudly and complain softly so Sansa told the imp, ‘I’m sorry my mother held you captive, my lord.’ 

‘A great many people are sorry for that.’ He responded, ‘Yet I think you ought to be happy she did for if she had not your lord husband’s head could've been on a spike next to your father’s right now.’

Sansa has not looked at it in such a light. She never believed anyone would chop Jon’s head off, not _really_ , not if he'd stayed. Jon would've sworn his fealty to Joffrey like he always planned on doing. 

‘My lord husband is a traitor.’ Sansa said, ‘My lady mother and brother are traitors and my father was a traitor too.’ 

‘I have heard of some joyous news too. If I am not mistaken you are mother to king Rhaegar’s only granddaughter.’ 

Sansa didn't think that sort of news would be joyous to a Lannister, but then, Jon always liked him, and the imp even mentioned their friendship. 

‘It has been some time since I last saw your husband Lady Stark, but he remains a friend of mine and I shall not do you any harm.’ 

Sansa knows that they are friends, Jon used to speak of him fondly, but she also remembers what else he told her. _Don't trust the Lannisters, Sansa, not one of them, don't. Promise me._ and Sansa promised.

Sansa has new rooms now, with an attached nursery. She misses her old ones, and she wanted to stay in Jon’s, she would've slept in Jon’s bed until he himself came to pull her out of it. In that bed it was easier to pretend he never left, soundlessly sleeping next to her, or stealing her blankets, or rolling on top of her, in sleep or not, pushing himself inside of her, kissing her face and her breasts and everything else too. It's all harder to imagine that now.

Two wide doors separate her bed from Freia’s crib and when she leaves them opened at all times it's as if they still share a room. 

It's a pretty little nursery, with the crib that was a gift from Rhaenys. Wooden with engraved dragons, suns, stars and snowflakes. The idea of it is not pretty at all but somehow the combination manages to work.

White, see-through and embroidered curtains hide the crib and Sansa pushes them aside. When she looks into it she sees Freia laying on her back as she tries to stick her fist in her mouth and sibbles on it. She sticks everything in her mouth, it doesn't matter what it is. Her own feet, Sansa’s fingers or hair, her blanket or her toys, it is all covered in drool. 

In the corner stands a rocking chair that Sansa sometimes falls asleep in, when she's feeding Freia and the rocking makes her eyes grow heavy. Freia lays her little head on Sansa’s shoulder and she can lay her cheek to it, smell her baby scent, all new and soapy. 

‘Hello…’ Sansa whispers to her baby and she strokes Freia’s belly. 

Freia is developing her own personality and Sansa loves getting to know her. She's such a happy baby, so good and sweet. She always smiles at Sansa and she's getting so big. She's terribly fat, her hands, her arms and little legs. She's energetic, wriggles a lot, even when you lift her up and she seems so curious about the world. 

‘Freia…’ Sansa whispers, ‘Freia it’s mama.’ 

Freia coos and starts enthusiastically moving her little legs and stretches her arms out for Sansa to pick her up but Sansa only leans closer to press a kiss to her head.

‘I missed you.’ Sansa says, ‘Did you miss me too?’

Freia grins her toothless grin and Sansa kisses her again, ‘You are so pretty, look at your pretty smile!’

Freia claps and Sansa tickles her belly. She always responds so happily to gestures. 

‘Can you say mama? Say mama for me.’

Freia only grins and drools and Sansa feels like a lovesick maid. 

Freia can sit up on her own. She's not doing it now but when she does she manages to tower blocks and when she grabs things, anything, she uses her own pincer grasp. Her wooden unicorn is her favorite toy, she drags it with her everywhere and dribbles on it or babbles to it. Hearing Freia babble to her wooden unicorn is the most precious sound in the whole wide world. 

Sansa tells her maid to get her some cloth and some ice or cold water or ‘cold something’ and when they're alone again Sansa sits down next to Arya on the bed.

‘How is your face?’

Arya shrugs. They hit her today, again. This time because they caught her in the dungeons.

‘Out of all places the dungeons are the last place I'd expect to find a way out, yoy should be glad you didn’t get lost.’ 

‘At least I'm trying.’ Arya says and Sansa sighs. 

‘I know you don't believe my way is the right way-‘

‘I don't believe your way is the way that I am capable of.’

‘I think you'll have to.’ Sansa decides, ‘To survive. This is as much a battlefield as the one Robb is fighting, just as deadly. We have to let them think we're stupid, weak and dumb. It's the only way.’

‘How can being stupid be the only way?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘You don't understand. We're not _being_ stupid, we're making them think we are.’ 

‘I don't think I can do that.’

‘You have to.’ Sansa says and she grabs Arya’s hand, ‘We need them to underestimate us. You see, when they underestimate us… that gives us so many opportunities.’

‘Opportunities?’ 

‘Yes.’ Sansa squeezes Arya’s hand, ‘Someone once told me strength is a choice. We can choose to be stronger and smarter than they are. Weakness is a choice too, a choice we cannot permit.’

‘I'm not weak!’

‘You're doing exactly what they want you to do.’

‘What do they want me to do?’

‘Fight back.’

‘I have to!’

‘No.’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘We have to make our life as easy as we possibly can by doing what they want us to do- which is exactly what they _don't_ want us to do.’

Arya presses her lips together and Sansa looks at her face, the bruises there don't need company, ‘That makes no sense.’

‘Arya, fighting back gives them a reason to hurt us, that's what they want, to hurt us, but we can't let them. They have killed father, they will not, they _cannot_ kill us too.’

‘Do you think they will? Joffrey said he'd send Robb a good message by killing me.’

‘Don't listen to him, he’s a puppet of his mother.’ Sansa moves a little on the bed, ‘Joffrey told me Robb and Jon captured the Kingslayer. The queen will very likely consider the Kingslayer for a trade of hostages. We may be released any day now in exchange for Jaime Lannister.’

‘When did he say that?’ 

‘It doesn't matter.’

‘They never told me.’

‘Well, I don’t think we're supposed to know, so don't mention it.’

‘You really think they will trade a bunch of girls for the Kingslayer? What if they won't? Robb is king now, he can't do what he likes.’

Sansa moves her head closer to Arya, ‘A bunch of girls… or the only grandchild of king Rhaegar in the whole wide world. I am Jon’s wife and Jon is Rhaegar’s son. Some people… some people say he should be king. If the rumor is true and… and Rhaegar wanted him to- Rhaegar wanted Jon to succeed him, then he is the rightful heir and Freia is a princess.’

‘You'll be a queen.’ There is something in Arya’s voice that doesn't sound like she's very happy for her sister.

Sansa chooses to ignore that for many reasons, ‘They'll accept the trade, and we can go home.’ 

‘What if Robb won't do it?’

Sansa shrugs, ‘Jon will make him.’

‘What if he won't? What if no one comes and saves us? What if Jon can't safe us? Or protect us or-‘

‘He will Arya!’ Sansa gets up and feels an urge to hug herself.

‘What makes you so convinced?’

Sansa turns her back to Arya, ‘Because he promised.’ She says.

‘He promised what?’

‘To come back to- he promised to always protect me. He promised to never let anyone hurt me.’

‘Oh really?’ Arya seems almost averaged when she lets herself fall backwards on the bed, ‘When did he promise that?’

‘The day we married.’ Sansa says and the door opens when her maid returns. Sansa turns back to the bed and looks down at her sister when she corrects herself, ‘Our wedding night.’ She says and Arya turns her face away.

'He already broke his promise did he not? They're hurting us.’

‘Don't say that.’

‘It's true.’ 

‘If Jon sets a single foot in the Crownlands they'll chop his head off like they took father’s.’

‘Is that what you tell yourself every day when you look in the mirror, brushing your hair?’ 

‘I see no need to tell myself, it is the truth.’ 

Arya snorts. Sansa pulls arya back up and placed the ice to her face. She protests when it touches her red and purple skin. 

‘Let me!’ Sansa says pushing her hands away, ‘It's all swollen, the cold is analgesic.’ 

‘I cannot be like you.’ Arya says after a while, ‘I cannot sit there and be pretty and say no word, that is what you are- it’s not me.’

‘You'll have to.’ 

‘I can handle the hitting, I'm tougher than I look.’ 

'Life is not like the songs. You read too many novels, you’re not a strong heroine, not a… a Nymeria of Dorne or a… a queen Rhaenyra. We’re locked up in a golden cage and they're sticking pointy swords through the bars of our prison, one flaw, fail or misstep and he'll find some extra spikes for our heads.’

‘That's rich, to tell me I pretend life is a song. You want to sit and look pretty as you wait for your handsome prince or knight or _king_ to come and rescue you.’

‘I'm not doing nothing.’

‘What is it you are doing?’

‘I'm being patient, I'm- I'm choosing to be strong- to be smarter than they are.’ 

‘How can that be your solution?’ 

‘It is a woman's solution.’ 

‘A woman's solu-‘

‘It’s not…’ Sansa sighs, ‘It's not only this or our life right now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Women get what they want not by stamping their feet or by pointing their toy-like sword at someone- but by allowing men to think they are in charge- that is the art of being woman.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘No one, really.’ It makes Sansa frown to realize she is giving advice from the heart, she can't recall ever doing that before, perhaps this is what Rhaenys always feels like when she's lecturing, ‘It's just that I- if you say nothing you can hear more, that is what I do, I have been listening.’ 

'You're their puppet.’

‘On the contrary.’ 

‘Because you allow them to think they are in charge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that how you got Jon to fall in love with you?’

'No.' Sansa says, she tries not to let the question sink in, wonder why it's asked, ‘I-I did not need to, I never would have- I didn't need to.’

In her crib the baby ends her acceptance of being neglected and starts crying. Sansa hands the cloth over to Arya before she gets up and moves towards the crib. 

‘Hush, Freia, everything is alright.’ Sansa stretches her arms out to her daughter who happily allows her mother to lift her up. The moment she is up in the air in her mother's arms the crying stops in an instant and she whimpers softly. Sansa holds out the wooden unicorn to Freia’s face and she immediately tries to grab it with her fingers. 

Arya gets up, drops the cloth and leaves the room with not another word. Sansa closes her eyes and presses her nose in her daughter's hair, smells the light soap they used to wash her curls. 

Ghost, who is laying in front of the crib, rolls over to his side with a groan and moves his pawn to his head. Sansa strokes his belly with her bare foot.

‘Ghost…’ she says, ‘Good boy.’ 

His ruby red eyes stare back at her and the compliment seems to contempt him.

Freia grabs Sansa’s necklace and before she can pull it towards her opened mouth Sansa loosens her fingers around it. 

Sansa hands her the unicorn instead, ‘You like that necklace don't you?’ 

It's a white one, made of crystal stone with rough yet very pretty edges, almost see through, with a golden rim on a golden band, in the shape of an oval that would make you remind it of a snowflake.

‘I like it too. Your father gave it to me actually, when you were still in my tummy, it used to belong to his mama. He told me it was because he was exited about you but, really, he felt guilty because when they told him you were in my tummy he got really upset and angry with me for no right reason and I made him feel bad about it afterwards.’

Freia doesn't listen to what she says but drops the unicorn to the floor before she moves her hand to a button on Sansa’s body. The dress is purple and heavy and she can't wait to get it off. 

Sansa kneels to pick up the toy and she bounces Freia up and down and it makes her laugh again, the sound is like a giggle and her happiness is infectious. When Sansa moves her hand to stroke the top of Freia’s head she notices what she has been hoping for ever since she saw the color of her baby’s hair. 

‘Freia…’ Sansa whispers, ‘You are getting yourself some extremely pretty curls are you not?’

Freia doesn't respond but grabs the fabric of Sansa’s gown and tries to stick it in her mouth. 

Sansa happily places multiple kisses to Freia’s curly head. 

‘I think you are.’ Sansa says and she kisses the top of her daughter’s hair with the hint of curls, ‘I am jealous. I was always so jealous of your father, his hair is curly too, and it always looks good, even when it's messy, and he never does anything about it.’ 

‘Ba ba.’ Freia tells her mother. 

‘What?’ 

‘Ba ba.’

‘No.’ Sansa shakes her head and moves her mouth close to a teeny tiny ear, ‘Mama.’

Freia only giggles and moves her fat small hand to cover her ear and pull on it, because the feeling and sound of Sansa’s breath in her ear is apparently both new and exiting to her. 

‘Freia?’ Sansa asks, she figured that repeating the name often will make her daughter understand that it's hers, ‘Would you like some solid food today? Maybe some fruit, hhm?’

‘Ba ba.’ Freia responds. 

 

 **Jon**  
When Jon returns to Riverun he is greeted with the news of an attempt to free the Kingslayer who is now kept in a dark cell, fully chained, his arms along the walls. The men who were accused of trying to free him all executed. 

Catelyn has not yet returned but the remains of her husband have. Robb shows him the body of his dead father, lying under a white cloak with a grey direwolf emblem.

Jon cant stop looking at the dire wolf and he's not sure if that is because it gives him the opportunity to avoid looking at Ned’s eyeless face or because it's the only appropriate thing he can stare at. 

He wonders at first why the eyes are gone, but then he remembers they put the head on a spike, to keep the ravens company. 

‘You'll show this to your mother?’ He asks after a long period of silence as they stand side by side, staring down at the man who raised them, both surely feeling angry all over again for the injustice he suffered. 

Robb nods, ‘I will have to.’ 

Jon nods too. As they stand there it's almost as if their fight has been forgotten, all they said to each other too. For Ned was a father to the both of them, and that makes them brothers. Jon has not felt like Robb’s brother lately, but in Ned’s presence, the least he can do is honor the home his uncle gave him, the love and family Jon always wanted most. Ned did not have to do that, raise Jon as his own son, but he did, and it made him to who he is today, and he'll always be grateful. 

'Was your travel fruitful?'

'Alas no.' Jon says, 'My uncle has declared us all traitors, you, me, your uncle, Joffrey and my sister. All of us. He means to fight his war on his own and he sees no reason to fight alongside any of us. He is digging his own grave. We lost an ally but we have nothing to fear from him either. All we need to do is wait until he ends himself.'

'Are the whispers about his priestess true?'

'Some of it yes... All of it I fear. He burned all the statues in the sept. My aunt Daenerys is with child and they all believe she's carrying a prince that was promised to safe us all.'

'Gods be good...' Robb whispers, 'Will he attack princess Rhaenys?'

'I doubt it very much. She is all down south, supported by Dorne and if the rumors are true the Stormlands too, he's mad of course so who knows, but she'll crush his army within half an hour. No... I think... I think he'll choose to attack King's Landing all on his own.'

'Are you sure?'

'He has more ships than you do.'

'Attack King's Landing? He won't dare do that.' 

Yet Jon hopes he does. Somehow he knows that with Viserys on the Iron Throne the world may not be a safer place but at least Sansa will be better off. 

'What does Rhaenys plan on doing, you think?' Robb asks.

'We'll have to wait for the return of your mother to find out.' 

‘She has not done a thing, not one battle, nothing. It's been more than half a year, she has the largest army of all of us and yet all she does is hide at Sunspear.’ 

‘If that is where she is.’ Jon says.

‘What do you mean?’

Jon shrugs, ‘Everyone believes she's at Sunspear, but we don't really know, do we?’

‘She's hiding.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘She’s waiting.’

‘For what?’

 _For who_ Jon thinks, but he shrugs, ‘Like I said. We’ll find out when your mother tells us.’

Robb nods and then looks almost nervous when he says, 'I hope you... I must ask your forgiveness for breaking my promise. I know I swore to you that I would trade the girls for the Kingslayer. I need you to know that I am trying to convince my bannermen to consider it.'

'They'll never agree.' Jon says, as much as Robb's refusal angered him he cannot deny that he understands, he is infuriated with himself because he never saw it coming.

'You will forgive me? I don't believe I could bear it if you-'

'I will not take any of my words back.' Jon says and he turns away from Ned's body, 'If they die as hostages I will blame you. I have explained my thoughts and feelings and I realize you must think they are based solely on my emotions but I have hoped you'd be able to look past that.'

'Jon-'

'I want them back.'

'I understand that.'

'I don't think you do.' 

'Perhaps not.' Robb says, 'But we are at war.'

Suddenly Jon remembers what the Red Lady said, when she called this war merely the beginning. She said a far greater one is coming and he hopes and prays she is wrong. She must be wrong about a great many things. 

'Sansa wrote you.' Robb suddenly says.

Jon turns back around and tries to keep his eyes off the grey embroidered direwolf on the white that covers Ned's corpse. He takes the letter from Robb's hands, 'S-she wrote?' He stammers.

Robb nods, 'I'm sorry, we have opened it. We needed to know if... We wanted to know what she says. We had to. I'm sorry.'

Jon looks at the broken seal and turns the letter in his hands. When he opens it he feels his knees turn into pudding when he recognizes his wife's handwriting, 'She wrote.' 

'She did.' Robb confirms, 'It's erm.. It's an old letter. It reached us two weeks ago. We couldn't wait until you returned, we should have, it's addressed to you. Only I and my uncle have read it.'

'Why haven't you told me?' Jon asks, his eyes never leaving Sansa's words though he can hardly bring himself to read them. 

Robb looks as if he's in pain, ‘I'm sorry. I should have… but I wanted to show you father and… It's not a very informative letter. She is alive, and if we have to believe her she's unharmed too. Though the letter must be at least half a year old. She congratulates you on your nameday and she… she mentions Freia too.' 

Jon doesn't understand how Robb can call a letter that tells them Sansa is alive ‘not very informative’ and he finds it hard to control his breathing when he notices tears welling up in his eyes. He thanks all the Gods, the new ones, the old ones, even the light lord Viserys sets everything on fire for. _She is alive_ , he tells himself, he knew she was, how can he ever have doubted that? 

Daenerys lied to him. She said she saw them pull sheets over Sansa's face. She said she saw the silent sisters. The same silent sisters that are standing around Ned's corpse now. 

Ned is gone, he really is, what remains of his body is no reminder of the uncle that raised Jon as a little boy, raised him to what he is today, took him in as one of his own. Jon's mother's brother. But Sansa is not gone, she lives, and so does their daughter. His daughter did not kill her, she did not rip Sansa open and she _lives_ , they both do. A density in his shoulders slowly fades away and he decides to not care. He decides to cry because why shouldn't he? 

Would he have been able to do what his father couldn't? Love his child even though it killed the woman he loved? Perhaps he'll never have to find out, he prays that he’ll never know. Something inside of him tells him he already knows. When Daenerys spoke, when she said it, when she told him that his child killed his wife he said... What did he say? He told her that Freia did not kill Sansa, Freia is a baby. His baby. The Gods tested him. They wanted to know. Is that why Daenerys told him? Because the Gods wanted to test his vow? 

He knows that’s not why she told him. She told him because she wanted Sansa to be dead. She betrayed him and lied to him. He feels the urge to bold the letter in his fist and swear he'll hunt her down and kill her for what she almost made him do. He prays that she is still with Viserys, miserable and alone for that is what she deserves. He hopes she rots away at Dragonstone, forever tormented by her ill ideas and her own mistakes. 

Robb doesn't notice his inner struggles or he ignores it, 'Tywin Lannister is marching upon Riverrun as we speak.' He says, 'He is making for the West, to defend his own lands. My uncle refuses to let him pass with no bloodshed. He means to teach him a lesson.'

Jon cannot listen to any of this right now. He told no one of what Daenerys said to him, only Brienne knows and he's sure she told no soul either. He'll never tell anyone. There will be never no need for it, 'That is not your father's sword.' Jon says instead.

'Ice was not returned to us.' Robb tells him, 'Only the bones.'

'Will you return his remains to Winterfell?'

'Of course.' 

Jon nods, 'Good.' He says and he means to turn around and walk away when Robb grabs him by his arm, 'My uncle has made up a plan, I need you to hear it.'

'I will.' Jon says, 'But I need to find my rest first. I have travelled long and I...' _I need to read this letter_ , 'I am tired.'

Robb nods, 'Of course.' Then he seems to spot the few tears on Jon’s face and he grabs both his shoulders, ‘We’ll get them back, I promise you, I'll do whatever it takes to convince them.’ 

The promise is strangely annoying, more annoying than anything has ever been, 'Robb I-' Jon takes a deep breath, 'If your bannermen refuse to trade them... You won't do it, will you?'

Robb waits a moment and then shakes his head, 'I can't. He… he has killed lord Karstark’s sons and-‘

'You can't?’ The look on Robb’s face just makes him angry all over again, ‘What sort of king are you when you let your bannermen tell you what to do?'

'I will not fight with you again.' Robb says. 

Jon shakes his head, 'Of course you won't.'

'Jon-' 

'My father was king Rhaegar, first of his name and he wanted me to rule after him. Has anyone told you that?'

'There have been rumors.'

'The rumors speak the truth. If my father got his wish... If those who swore to be loyal to him had not betrayed him I would have succeeded my father. I don't have a king, no one is my king, you are not my king especially, you'll never be, you are just a boy playing at war.'

'My father is dead.' Robb spits, 'We are standing next to his corpse, do you really need to-'

'I really need to!' Jon takes a step away from him, ' We're not playing a game in the courtyard, Robb, this is all real. Being king is about more than wearing a crown. Joffrey doesn't know that and nor do you. My father understood it, and so does my sister.' 

'You must be tired.' Robb says, 'I think you should go to your bedchamber, sleep for some hours-'

'I _am_ tired.' Jon says, he turns away from him and adds, before he storm out, 'Tired of you.' 

When Jon reaches the room that still seems to belong to him he sits down, unfolds the letter once more and finally finds the power to truly read it. 

_Dearest, sweetest Jon,_

_It is your name day! Where I am you have been in the world for twenty-one years. You are an old man now. Wherever you are in the world you probably are too, though I don't know where that is and this letter may not reach you or reach you far too late._  
_I want to still send you kisses, because you cannot begin to recall how sad it makes me that I am not with you today. I know you don't particularly like your nameday but I simply don't care._  
_I asked Rhaenys if I could give you a dragonegg, because it's tradition and you don't have one, she said she'd look into it but she didn’t seem to fancy the idea. I don't think she believes you'd like it very much._  
_You probably wouldn't have, but I think they are so terribly pretty and I would've liked to have one. Mayhaps I was being a little selfish there. You could gift me one when I turn nineteen. Rhaenys says they are very valuable but Daenerys told me they have them stacked at Dragonstone and if I tell Daenerys it's for you I’m sure she'll be of help if I promise her to let you know of her effort._  
_Freia has an egg too, it is gold but still very silvery. Rhaenys put it in her crib, unfortunately it has not hatched yet. I can always hope!_  
_Remember your first nameday with me? When you turned twenty? We were traveling to the capital and we celebrated your nameday in a tavern with Ser Malckom. That must've been your best nameday ever. I'll never forget that tavern. It was a good tavern and it was an even better night._  
_Do you remember when we were just married? I can't stop thinking about that time, somehow. There was this feast when Robb turned nineteen and I couldn't stop looking at you because it seemed so surreal to me that you were my husband. And then you told me you wanted to go upstairs to go to bed but only if I came too and I blushed so much I think everyone knew what you said to me!_  
_I remember how I drank too much that night and I was all giddy and giggling and you had to help me up the stairs to my bedchamber. The morning after I was so sick I couldn't bare daylight and I begged you to stay with me because if you were in my bed Septa Mordane wouldn't come to force me out of it. So you stayed and you ordered ser Melckom to tell Robb that you were the one sick so you didn't have to go out for a hunt with him. You went down to the kitchens to get me some mushroom soup and forced me to eat it and spend the rest of the day taking care of me._  
_Can you remember how I was with child for the first time a few moons after? I was so horrible to you then, I’m still sorry about that, you did not deserve it, you were, as always, being too good to me. I do not deserve you._  
_I can go into the gardens now, which is nice. The queen allowed me to, me and Arya both. Freia likes to be outside, I think, she cannot speak so I wouldn't know. She smiles at me though, all toothless and lovely. She is so lovely, terribly lovely, the loveliest thing that has ever been in my life. She has ridiculously dark hair, so much of it, too, all the babies I have ever seen were all bald. I think it may be curly in the future. Her eyes are blue now, like you hoped, but the measter told me that may change soon._  
_You'll love her so dearly, I know you will, she is the sweetest and so tiny, her hands and fingers, such small ears too! She hardly ever cries, only if she needs something, and is such a good girl. Ghost watches her when I'm gone, carefully keeping his eyes on her always, even at night._  
_I am well, getting better everyday. I never bleed and the aching has stopped. I still feel tired but I believe that is because your daughter keeps me up all night. She's hungry all the time, you know. Growing every day too. She grabs my finger and won't let go and then stares at me as if she knows exactly who I am. She coos and whimpers and I feel butterflies in my belly._  
_She is adorable. I love her so much, you will love her too, it is impossible not to love her._  
_I’m so grateful I have her, the Gods gave us a little girl and it is the sweetest gift, such an honor to be the mother of such a pretty and good and lovely little girl. I'm glad she looks like you because it makes me miss you a tiny little less, it feels like a part of you is with me, but I think it is because you're always with us too, in some way. Even when I don't know where you are, when you are far away, you are still with us._  
_I hope that, wherever you are, you still have a good day and I’m thinking of you from waking up to falling asleep- I sleep very little, mind you._  
_Stay safe, I know you think of me too, I know I'll see you soon, we cannot be parted too long, we belong together, remember? Remember who we are, who you are. I love you for you. I love you, I love you, I love you so so terribly much, never forget it. Please come home to me, I need you and I want to see your handsome twenty-one year old man face. Sorry for the terribly long letter but I am simply so used to speaking to you and telling you everything, I am having some withdrawal symptoms I think. I hope you are well, as well as I am._

_Always yours,_

_Sansa_

Jon ruins the four paged letter with his tears and wonders why he doesn't feel as relieved as he should feel. As relieved as he expected to feel. He knows it's a fake letter. These are Sansa's words and they're written by her, her hand moved over this paper and she used the ink to write these letters, but it's too bright. It says nothing of her father, mentions Arya once... There is nothing about fear or pain or anything else that might cause them to think that they are mistreating her. It's why they send it. It's why she wrote it. She wrote it because she knew they'd send it if she pretended to not be scared, to be happy and cheerful.

She's not happy and cheerful. She's scared out of her mind. Rightfully so. He left her behind and now she must pay the price for his mistake.

Yet she _lives_ , she wrote to him, she talks about their _daughter_. He realizes that not for one moment did he believe Daenerys. He'd know if she'd died and he was right. She isn't dead. She's far away from him and he can't go to her but she is healthy. She talks about her health too. She tells him she's not bleeding anymore. Perhaps that part of Dany's lies wasn't a lie. Perhaps she did bleed, she must've been in pain and so terrified- alone too.

She writes about dragon eggs, tells him Freia has one. She even talks about Daenerys. _If I tell Daenerys it's for you I’m sure she'll be of help if I promise her to let you know of her effort_ . Jon's hands shake as he fails to hold the letter. 

_I can go into the gardens now, which is nice. The queen allowed me to, me and Arya both._ He tries to read between the lines but there is nothing there. He guesses Ser Barristan was right then, when he told Jon they refused to let her out of her room. Apparently Jon's daughter likes it to go outside. And she smiles. _Toothless and lovely_. She has lots of hair and she grabs Sansa's finger and keep her awake all night. Ghost watches her and her eyes are blue. Maybe they're not blue anymore, the measter told Sansa it could still change, maybe they have, maybe they're grey now, like his. 

She mentions his twentieth nameday, the one they celebrated in a tavern. That really was the best nameday he's ever had. He remembers the tavern, the room, the way she moved beneath him al night, the way her hair felt in his hands and the smile she threw his way until she fell asleep all curled around him, naked, warm, soft and so close to him he'd swear there was no one who would ever dare hurt her. Jon wonders if that was the best night of his life. He didn't think it was back then, he thought he'd have so many more nights like that in the future, he thought they'd have the rest of their lives together to have nights like that. 

Jon knows it’s Tyrion’s doing. He is hand now, acting as one at least. This letter is so mindless and uninformative that the imp decided to allow Sansa to let her husband know she is in good health. It's why the letter only reached them now. Instead of six moons ago, when it was written, before Joffrey chopped Ned’s head off. 

Jon realizes this is truly the worst and best letter he has ever read in his whole life. He's never been so thankful for a letter nor has he hated a piece of paper this much. 

He needs them back. He knows that, he _feels_ that. Would his father have allowed another lord's bannermen to decide over the faith of his kin? Would he have protested like a child, thrown accusations and swearwords like a common peasant to his cousin? What would his father have done? His father was the king and he didn't need to remind anyone. His will was law. Jon is his father's son. He doesn’t need to make people listen to him, he doesn't need to convince Robb, he doesn't have to be concerned about whatever it is Robb says or does or wants.

 _The queen allowed me,_ Sansa writes, the queen has her, she controls her, Cersei has a power over Jon that he cannot allow her to have. 

What is he doing? Sitting in this room, crying his eyes out as if there is nothing he can do. Brienne told him Rhaenys wants him to be a king, she told him his father wanted him to be king. He never wanted to be a king but perhaps he has been one for some time now, no matter how hard he fought against it. He has to be a king, think like one, act like one. Do what he thinks is right. He has to be a king for Sansa. 

_I must do my duty_ , he tells himself. He promised to protect her. The time when everything that only mattered was his own cause ended when he swore his vows to her in the Godswood at Winterfell. He promised to always protect her and he has failed to do that for far too long. He feels embarrassed to the bone. He can't look at his own reflection in a mirror. He has listened to people he should never have listened to. Robb treats Sansa like a strategy, Viserys nearly killed him, Daenerys declared his wife dead and Jon let them. He almost allowed Robb to let his wife and child rot away in the hands of the enemy. 

But it's over now. Rhaenys told him this would be their testimony, his and hers, _theirs_. Robb betrayed him, but Rhaenys hasn't. She never will. He has nearly betrayed her, nearly let himself. Why? 

Because of the faint promise of being a Stark? It is all he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed of. It came wonderfully close when he married Sansa, in the sight of the old Gods, like a Stark, in his home, the home of the Starks, the home of his mother. Jon's mother was a Stark but he is not. He is his father's son and he has been disappointing his father for an embarrassingly long amount of time, looking down at Jon must give Rhaegar a headache in heaven. It's time to make his father proud. He has to kill the wolf, become a dragon. Become who his father wanted him to be, become the man Aegon never was, the man Rhaegar believed he is. 

He is never going to be a Stark but he could've died like one. Side by side with the brother he grew up with. Fighting for the father who raised him. He fought for them, because they told him he is a Stark to them, that he is one of them. The sound of their voices telling him that he is a Stark in everything but name was like music to his his ears. But with Ned gone... he fought for Ned. Jon fought for him and lost himself. Ned was like a father to him in a way his real father never was and he loved him so much, he would've died saving his life. But they couldn't save his lifeX Ned is gone, and now he knows. This is not where he belongs. He has always known it. 

No one is ever going to think they are allowed to tell Jon what he can or cannot do again. No one is ever going to stop him from protecting his family. 

He is Rhaegar's son. Rhaegar's _bastard_ son, and he's going to show the world what that means. He's going to proof that means more than all the trueborn sons in the North combined. He's going to make sure that he can look himself in the mirror again. 

All he needed to find the strength he feels right now, were her words. 

When the sun goes down he urges Brienne to come with him. It's so dark in the dungeons he can imagine Jaime must have no idea what time it is. It could be midday for all he knows. 

Brienne takes her position outside the cell, her hand on the pommel of her sword, and tells him to call for her if he needs her. He tells her that all he needs, is to be left undisturbed. 

Through the stone, Jon can hear the faint rush of tumblestone as he steps into the darkness. The lamplight reveals a pail overflowing with feces in one corner and a huddled shape in another. 

Jaime raises his hands to cover his face, the chains around his wrist seem heavy and they make a horrible sound when they move up with his hands. He is fettered wrist and ankle, each cuff chained to the others, so he can not properly stand nor lie comfortably. 

'Who is that?' 

Jon hardly recognizes the voice, he hardly recognizes _the man_. He has clearly not been allowed to shave ever since his capture and his beard has grown to such a length it almost reminds Jon of Cersei's long, golden hair. Almost. Perhaps it would look just like it if it had not been left unwashed for more than half a year. 

Jaime doesn't ask again and though it takes him a long time to get used to the light of Jon's torch, Jon can see that he realizes who his visitor is. 

'I have wondered when you'd finally find the nerve to visit me.’ 

Jon takes a step closer and allows his eyes some more time to get used to the darkness.

‘I am in no shape to receive you, bastard.' When Jon doesn't respond again he adds, 'I'd invite you to sit but your cousin has failed to provide me with a chair.' When Jon still doesn't say a thing he goes on, 'Are my bracelets not heavy enough for you, have you come to add a few more?'

'Are you complaining?' Jon asks. 

'I suspect you believe I have brought this upon myself?'

'I never took you for a complainer.' 

'I am not. A cell is a cell. Some under Casterly Rock make this one seem a sunlit garden. One day perhaps I'll show them to you.' 

He hides his fear well, but Jon knows better than that. He has known ser Jaime for many years. The man's greatest desire is to make everyone around him live under the impression that he has not cared for one single day about what they think of him. Yet he does, 'You're being very brave.' Jon says, 'A man chained hand and foot should be less brave and more wise than you. I did not come here to let you threaten me.'

'Then why did you come here, Jon Snow? To laugh at me? To speak with me? Please say it because you are boring me already.' 

Jon wonders if he has ever met a man so full of himself, so vile, 'I have my questions.'

'What makes you think I'll answer truthfully?'

Jon shrugs, 'Nothing.'

'Then why try?'

Jon kneels down and carefully moves over to the cuffs that nails Jaime's hands, 'Do you remember that one time I pushed Joffrey of the docks?'

'No.' 

'Cersei wanted to have me beaten but you stopped her.' 

Jaime doesn't say he remembers but Jon sees in his eyes that he does. 

'Sandor Clegane walked towards me, rope in hand, ready to beat me silly and then you came in. You said the king wanted to see me and that he didn't want to be kept waiting. Yet when you took me with you I wasn't brought to the king, you escorted me to my own bedchamber.' The sound of the cuffs that fall to the ground ring in Jon's ears, 'The king didn't want to see me, you lied to her.' 

Jaime still says no word. 

'I suppose you must have your own questions.' Jon says, 'I'll answer yours if you answer mine.'

'You want the truth?' Jaime says and he moves his hands around his sore wrists, 'Have you forgotten what Tyrion always used to say? People often claim for hunger but seldom like the taste when it's served.' 

'I have not forgotten.'

'Do you think you are strong enough to handle it?'

'We'll find out.'

Jaime shakes his head, 'I'd like some water. My throat is dry.'

'Aren't you afraid I'll poison you?'

'If you poison me, there will be no answers for you.'

Jon raises his eyebrows. He came prepared, thankfully. 

Jaime pulls his knees to his body and takes long and heavy gulps of the water and is nearly out of breath while he drinks, 'Your first question, bastard?'

'When you... When you were not yet captured, was there any word from... Did Cersei send you letters? Or any other man in the capital?'

'I need specific answers, I'm not your father, I don't enjoy vague nonsense and I'm not good with poetry.' 

'Do you know anything about what happened in the capital, before Eddard Stark died, do you know how my father died? Why they beheaded my uncle? What do you know?'

'I know that your dear father, good old Rhaegar, wrote a will that specifically told his council to name you his heir.'

Jon doesn't say anything and he wonders why he needed Ser Jaime, of all people, to confirm that to him.

'Your uncle was too late, unfortunately, when your sister offered him swords he denied and when the sun came up he was a dead man walking. They gave the crown to Joffrey on a golden platter.'

'So that is why Rhaenys left? Because she knew-'

'If you want to know why your Dornish half-sister fled the capital I propose you ask her, she'll provide you with more details.' 

'And my wife?' Jon asks and he raises his voice, 'My daughter? Do you know if they-'

'Do you have any idea long I have been in chains, boy? For all I know they're dead, for all I know my sister is dead, my father too. Stop asking me stupid questions.' 

'Your sister is alive, and so is your father.' 

Jaime doesn't respond.

'Tyrion too.'

'All my kin is alive?'

'Ser Stafford Lannister was killed.' 

'Cersei always called him Uncle Dolt.' 

'I remember.' Jon looks at Jaime's hands, bloody and scratched by the chains, 'Don't you want to know how your sons and daughter are doing?'

Jaime says nothing. 

'Or will you deny it?'

'I have loved Cersei all my life.' Jaime says, 'Joff is mine, and so is the rest of her brood.' He takes another sip, 'Next question.'

'Did you push my cousin Brandon from the window at Winterfell?'

'I did.' The easy way in which he says it takes Jon's breath away for a second.

' _Why_?' 

'Because I wanted him dead.'

Jon can't recall ever hearing of someone flinging a young boy from a window to improve his health, 'What did he do, for you to want him dead?'

'He was spying on us.'

'He was a twelve year old boy.' 

'Who saw things that were not meant for his eyes.' 

Jon suddenly realizes and he feels disgusted, he feels an urge to kill the man right there and then, but then he remembers, and he moves backwards a little, 'So you send for a man with a dagger to have him killed?'

'I did no such thing. We spoke of it, but there was no way. I would have had to fight my way through whole Winterfell to reach him and at the time he was dying anyway.'

'Then who did?'

'I don't know.' 

'I wouldn't lie to me if I were you.' 

'I don't think you want to be me, I'm in a gloomy place.' Jaime looks away and seems annoyed at Jon's disbelieve, 'I have never hired anyone to do my killing for me.'

'Then it was Cersei.'

'She would've told me, we keep no secrets from each other.'

'It can't have been Tyrion.' Jon says, 'My aunt believes the dagger belonged to him, but he can't have done it.'

'You have such lovely faith in him. You two always got along, the bastard and the half-man. Rhaegar hated that, he didn't want you nor Rhaenys to trust any of us.' 

'Shut up about my father.'

A small smile creeps in on Jaime's face, 'I've always wondered... Such an extraordinary relationship. Messy too. Did you love him Jon? The father who treated you like shit?'

'My father never treated me like shit.'

'Did he not? He liked to pretend. He thought he could mislead us by pretending. Pretending to hate Lyanna's son for the sake of protecting him. Hide him away at Winterfell, not ever looking at him... It was an easy task at first. When you came to King's Landing... Such a pedantic, arrogant, little know-it-all, dressed in your Northern cloak, with your Winterfell forged sword and suspicious Stark eyes. We could all believe that he wanted nothing to do with you. But as years passed by... He refused to let you join the Watch, you didn’t even join the King's Guard… and there was just something in his eyes when he looked at you when you didn't notice… he never looked at the other two like that, not even at Rhaenys. It became harder for him to sell his story.'

'Story?'

'Why do you think he wanted you to come to King's Landing in the first place?' when Jon doesn't respond Jaime answers his own question, 'Because your brother Aegon started fucking his boyfriends of course! He couldn’t have a man with such desires sit on his precious throne, Aegon the conqueror's throne. Rhaegar always knew Cersei was being an adulteress and Viserys was already going mad back then so there was only one boy that remained an option for him.'

'Shut up.'

'You don't want to hear it? Well nor did I, at first. I kept promising Cersei a future with her precious Joff on that ugly mountain of a chair until we had to travel all the way North to witness you marrying the eldest daughter of the second most powerful man in Westeros under some bloody tree.' 

'So you tried to get rid of me?'

'Cersei tried her best, but it was harder than she hoped it would be.' 

'You killed my unborn child.' Jon says, it's not a question. It has been a truth to Jon for a long time now.

'Well it wasn't _me_ , poison is a woman’s weapon, I have my sword. Cersei technically didn't do it either, it was her own bedmaiden who gave your wife the moon tea and saw her drink it before she fell asleep.' 

With one jerk Jon slams the bucket next to his feet to Jaime's head. He knocks back against the wall, so hard Jon fears he has slammed the man to unconsciousness. Shit covers his whole body, his hair too and it drips down his face. 

'It was a girl.' Jon says as he watches Jaime sudder beneath the stench of his own filth, 'You didn't have to kill her, she was a girl, no threat to anyone, least of all you. She was innocent.'

Jaime spits the content in his mouth out, 'Well, Cersei couldn't know that could she?' 

'You and Cersei deserve each other.' 

'You put a child in her again soon after... Cersei was furious.' Jaime starts gagging and it takes a while before he can continue, 'I was not surprised, I guarded your door many nights, I dare say not all wives enjoy it as much when their lord husband squeezes his-'

'You'll burn for this.' Jon says, 'In all the hells, you'll burn.'

'Will the Gods burn me? Yours or your sister's? I wish them the best of luck. The worst hell is here in this world.' 

'It's because of people like you.'

'There are no people like me, there is only me.' Jaime smiles then, 'I knew I'd get you angry, I didn't think it would take this long. You nearly impressed me there.'

'I don't need you admiration, Kingslayer.' Jon says. 

'Has your cousin faced my father already? He hasn't has he?'

'He will and he shall defeat him, like we defeated you.'

Jaime laughs now, 'You don't _really_ believe that, do you? You tricked me but tricking my father is... going to be something else entirely.' 

'Everyone here wants you dead.' Jon says, 'You killed two of Karstark's boys.'

'Did I? I am sorry I did not mean to. I tried to kill _you_ , actually.' 

'I know that.' Jon finally manages to grin back, 'You have tried and failed to kill me for an embarrassingly long time now.' 

'I killed those men in the heat of battle, any knight would've done the same.'

"You still call yourself a knight? Is there one vow you have not broken?'

'Since we're being so terribly honest with each other... I have to admit I do not remember how many vows I've sworn altogether. It's too much, I can't keep all of these.'

'Keeping all of them or forsaking all of them are not the only two options.' 

'You would know that, with a father like yours.'

'I told you to shut up about my father.'

'How many vows did he break when he took your lady mother against the will of her kin and hid her away in Dorne? Pregnated her with a bastard and then left her to-'

Jon yanks the now empty bucket to Jaime's face with a slight bit less force than the first time, 'I said, _shut up about my father_.' It was the mention of his mother that angered him most, but Jaime doesn't need to know that, he'll take advantage of that knowledge. 

This time it's blood that Jaime's spits out of his mouth, not shit. It takes him a while to raise his head, 'You don't like that story, do you? I can understand that, honor is so important to you, Ned Stark is to blame for that. In my own way I am more honorable than your father. You see, I have never been with any other woman but Cersei. Poor good, old dead Rhaegar. What was the name they give bastards born in the North again?'

Jon stands up and strengthens his back to tower over the prisoner like a king over his subjects. 

'It’s Snow. A bastard from the north. Snow is as white as the cloak they give the men of the King's Guard after they swear their pretty oaths.' 

‘Brienne.’ Jon says. 

‘You are Jon Snow. You'll always be Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, Rhaegar's shame, Lyanna's illborn son. Not a Targaryen, not even a Stark, just a bastard, born from betrayal, lust and weakness. Don't forget you are from the wrong side of the blanket.’ 

A bastard has to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hide behind their eyes, and it is all Jon needs to do to know what needs to be done. Sacrifice. Choose what matter most. What matters most to him in the whole wide world?

'You called me, my lord?'

'We're going to free him.' Jon says. 

Finally Jaime shuts up. 

'My lord?'

'You heard me.' Jon says. He grabs his swords and smashes it between the chains at Jaime's feet. He grabs the Kingslayer by his collar, his shit-covered collar, 'I despise you, Kingslayer.' Jon nearly presses his forehead to Jamie's as he whispers, 'I despise you for your betrayal to my father, for your betrayal to my sister. I even despise you for betraying my grandfather, the way you shoved your sword through his back, slayed him as you pinned him to your steel... An old mad man. I despise you for all you have done, all the oaths you have broken, all the sins that the Gods have taken note of. If there are any Gods you will suffer for them long and hard in the Seven hells or somehwere else, I don't know. I don't even know if there are gods. The only thing I know is that I need you.'

Jaime doesn't say a thing.

'I want to make you swear another oath. An oath that will wash away all your sins, I promise you. An oath that gives you the opportunity to proof you are a true knight. Do you want to know what it is?'

Jaime doesn’t nod nor shake his head, he only stares. 

'I need you to swear to me that you will bring my wife and daughter back to me, where they belong. Swear it to me and I, a Targaeyen, will release you of all the times you sinned against my family, and I will free you now.'

'Have you finally convinced your Stark cousin to free me?'

'I need not convince any man, I am my father's son, if the world was the way he hoped I would have been his succesor. My cousin is my servant, I am not his.'

'Do you want to be king, boy?'

'I want my kin back. You can do that for me.'

'What makes you think I will keep the oath you mean to make me swear?'

'Do you remember that one time I pushed Joffrey off the docks in King's Landing?'

'Yes.' Jaime says, 'I remember.' 

'So do I.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, finally some progress, I think.  
> Next chap is gonna be Sansa and Arya and it will basically be me playing around with writing an infant, which was so much fun to be honest. It was great to do that cause I've never really done it before. Developing Freia and her personality and her character, morphing Sansa and Jon together in an infant/toddler so to speak, may or may not be the most fun I've had writing this.  
> So yeah, see you this Sunday and have a good rest of the week! X


	30. The First Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freia sings a lot, obviously no one knows what it's about, but they must be happy things because Freia has so little to be unhappy about. Arya is envious of her. How lovely must your world be when you can cry about things such as oatmeal and bath time? Arya dreams of a world where oatmeal is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter thirty... that's crazy. I wanted to call this chapter 'Mama, Up and No' at some point where I couldn't come up with anything else, also, I actually tried to translate a Dutch bedtime song for this, failed, but I still like to think it looks a tiny bit alike.

**Sansa**

Joffrey punishes Sansa for her brother's crimes, her brother's _victories_ and she looks up at the roof and prays for the gods to kill her now when they rip her clothes off. 

'Leave her face.' Joffrey tells his guard.

Sansa repeats again and again that it is her brother who is the traitor, that she had no part in it.When Joffrey claims Robb used some sorcery to defeat Stafford Lannister's army she pretends to be shocked witless. Joffrey speaks of his desire to shoot her but then decides not to, because his mother wants her twin back.

Dying is her greatest fear and not because her life is of value to her, but because her life is of value to Freia. 

Silently she prays no harm has been done to the Kingslayer for certainly they will bring her to ser Ilyn if that may one day be the case. Every time the mere idea flashes through Sansa's head she tries not to imagine what will happen to Freia if they'll kill her, kill them all. How will they hurt her? Will they hurt her like they hurt Rhaenys all these years ago? Sansa doesn't even know what they did to Rhaenys, no one ever told her and people only whisper but she knows they forced Elia Martell to watch. Sansa cannot properly stand upright when those ideas creep into her thoughts.

They lay the flat of a sword against her thighs and as Sansa sees her own blood on her hands she knows she’ll carry the scars that proof how they chose to do that to her for the rest of her life. 

_Jon will kill you, Jon will kill you, Jon will kill you..._.

As they rip off the silks from her body they bare her breasts and as Sansa tries to shield them from view she can feel milk in her hands. She has never felt so embarrassed nor humiliated before. They kick her, they beat her, disrespect and insult her and Sansa can do nothing but yell at her king that she is his loyal subject, his loving sister, that she has done no treason nor ever will.

The dwarf can’t properly walk, he waggles and there is nothing knightly about him yet he is her savior when he demands to know what the meaning is of all this madness.

Tyrion Lannister has been kind to her. Kinder than all the rest of them, but Sansa refuses to allow herself to trust him. There is something in his eyes that makes her suspicious, a different kind of suspicion, different from the one she feels with Cersei or with Joffrey, but she distrusts him all the same.

He saves her, just when she starts believing no one will ever safe her ever from this nightmare that she just won't seem to be able to wake up from. 

He lets them bring her to his own tower where they look after her wounds. It hurts so much she can't stop crying and they give her milk of the poppy to ease it. 

That night she wakes up in the middle of it, her legs hurting terribly again, and when she moves out of her bed and tells the woman outside her door that she wants to leave immediately, that she has to go to her child, the woman simply informs her the dwarf insisted she'd stay for the night. 

In the morning the imp brings her food and tells her stories about Robb's victory. 

'There was no sorcery, of course,' He says, 'Sorcery is the sauce men spoon over failure to hide the flavor of their own incompetence.'

'I knew there was no sorcery.' Sansa says, 'Magic does not exist.' 

'Robb Stark is my father's problem, Joffrey is mine.'

'Do you know where my husband is, my lord?’ Sansa asks.

‘They have reported to me that he went to speak to his uncle the prince Viserys, but he left soon after his arrival. He returned to your brother’s war camp but it seems he is no longer there now.’

‘So you do not know where he is?’

‘He could be on his way to the princess Rhaenys.’ 

‘Or to King’s Landing?’

‘I doubt it, I've known him for a while now and he never striked me as a fool.’ He sees the look on her face and adds, ‘You shouldn't want him to come here, he is more of use to you when he is as far away from the capital as he can possibly be. Joffrey won't be gentle to him, in fact, compared to what his treatment of Jon will be he treats _you_ gently.’ 

‘Joffrey does not treat me gently.’ Sansa says, _and when Jon finds out he’ll kill you all_.

‘I know he doesn’t he... I’ll see to it that he stops, he won’t hurt you anymore.’ 

He tells her he means to set her free once Robb bends the knee. 

_Once_ , he says. He tells her he and Jon used to be friends, that he means her no harm, that he'll protect her if she'll let him, that he'll take care of her if she needs it. She tells him, carefully but specifically, 'I do not need your help, my lord, thank you.' 

He seems to understand, somehow.

'I want to leave.' Sansa says and in his eyes she sees how he believes she means King’s Landing. She wants to leave King’s Landing, more than anything, but it's not a possibility, not now, it's not what she meant, 'My child... She does not like strangers, she must've been so scared. I need to see her.'

Tyrion nods and before she leaves he asks, 'What do you pray for in the Godswood?' 

'For an ending to all the fighting.'

He knows she lies. Sansa has been lying so much and so often that she starts believing herself, lies come easy to her now, 'You are a good liar, lady Sansa. Someone taught you well, probably my Dornish niece. You must be thankful for it, I should think.'

Sansa wants to know if he is lying in that moment too. He is better at this, he has to be, he is the Hand of the king. Sansa's father was a terrible liar, everyone knows what happened to him.

'I pray for...' She realizes she does not have to lie, for once she doesn't, not really, 'I pray for my husband to meet his daughter.'

A moon’s turn later she looks over her shoulder and finds him watching her. When the dwarf catches her eye he smiles but she cannot bring herself to smile back. His smile is so terribly ugly and, she reminds herself, he is a Lannister. She promised Rheanys not to trust them, not one of them.

The streets are lined with men of the city guard and Sansa hugs herself when the seawind breezes along her arms. 

No one told Sansa the Princess Myrcella is to wed her cousin Robert in the Eyrie until the day came for her to be present at the docks, to see her off. 

Many ships are pushed from the shore as horns blow fanfares and though Sansa knows she is supposedto feel many things, betrayal, mostly, probably, for her aunt has chosen the side of the enemy, her mother's only sister, all Sansa feels is pity. For prince Tommen mostly, who needs comforting from Myrcella herself. 

Myrcella smiles and waves to everyone on the docks from the ship, _Rhaegar's Armor_ , with Ser Merys Oakheart behind her in his white cloak. 

Sansa listens to Tommen's sobbing, 'You sound like a suckling babe,' Joffrey hisses at him, 'Princes are not supposed to cry.'

'It matters not,' Sansa tells the little boy, 'The twins Ser Errick and Ser Errick cried when they wounded each other mortally.'

'Be quiet or I'll let Ser Meryn give _you_ a mortal wound.' Joffrey says. 

His engagement to the lady Margaery has been announced. Aegon's betrothed, and Robb's before that. Sansa pities her though she has never laid her eyes on the girl before. She has wondered if Joffrey will treat her right but came to the conclusion that all she feels is relieve that they did not decide to marry Arya to him, they probably feared she'd slid his throats the moment they'd be alone, just the two of them. They don't need to betroth them to fear that. 

If only this decision gives her more hope that they are truly considering a trade of hostages. Maybe it won't be long. Maybe soon they'll put her in a wheelhouse and she'll be brought to some field outside King's Landing where they'll release her and she can run straight into Jon's arms. She wants it so badly. She prays for it every day.

Instead she turns her head away and closes her eyes. If only Arya were here. As least she would not be all alone with all these people that she not only fears but hates too. 

She knows she should be glad Arya is not here. They may have stopped hitting Sansa but Arya still feels a fist hit her jaw every time she says something she shouldn't. Sansa never gives them an excuse to hurt her but Arya gives them plenty. Nearly every night Sansa has to lay her little sister to bed with ice to her cheekbones. 

The only thing Arya has softened up to is Freia. She used to keep her distance but she doesn't anymore. She sits opposite her niece on a blanket in the garden and plays with her, tells her stories and teaches her words she won't be able to pronounce within the next three years. 

It's nice. Sansa enjoys watching them and Freia loves Arya, her face lits up when she sees her aunt. Arya is much more fun than Freia’s mother, she doesn't force her to eat things she doesn't like and she doesn't try to brush her untamable curls.

Arya calls Freia Freils and gives her candy she's far too young for, candy she loves so much more than whatever it is she's supposed to eat. Arya lifts her up and twirls her around, throws her nearly across the room and it sometimes forces Sansa to hide her face behind her hands. 

‘Arya _careful_!’ But Arya’s never careful and Freia loves it. 

Sansa pulls herself in the saddle of her chestnut mare. She prefers in that way. She doesn't need them to help her and even more so she doesn’t want them to touch her. 

Sansa tries not to look around because the smallfolk that's kept at distance is not something she wants to look at. Their appearance has changed since she last saw them. When she and Jon rode through the streets when they arrived here there were no dead bodies in the corners and people were not dressed in racks. She remembers how the people of the city used to cheer for their king when Rhaegar appeared among them, on his high black stallion, his hand raised at them in greeting. _Good king Rhaegar_ they called him, ' _All hail good king Rhaegar_!' People cheered. 

Nobody cheers for Joffrey. The people only stare, their hollow eyes evidence of their hunger. The war is starving them and they don't cheer for the king who caused it. Arya says some people believe Cersei killed the king, and if they truly think so, Sansa wonders where Cersei finds the bravery to show them her face.

Halfway along the route a woman forces her way into the middle of the street, holding the body of her dead baby up above her head. Sansa turns her eyes away, the sight is unbearable to her and the mere idea of dead babies give her stomach cramps. 

'Leave her, your grace!' She hears Cersei's voice, 'She is beyond our help.'

' _Whore_!' Sansa looks up at the scream, ' _Kingslayer's whore_!'

Sansa is troubled with keeping her horse from running off when she hears Joffrey bellow a shriek. He wipes off a brown substance off his face and there is more in his hair, 'Who threw that? I want the man who threw that! Dog! You bring him to me!' 

Sandor Clegane wants to be obedient as always but he doesn't manage to make himself a way through the crowd. 

Sansa clutches the reins of her horse and tries to keep her face down when the shouting begins. Most call Joffrey a bastard, they call him mad too and a monster, they call Cersei a whore and a brotherfucker and the imp an halfman. What keeps ringing in Sansa's ears is the shouts that are for Robb, for the _young wolf_ , for the _King in the North_. The crowd calls for justice and they call for bread. They call for Rhaenys too, they scream her name and call her the rightful heir. Others scream for Viserys, but most, she hears it, and it scares her to the bone, scream for Sansa's own husband. Not Winterfell's bastard, but the true king. 

_I want him too_ , she tells all these poor, stinking, starving people in her head, _I want him more than you, I promise_.

'Back to the castle, _now_!'

At one moment the crowd forgets about Joffrey, and Robb and Rheanys and Viserys... The only thing they can think of is bread, 'We want bread, bastard! Bread, bread, bread!' 

For a moment Sansa doesn't know where she is, the crowd moves closer and more rotting food is thrown their way, her horse panics again and Sansa loses control over the steers. She can see Joffrey and the queen in front of her as their horses gallop towards the castle but there is no way for her to follow them, she cannot steer the beast forward because there are too many people and Ser Mandon Moore who was given the task to protect her and was near her a moment before has left to follow his grace. 

She wants to call for help but her throat is thick and she sees no one that she can call for. Then she gets knocked out of her saddle.

'Please, _no_! I have no bread, please, I have nothing!'

For some reason they know who she is. Perhaps it's her hair, her Tully red hair, or maybe it's the white direwolf on her dress, she doesn't know. 

'It’s Jon Snow's wife!' A man screams.

'The Stark woman! She is the Stark woman! The one married to the king's bastard!’

' _Please_!'

Sansa hides her face behind her hands, praying for the Gods to send her a knight to come and safe her. Then a small rock that flies around hits her head and she falls to the ground. These people know she is a noblewoman, well-fed and dressed in pretty clothes worth more than all the golden dragons they will ever own. So they hate her. It doesn’t matter that she is a woman that had nothing to do with any of it, that has done very little but stand by and watch... they want to hurt her all the same. 

When a man pulls her meek and powerless body with him through the streets she can barely keep herself on her feet. The man pushes her down again and the moment he moves to lift up her skirts Sansa remembers the dagger in her stockings. 

She stops thinking, there is no moment for her to consider if she should or should not do it, all she remembers is her brother once explaining to her that it's not easy to kill with a dagger. You have to stick it right between the ribs, and ribs are as strong as the bones of deer you eat during feasts. 

Yet Sansa decides to try all the same. She manages to grab the dagger though she fails to stick it between the ribs. The man has pushed her to the ground on her front, her face down, but she can reach for his leg. With all the strength she finds in her skinny arms she pushes the dagger in the thin upper leg of the peasant man who cries out and rolls off her. 

Sansa pulls the dagger back out and before the man can do anything else she sticks it in his face, right through the eye. She pushes him down and manages to climb up to try and run away. Only a few feet from her is Lady Lollys, lady Tanda's daughter. They pushed her to the ground too but she had no dagger to stick in the upper-leg of the man who lays on top of her, pushing himself inside with force. 

Sansa has always known there is such a thing as rape. She knows husbands rape their wives, kings rape their queens and men in the streets rape innocent girls. As innocent as Lady Lollys. It is a gruesome sight and it makes Sansa feel sick to know that something that has been so good and lovely to her, always, can be so humiliating and painful too. 

She stands there, her legs powerless for too long, things are throws around, filth and eggs and heavier things. Something hits her head again and she falls to the ground. She feels new arms wrap around her. She has no dagger left, she's all alone, as powerless and alone as Lady Lollys, but before she can start kicking around herself she realizes it's the hound who jumps on a horse and pulls her with him. He's so big and strong, she dare say he could lift another ten ladies like Sansa too. But he only saves her. 

When a man tries to pull her down again the hound cuts off his arms and Sansa turns her face away to not have to look at both limbs rolling down the street. She wraps her arms around Clegane's upper body as they ride towards the castle and Sansa hates herself when all she can think of is how it's been so long since she's been this close to a man's body. He smells wrong, he feels wrong, he is all wrong, but at the same time, he is strong too, and he saved her. _He cut off a man's arms_.

'Are you hurt, lady Sansa?' Tyrion Lannister asks her as the hound pulls her off his horse. They're in the courtyard, behind the castle walls that have not made her feel this safe in a very long time.

Sansa can see Joffrey and Cersei and other people as they scream at each other, panicking and trembling all over. She doesn't hear their words, the meaning of them doesn't reach her.

'The little bird had her first ever kill.' The hound tells anyone who wants to hear it, 'Pressed a dagger right between the eyes.' 

Cersei pouts her lips and there is something about her that tells everyone the news of Sansa's first kill doesn't please her one bit.

 _Her first kill_ , she pressed her dagger in his eye but does that mean she killed him? Perhaps he is merely blinded now, perhaps she hit something else other than his eyeball only. Suddenly the sight of her father's head comes up in her mind, the way the crows ate his eyes out of his skull, and that memory washes away all her guilt. 

'He tried to _rape_ me,' Sansa whispers and she looks down at her bloody hands, 'He pushed me into the ground and pulled my skirts up and...' 

No one listen to her. No one cares. 

‘How can I ever thank you, ser?’

‘I am no ser.’

‘I a-apologize.’ He saved her life, the least she can do is look him in the eye, but she can't. His face is so ugly. He used to scare her, she remembers bumping into him and looking at the ground as she apologized. Jon always made carefully sure to give Clegane little chance to say anything to her, at all, every time the man opened his mouth Jon glared. Jon knew the hound scared her, and the hound knows it too. He hates her for it, and yet… yet he watches her with something other than repulsion only. He often lets his eyes admire the curves of her body the way many other men do too, yet it's different with him, he seems to hate himself for it. She hates him too. He's Joffrey’s pet dog. 

‘You could sing me a song, one day. It's the only thing you're good at.’

Sansa feels her teeth clatter, ‘A-a song?’

‘Sing me a song, little bird.’ 

Sansa feels blood triple down her brow. 

'The little bird is bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut.' 

As Measter Frenken comes forward to pull Sansa up and escort her inside she hears Lady Tanda ask after her daughter, 'My daughter... is she..?'

'I have not seen her.' The hound says and Sansa suddenly needs to gasp for air as the power in her legs leaves her once again and she nearly drops down to the stone floor.

Measter Frenken barely holds her up and she needs to be escorted inside between her two maids, who stroke her hair and whisper to her as if they are people who could ever bring her comfort. 

That night Sansa doesn't sleep a wink. Freia keeps waking up, screaming loudly and Sansa's almost glad for it. She pushes the Septa who wants to lift her daughter from her crib aside.

‘I'll do it myself. Move away.’

Freia can stand upright in her crib now. She even crawls, though she's not very good at it, she prefers to hop around on her bum, which is cuter though seems less useful to Sansa. 

_Her first kill_. Is she a murderer now? Is she a killer? Like Joffrey? 

The man tried to hurt her. Had she not stabbed him he would've forced himself inside of her and.. she can't have allowed him to do that. He deserved to be stabbed in the leg. But his face… was that necessary? Was it anger or was it fear? Was it her fault or his? 

Sansa pulls Freia with her in her bed, close to her own body, where she quickly falls asleep, all contempt laying against her mother. 

Freia is so small. As many moons old now as it took her to grow inside of her mother before she came into the world. Yet still so small. Her curly hair is curlier than ever, all pretty and bouncy and just like Jon’s. Her eyes are Jon’s too- though they are Sansa's blue, they shine like his, are as sweet and as innocent as his. 

If someone ever tries to hurt, Freia Sansa will stab them a million times in their face if she must. She’ll stab anyone who tries to harm or touch or pain her baby. Freia is growing every day yet she'll always be Sansa’s baby, her little girl, the only thing she has. The only ray of light in her world. 

That man deserved to die. How dare he force himself on her? He was going to take her because he hates what she is, not who she is. He was poor, sick, hungry and angry. Yet he deserved to die. Jon would've killed him, if he'd know that someone tried to do that to her… he'd kill the man, personally, with one flawless swing of his sword, sliding through his neck. What would he say if he'd know? She can only begin to imagine what he'll think when she'll tell him that she murdered a man all by herself. 

If only she could tell him. If only he could wrap an arm around her middle now, kiss her temple and tell her, ‘It doesn't matter Sans.’ Or ‘Everything is going to be alright. Don't worry.’

 _don't worry_. He told her that so often. If she is angered by anything at all, it may be that. There was plenty to worry over, yet, she wonders… Would it have mattered? Would it have helped to be worried all the time? Very little. Mayhaps that is why he told her. Because it would not have made any difference whatsoever. 

.

Sansa moves down through her knees in the garden, and reaches her arms out, 'Let her go.' She tells Arya.

'If I let her go she drops down.'

'No she doesn't, she can stand upright on her own, she does it all the time.'

'Aye, when she can hold herself up by tugging on your skirts maybe.' 

'She's nearly ten moonturns!' Sansa sighs loudly in her desperation, 'She should be walking.'

'You think she should, Septa gloomy says it’s way too early.' 

Sansa can't bring herself to tell Arya not to call Freia's Septa Hollard _gloomy_ as she sinks through her legs and sits down in the grass, her hands behind herself, a disappointed look on her face. She is never good at hiding her disappointment when it comes to Freia. She'd simply love it so much if Freia could just take those magical first steps toward independence.

'She's still so fat.' Arya says as she raises Freia's arm, 'What does your mother feed you, huh?' 

'She's not fat! She's healthy.'

'I didn't say she’s unhealthy, did I?' Arya rolls her eyes but then adds, 'She knows who you are though, and she knows who she is. Look.' She cleans her throat, 'Freils, who is mama?'

Freia grins and starts grabbing grass strands around her, plucking them from the ground and throwing them up in the air. 

'No, that is not-' Arya tries to take the grass strands out from between Freia's strong little fingers, 'Who is mama?'

Freia throws some grass in Sansa's direction and Sansa can feel her face beam, 'That's right! I am!'

'Yay!' Arya calls loudly, the falseness of her enthusiasm nearly drips off her words. 

Sansa gets up and walks over to Freia, picks her up from Arya's lap and bounces her up and down in her arms, 'You are so extremely brilliant, are you not?'

'Daaaaa!' Freia says and Sansa can only grin. 

'Whatever you say, Freils.' Arya says.

'Don't call her that! Her name is Freia.' 

'Freia... where is Freia?' Arya asks and surprisingly and wonderfully, Freia points at herself with her tiny forefinger.

Sansa gasps, 'Well done!'

'See?' Arya asks as she gets up too, 'Nothing to be worried about.'

'I suppose she can crawl, that is quite a thing.' Sansa says and she makes small and careful pirouettes that gives Freia giggles. 

It is true Freia has learned to speak three whole words; _up_ , _mama_ and _no_ , though it doesn't sound like she says mama but it's a bit more like 'maba'. It doesn't matter. She can say three words, maybe four if you include ‘ow’. The first time she said ‘mama’ it brought tears to Sansa’s eyes, she cannot recall ever being so proud, she'd like to re-experience it again when Freia finally starts walking all on her own. 

Sansa is sure it won't be long until she’ll be speaking in full sentences. Arya is a little less positive about the matter. Sometimes Freia babbles so convincingly it sounds as if she is fluent in a foreign language- maybe someone is secretly teaching her Dothraki. She looks at Sansa as if she is trying to tell her something, so Sansa always responds with an answer or asks something in return and Freia always happily babbles back. Freia can shake her head too, she shakes her head all the time. She is quite the pigheaded little thing. Napping isn't her favorite activity anymore either, when Sansa tells her it's time to go to bed she shakes her head, 'No, no, no, no!' And bails her eyes out. In any case it is not often Sansa has to wonder what it is Freia wants, or doesn't want. 

Walking is a bit more challenging, no matter how much Sansa tries to practice with her. She crawls everywhere, drops off things, climbs on things, can sit up straight like a king on his throne and builds her own castles with all the objects that she manages to claps in her hands, but walking is not something she masters yet. 

Freia has her two upper front teeth and four down in the bottom, Sansa is confident more are coming because Freia is cranky sometimes and when her teeth hurt she can't sleep, drools on everything and rubs her ear while making her displeased sounds and is quite irritable. Sansa can usually distract her during the day but at night it's worse and Sansa is a weak mother, she usually pulls Freia from her crib (‘Up! Up! Up!’) and brings her into her own bed where she'll fall asleep instantly. 

Her needs have changed to wants, mostly. She can cry over things she not necessarily needs but still desperately wants. When Freia was born Sansa believed her set of lungs were the most impressing but it now turns out that she can be so much louder. Sansa sometimes wonders if Freia is only screaming because she wants to find out how loudly she can scream, casually testing her own vocal cords. She screams loudest when Sansa tries to brush her hair, ‘OW!’. She'll hide the top of her head behind her hands and pushes the brush away from her as big fat tears roll down her chubby cheeks.

It's fairly impossible to brush her hair. There's so much of it and when Sansa is under the impression that she finally tamed it there's some other area that has gone back to knots. It doesn't help that Freia can’t clean her hands on her own after touching things she shouldn't and pulls on her own hair with fingers covered in strawberry sauce. 

She's curious, the world is her playground, everything is new and exiting and she thinks everyone is as innocent as she is. Sansa dresses her in blue, yellow and pink and tries to braid the sides of her hair, to keep the curls from her face. Her face is the sweetest thing, with these blue eyes and dark eyelashes and her adorable baby nose and full baby cheeks.

Her eyes are officially blue, Sansa doesn't believe they'll change some more, they're wide and much like her own, yet colder, not exactly the Tully color, it's lighter, not like the sky when the sun shines after heavy rainfall but more like a frozen lake somewhere in the North. 

When Freia crawls through the garden she sticks her hands in the mud and pulls flowers from their pots or kicks agains a ball with so much force she immediately goes flat on her face. Every time she goes flat on her face she cries but when Sansa lifts her up and kisses her wet cheeks she smiles so sweetly, so beautifully and full of innocence and goodness- that Sansa feels like Jon smiles at her. The smile that only belongs to her, with his narrowed eyes and blushing cheeks, the way he looked down at his hands. 

Freia doesn't look like Sansa, and even though everyone keeps saying it, she doesn't look like Jon either. She looks like the perfect combination of the two of them.

The witch called her the blessed outcome of a sacred vow. She is. They made her together, she is theirs. A bit of Sansa and a bit of Jon. She is Sansa’s everyday reminder that what they had was real, that it still exists, though she fears it one day may be nothing but a faint memory. It is not in her head, it was true, honest, pure and good. Right. Meant to be. Freia is proof of that, she gives Sansa hope.

'Maba!' Freia says and she places her hand to Sansa's cheek. 

'Maybe you shouldn't lift her up so much, maybe she'll stand up on her own if you give her the chance.'

'I can't let her crawl around the keep can I?’ Freia would love that though, she is quite the adventurer and loves to explore the world. Whether that is Sansa’s parlor or the rose garden, ‘And I can't let her loose in this garden either, the Gods know what she might stick in her mouth.' 

Everything that she meets along the way, most likely. She is nowhere near starved, though she easily refuses food when she doesn't like it. She doesn't eat as much as she used to before, which is surprising considering her amount of never-ending energy. 

‘No!’ She says and she puts on her angry frown when Sansa tries to make her eat something new or green-colored.It doesn't matter how Sansa tries to keep her stuffed, she still sticks everything in her mouth. Thankfully her baby vomiting has declined excessively. 

Freia pulls on Sansa's braid and sticks the end of it in her mouth, ‘You can't put that in your tummy.’ Sansa says and she pulls the auburn hair from her grip. 

'Give her to me.' Arya says and she holds out her hands towards her niece, 'I'll practice with her.' 

Sansa feels reluctance but hands her daughter over all the same, ‘Aba!’ Freia beams at her aunt who grins and presses her finger to Freia’s nose which only makes the baby laugh. 

'You're so fat.’Arya says again, ‘A fat little cutie pumpkin.’

Sansa walks back to the chairs that are standing below a parasol and grabs the book she left behind. She wants to read it but she can't stop herself from carefully keeping an eye on Arya as she holds both Freia's hands and lets her take her few steps, sometimes nearly lifting her up from her small, wobbly feet. 

Freia tries to put one foot in front of the other but she often places one either on top or at the complete other side of the other and every time she falls Arya just allows her to drop down to the ground where she'll grab grass in her fists and pulls it from the earth to either throw it in the air or in Arya’s face. Arya is the perfect person not to mind, she spits the grass strands out and laugh and her spitting and laughing makes Freia giggle.

‘Ew, you can't eat grass, Freils!’

‘Uh oh!’ Freia says and she looks at the grass in her fist, then holds it out for Arya to take it from her who shakes her head. 

‘Grass is not good for your tummy, you can't eat it, you'll get sick.’ Arya says and she pulls Freia’s grass filled fist away from the baby’s already opened mouth. 

Sansa moves her hand sideways and before she knows it she has a piece of lemon cake in her mouth. It’s been years since she had her last piece, she can't remember exactly. It still tastes the same, all sweet, buttery and sugary. Something a sixteen-year old loves to eat. 

In the corner of her eye she can see Tyrion Lannister approach her. 

She needs him to stay away from her. His eyes prick and the sight of him makes her want to look away. He tries to smile sometimes, he smiles often, at Freia too and it makes her feel all warm and nervous. 

Sansa tries to keep her eyes on Freia now, ignoring the imp's staring. She always does that, pretending not to see, she does it with all staring men, not just him. Arya lifts Freia's hand up and makes her wave at Sansa and Sansa tries to smile and waves back, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

Her pretending doesn't help. The man walks over towards her all the same. 

Sansa turns around and looks at him, at his small figure, his mismatched eyes and his Lannister red clothes. _He is so ugly_ , she thinks, the ugliest man she’s ever seen. 

‘My lady, I have come here to discuss with you what shall happen once the city is under siege.'

'How long now?' She asks. 

'We suspect it will be within a moon’s turn before Viserys's fleet reaches the shores, he's not on his way yet.’

A moon’s turn. That’s not very much. Sansa has wondered if she should want him to capture King's Landing. Perhaps he will free her and let her go, but what if he won't? Will he kill her? Will he hold her as a hostage the way the Lannisters have? Viserys is as mad as Joffrey, she knows that. She doesn't think she should prefer his company over Cersei's. But maybe Daenerys will be with him and though Sansa knows Daenerys has never been fond of her, at least she wasn't mad nor vile and she'll protect her for Jon’s sake, she'll do anything for Jon. 

Sansa knows the Lannisters have been waiting for Jon to join the Watch so they can marry her off. She fears that soon they'll do the same with Arya. Who will they marry Arya to? Some Lannister lord? Sansa knows Arya is not that valuable. They have three brothers, one of them is fighting a war, the chances of them ever becoming heiresses are terribly slim and for now, Sansa remains the wife of a traitor.

'You will take refuge in the sept and the queen's ballroom with all the other ladies of the court and the wellborn of the city. Along with young boys and old men too.'

'I can bring my daughter?'

'Of course.' 

Arya walks over with Freia at her hand, who’s taking the steps herself. 

'Can she walk?' Lord Tyrion asks and he smiles his ugly smile. 

'Only when you hold her hand.' Arya tells him, 'She can’t do it on her own.’ She adds the actual truth by letting go of Freia’s hand and Freia immediately falls down, backwards, on her bum, and though Sansa jumps up in fear Freia only giggles, ‘Uh oh!’ She tells Arya and holds up her hands as if there's nothing to be done, she'd shrug if she knew how.

When Tyrion reaches out for Freia, who happily smiles at him, too young to be aware of his unattractiveness, Sansa moves over and quickly lifts her up. 

‘Up!’ Freia says and she points her finger at Tyrion and continues to beam at him, as harmless as he must seem to her, she merely sees a smiling face of some funny man. 

'She looks so much like Jon.'

'You think so?' Arya asks, 'I can't remember Jon being so bloated.'

Tyrion doesn't laugh but perhaps that is because he sees the way Sansa glares at him. 

Freia pulls her own hat off and throws it at Tyrion. She is always throwing things, anything, as if she is curious to find out what will happen when whatever it is drops to the floor, 'Bat!' 

'That's right Freia, that is a hat!' Sansa says and she moves down to pick up the small pink hat she knitted herself. 

'And she speaks!' Tyrion says. 

'Not really, actually.' Arya says and she frowns at both Freia and Sansa.

'How old is she now?'

'Ten moonturns, my lord.' Arya answers. 

'Ten? She is getting quite the big girl then.' 

Arya eyes Sansa and neither respond so Lord Tyrion hops from his one foot to the other before he decides to finally go at last.

'Well, I... I must take my leave, I trust that when you have any questions you will bring them to the right lord.' 

'Yes, thank you, my lord.' Sansa says without looking at him and with one more nod the imp is finally gone.

Freia suddenly starts to make her displeased moany sounds and Sansa sits down with her baby in her lap.

'You don't always have to be so rude to him.' Arya says, 'He's not as bad as the rest of them.'

'He is worse.' Sansa scuffs.

'Oh really? I can't remember when he ever tried to hit either one of us! He told me he means to release us once the war is over.'

'Not when the war is over!' Sansa says and she does so too loudly and Freia's moaning turns to soft sobs, 'When Robb accepts their peace. Anyway, you shouldn't listen to what he says, he's a liar, they're all liars.' 

'He is nice to us.' 

'He is a _Lannister_.'

'Jon always used to be friends with him.'

'Not anymore.' Sansa says, 'He keeps us as hostages, Jon is not his friend now and he is not ours either.' 

'We could use some friends!' 

'You merely think he's funny! He's a drunk and whoring idiot.' Sansa raises her voice and Freia starts crying loudly because of it, 'Hush, Freia, sweetling, all is well, don't cry.' Sansa moves her hands over Freia's bare arms and sees some bruises. She kisses one of them, 'You have to stop hurting yourself!'

'It's normal to fall when you're learning, that's how it works, how is she ever going to deal with frustration and disappointment if you never allow her to experience failure?'

Sansa pulls the hat back over Freia’s curly head, 'I don't want her to get hurt.'

'I get that, I'm just saying-' 

'Just leave it, please.' Sansa stands up with a wailing Freia in her arms, 'I'm bringing her to bed, she must be tired, you have exhausted her.' 

'Obviously.' 

'She always cries when she is tired.' 

'I know that, I hear her crying nearly as often as you do.' 

‘Don't say that.’

‘Don't say what?’

‘Freia, Freia…’ Sansa bounces her baby up and down again and kisses her head multiple times as she ignores her sister. Freia drops her head to Sansa’s shoulder and stops crying, big, fat tears on her cheeks, ‘Time for bed?’

‘No.’ Freia says, a frown on her face. 

‘We can read a book first, if you want?’

‘She doesn't understand what you're saying.’ Arya says.

‘Yes she does! Just because she can't pronounce words doesn't mean she doesn't understand. Freia, book?’

Freia nods, her hand playing with her ear, pushing her hat half off her head again, ‘Bab?’ 

‘Yes, books!’

Arya turns around to the table with the lemon cakes and pops one in her mouth.

‘Say, sleep well to aunt Arya?’

Freia doesn't say a thing.

‘She can say good-night. Freia, say good night to aunt Arya?’

‘Nite-nite!’

Sansa feels her chest burst with pride as Arya frowns at her, ‘It's not night though, she's only napping.’

‘Arya, just say it back.’

Arya doesn't seem to want to but squeezes Freia’s cheek all the same, ‘Sleep well, Freils, see you at supper when you'll be throwing food at me.’

 

**Arya**

Arya has to admit she has grown much more fond of Freia now she's older. When she weighted not much more than a stone, had the seize of a throw pillow and did nothing but drink, sleep and cry she was simply not very interesting. Now it feels like she's ten times as big and even though she's also ten times as loud, at least it's not just wailing that comes out of her no longer toothless mouth. 

Freia is just very happy and her lively, jolly and playful attitude is exceptionally contagious. Freia calls Arya ‘Aba’ because she can't pronounce the R nor the J and she also just adds the B whenever she sees the opportunity. 

Everyone keeps saying that Freia looks so much like Jon and Arya still fails to see it. She's confident they only decide it's true because of the hair. Freia definitely has Jon’s hair. Just as messy, just as wild and curly and dark-brown. All the rest of her, it's all Sansa. The way she grins, glares, giggles, screams, observes, considers, admires, animates and beams. She radiates her happiness the same way Sansa always used to do. Before Jon left. Before their father died. 

Freia looks the most like Sansa when she gives up. She makes towers out of everything, piles all sort of objects and when they fall over she picks them up and starts again. When Arya tries to help she pushes her hands away, ‘No, Aba, no!’, and goes on and on until it falls again and she gives up. Sometimes it takes hours before she'll give up, but when Freia gives up, she looks like Sansa. The Sansa who Arya remembers from their childhood. Out of nowhere, she gives up. Unexpectedly and abruptly she pushes her toys away and the displeased look on her face is all Sansa. The child Sansa used to be. 

When Sansa sings to her she babbles, when she should be eating she babbles, when she should be sleeping she babbles, when Arya tries to teach her how to walk she babbles- she even babbles when you teach her how to say your name properly. 

Freia reminds Arya of Sansa when she pulls Arya’s hair and when she demands to be lifted up, ‘Up!’ she says and her high pitched voice is the cutest thing. She even reminds Arya of Sansa when she is handed a flower and doesn't squash it in her fist the way she likes to do with most of her temporary possessions but sings her babbled song to it instead and holds it in her palm, staring at it in fascination. Only a child of Sansa’s could be so mesmerized by a thing so typically pretty as a flower. 

Yet she has some Jon in her too. She obviously has his hair and maybe his jawline too but it's something else that reminds her of Jon the most. Maybe it's in the blue eyes, maybe her blue eyes have that same gleam of purple that Jon’s grey have sometimes. It's not a color, it's not actual purple, it's a glimmer, a flash or a twinkle. They are the most beautiful eyes, kind and deep and Jon’s. Her kindness is all Jon’s too. She's as sweet as honey, gentle, friendly and good-natured. There is a sort of politeness and she is shy and smiles with narrowed eyes in a way only a child of Jon’s could. 

Sansa sleeps with Freia in her bed at night, holding her close as she lies awake and Arya is not sure if that's because Freia is afraid of the dark or because Sansa is afraid of the loneliness. The heartache, misery, silence, separation and desperation. 

As Arya watches Sansa try force Freia to eat some squashed meal that looks like a combination of oatmeal, potatoes, peas and beans all mushed together, eaten and thrown up again before it eventually ended up on Freia’s plate, she can hear the city watch practice their crossbows through the opened windows. It makes Arya feel strangely envious. 

She misses needle. She misses watching Jon and Robb spar in the yard, laughing and joking. She misses her mother and she misses Jon making Sansa smile and Rickon and Bran playing with the direwolves. She misses old Nan’s stories and she misses her father. Arya misses her father most of all. She misses his face and his arm around her shoulders, his voice and his laugh. She misses Winterfell. 

'Sansa?'

‘Hhm?’

‘Do you fear the battle?’ Arya asks.

Sansa finally manages to stick a spoon of mashed food in Freia’s mouth. The baby puts on a face of utter disgust and spits it out again.

‘Bleeeh!’ She says. 

‘Freia!’ Sansa sighs and she tries to wipe Freia’s face with a napkin, ‘Can you please not always make a mess? Look at you!’

'Bess!’ Freia yells and she throws her hands up in the air. 

‘No! _Mess_.’ Sansa says, ‘You're making a mess.’ As always Sansa is a weak woman and Freia’s undeniable charm soon brings a smile to her lips when the baby broadly grins, ‘Are you not hungry? It’s nice, really, healthy, good for you. You can grow and become a big girl!’

‘Gib burl!’

‘ _Big girl_ , you'll be my big girl, Freia?’

‘Sansa?’

‘Hm?’ She looks up and seems annoyed. 

'MABA!' Freia squeals and throws her head in her neck.

'Freia, hush!’ Sansa lifts a napkin and makes some failing attempt at cleaning Freia’s cheeks, ‘When is the yelling phase ever going to stop?’

‘Maba…’ Freia sobs with no tears, like a spoiled little brat, which seems only typical, and stretches her chubby arms out towards Sansa's hand, clearly aiming for the spoon as she closes and opens her hand repeatedly.

‘No, you can't have the spoon if you're not eating,’ Sansa pulls the spoon away, ‘Take a bite?’ She sighs and shakes her head, ‘Everything was much easier when I was still nursing.’

Freia has her mother's taste for sweetness, she usually prefers to eat fruit and sugary things, oatmeal is not her cup of tea, ‘If she's not hungry.’ Arya shrugs. 

Sansa takes a bite from Freia's meal herself to see if it’s really so unbearable, she clearly decides it's not and holds the spoon in front of Freia’s mouth again, ‘Freia, here, it's yummy, it is.’

Freia suspiciously looks down at the spoon, ‘No.’ she says. 

Sansa tries to pretend the spoon is a dragon flying through the sky but that doesn't help either, so the only option that seems left is to keep the spoon steadily in front of the baby’s face as if she'll have to eat it when it's the only thing she can look at.

Freia frowns then, almost angrily, and she drops her fist in her food. Arya dives away in time as the mushy food splashes everywhere, in Freia's own face, her hair, on the floor and all over Sansa too. Sansa's look of both disgust and shock makes Freia giggle and hide her face behind her chubby hands. 

‘Freia!’ Sansa gasps and she drops the spoon down, ‘Look at what you've done! That's not… you’re a naughty girl!’

Arya can't help but laugh with her niece, ‘Freia, it's a bess!’

‘BESS!’ Freia yells and she holds her arms up in the air as if she means to celebrate her victory. 

Sansa uses a napkin to clean her own face and she turns all red as she sputters to herself, ‘Now I'll have to put her in a bath, look at her! She already had one two days ago, and she was being terrible about it, heavens, her _dress_! I can't believe it… it was all new, she's wearing it for the first time! We’ll have to throw it away now!’

Arya doesn't really understand what the problem is, it's not as if Sansa doesn't have plenty of time to make Freia dresses. 

‘No!’ Freia screams when Sansa pulls her from her seat.

‘Yes!’ Sansa tells her, ‘It’s bath-time, and that's your _own_ fault!’ 

‘No, no, no!’ Freia pulls her own hair in desperation, covering it all with mushy oatmeal. 

Arya gets up too to follow Sansa and she knows that the need for the remaining answer is the only thing that causes her to do that. Bath time really is a battlefield. 

She listens as Sansa orders Septa Hollard to fill a bath and watches her push the hands that try to take the baby from her away. 

‘My lady, would you not like to change too?’

‘I'm fine, thank you.’ 

She could use a clean-up, her hair is sticky and her dress still covered in oatmeal she tried and failed to wipe off, but Arya knows there's no way in hell Sansa will allow anyone but her to bath her child, she's far too scared they will try to drown Freia when her mother looks the other way. 

They fill the bath, wait till it's cooled down and Freia starts aggressively fighting her mother's arms, who attempts to undress her. 

Freia wiggles and screams right up until the moment she's sitting in the tub. Once she sits in it, her world seems to turn in a perfectly blissful place of wonderfulness and oddly she doesn't seem to mind it as much as she initially indicated. She sticks her finger in the water to see what happens and claps her hands when she spots her own face in the reflection, waves at herself and then starts pulling on her own toe. 

Freia sings a lot, obviously no one knows what it's about, but they must be happy things because Freia has so little to be unhappy about. Arya is envious of her. How lovely must your world be when you can cry about things such as oatmeal and bath time? Arya dreams of a world where oatmeal is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to her. 

Sansa hands Freia the wooden unicorn she loves so much, ‘Here Freia, it's your unicorn.’

‘U-cor.’ Freia says and she slams the water with the toy, splashing it around until it ends up in her own eye, ‘Ow!’ She rubs it with her little knuckle and her bottom lip trembles.

‘Come here, sweetling, lets wash your hair.’ Sansa whispers and she clearly hopes that being gentle will make Freia participate but the previous bath time must still be fresh in Freia’s memory because she starts screaming the moment Sansa holds the soap up. 

‘Noooo! MABA no! ow, ow, OW!’ 

She’s scared the soap comes in her eye and it will sting. Well, Arya can relate there, soap in your eye can indeed hurt like hell. She wouldn't lose her mind over it, but she can see why Freia would. 

‘Shhhhh…’ Sansa tries and she kisses her daughter's face. Freia grabs her maba’s head and pulls on the auburn braid, whimpering softly as Sansa soothes her. 

Arya has to give it to her sister, bringing up this child can't possibly be the easiest thing, but when it comes to it, Sansa can always calm Freia down. 

Sansa sings a song she clearly makes up in the instance, it's about a unicorn that doesn't like bath time but it's only when she starts singing Freia’s favorite song that Freia's stream of tears ends and her voice calms Freia down enough for her to be able to wash her hair. 

_I look up at the sky,_  
_And I see, I see a roof of stars,_  
_They shine so bright,_  
_So bright all night,_  
_Look up at the sky,_  
_Is it not a lovely sight,_  
_Look up and see the twinkle of light,_  
_My sweetling have no fright,_  
_I am here, you will be alright,_  
_Take my hand, my hand, I'll hold you tight,_  
_The moon shines it's light,_  
_There is always that roof, that roof of stars,_  
_And you, you are, not alone at night,_  
_I am here, I’ll be, I'll be your bravest knight._

‘Seeb Bight!’ Freia sings to her unicorn. 

It's a bedtime song, and it's supposed to end with ‘sleep tight’ but Arya understands why Sansa kept that last sentence out. Freia always repeats her mother when she sings it and she does it now, too. 

‘Are you scared? For the battle.’ Arya tries again when the song is over.

‘Ba, ba, la, ba, la, na, na…’ Freia sings, moving her head with her own melody and the rhythm of her starry song as Sansa skillfully soaps her head of curls.

‘It doesn't matter.’ Sansa says, ‘We’ll still be hostages. Viserys is no less mad than Joffrey is.’ 

Sansa fills a cup with water and then empties it over Freia's head to wash out the soap. Freia holds her fat hands in front of her eyes to protect them and gasps for air when the water runs down her face. 

‘But Viserys didn't chop off father's head.’ 

‘He declared Jon a traitor just the same.’

‘Who has not declared Jon a traitor, these days?’

‘Robb hasn't!’ Sansa says and finally she looks up, ‘Nor has Rhaenys.’

‘You don't even know where he is right now.’ 

‘I'm sure he's not dead.’ Sansa says, ‘Or else they would've served his head to me for supper.’ 

Freia starts shivering and Sansa rubs her chubby cheek with her thumb, ‘Is it cold?’ She asks.

The baby grins her widest grin and holds the unicorn up, ‘Maba!’ and starts splashing again, squeezing her eyes shut to protect them.

‘So you don't want Viserys to win?’ Arya asks. 

‘I'm saying it doesn't matter.’ Sansa keeps her eyes on Freia who tries to grab the cup in her hand, she gives it to her and Freia starts filling the cup and empties it again, all in complete awe, ‘Viserys is our enemy as much as Joffrey is.’ 

Arya wants to repeat how Viserys has not killed their father but she doesn't see the point, ‘So you're not scared?’

‘Don't you remember what father always used to say?’ Sansa asks and when Arya doesn't answer she does so herself, ‘A man can only be brave when he is scared.’ 

‘We are no men.’ 

'We’ll have to be as brave as one. Do you think you can do that?’

‘Yes.’ Arya says with perfect certainty.

‘I think that too.’

'U-con!' Freia screams and the unicorn dives underwater to explore the floor of the bathtub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freia is a suuuper early talker and that has two reasons... she was originally a little older in this chapter and also, Sansa talks to her all the time and that helps, I mean, aside from Arya, Sansa doesn't really have anyone else to talk too who she actually trusts.  
> See you on Wednesday (Rhaenys is coming back to finally be that one person with sense) and have a lovely week and all... please let me know what you think?


	31. The Dornish Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I'm not fighting these battles am I?’ She asks and she sits up straight, ‘The Starks only come for my aid when they realize they're losing. Am I supposed to pity them now? When they only seek my friendship in their desire for my numbers?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! I am proud of sharing my age exactly to the point of the same birthday with Sophie Turner... I don't want to update with a headache tomorrow (because non-Dornish wine) so this is my own birthday gift to you- I suppose, and a slight sorry for being really late last Sunday.

**Rhaenys**  
The Water Gardens are her uncle Doran’s favorite place in the world. Rhaenys can understand why, though she doesn't share his enthusiasm. Rhaenys likes the peace and quiet, she even likes the terraces overlooking the numerous pools and fountains and the children that play in the sea and on the beach. The beach reminds her of King’s Landing, though the water is not as black as Blackwater Bay but azure blue, and when you stand in it up to your knees you can see tiny fish swimming around your toes. 

What she doesn't like is that this place has become a symbol of how she has not done a thing, nothing, not a single move, not one kill, not one stab in a back, not one army that is marching towards what she wants. It's a place of lonesome too. Her other uncle Oberyn is in Sunspear with Arianne, Quityn and Trystane so that leaves her in the company of her old uncle only. 

It was uncle Oberyn who suggested she’d stay in the Water Gardens to begin with, she never would've done it had he not convinced her with the multiple strong arguments he made. He said she needs to stay away from Sunspear, retreat and move past her father’s death, he said Viserys is going to try to kill her, and hiding is a good way to avoid that while they wait until Viserys kills himself- inevitably by accident. 

It was because of Uncle Oberyn and her cousin Arianne that Rhaenys decided to do nothing in the first place. 

When Rhaenys arrived in Sunspear she hid herself away for a day or two, to cry and mourn her father. Her good and tragic father. In those two days her hands trembled with anger as well as with fear and humiliation. She was forced to flee her home, she lost the first battle though she understood the game so well. She still doesn't understand how that happened. When the news of Ned’s beheading arrived in Dorne Rhaenys was not sure whether to feel sad, surprised or assured and calculated. She's still not sure if she believes the man brought it upon himself. Surely his mistakes were disastrous but they were based on an honor and chivalry that Rhaenys cannot help but admire. 

Everyone has always called Rhaenys Dornish, her whole life long. When her father presented her to king Aerys his grace said she smelled Dornish and that was reason enough for Viserys to repeat it every time he saw an opportunity. He will never say it again. 

Rhaenys loves Dorne, it makes her feel close to her mother. There is something about Dorne that is so different from all those other places she has been to in her life. Mayhaps it's because Dorne was politically separated from the rest of Westeros for so long, maybe it's the Rhoynar influence, or it could be the weather… So terribly hot despite the time of the year. The Water Gardens are beautiful during autumn; hot days, cool nights, the salt breeze blowing in from the sea… Rhaenys feels homesick. 

If only Arianne had travelled with her here, she would be less lonely. Rhaenys has leaned on the company of women all her life. Yet her cousin insisted to remain in Sunspear. Rhaenys wonders if it is because Arianne and uncle Doran have a strained relationship.

It was in the Water Gardens where Rhaenys received the Lady Catelyn Stark.

‘Where is my brother?’ Rhaenys asked, ‘Is he with you?’ She hoped Jon was with the Starks and yet… the idea makes her heart bleed. Why the Starks? Why always the damn Starks? They had promised each other had they not? They swore it. 

Their father would've wanted them together, fighting together, this war that is theirs. It is and never was a Stark war, they ruined it with their Declaration of Independence, as if it was not complicated enough already.

And Jon chose to fight for them. How? Why? She's fighting it for him damnit. Though there is little fighting she has done. Perhaps that is why. Perhaps Jon thinks she does nothing because she doesn't want to, because… because she's scared or because she regrets it. She hopes he knows her better than that. With their father dead and Aegon dead there is no one left to her but Jon. He may be a bastard, but she is the only brother that remains to her and she dreams of seeing him again.

Perhaps he hates her, for leaving Sansa. Perhaps he should. Perhaps she hates herself too. She never should've left, she should've stayed, she should've allowed them to hack off her head along with Ned Stark’s if only to never betray her sister-in-law. She is brave enough, she could've done it. If only she could speak to them all, tell them how sorry she is, tell them she never meant to fail them. 

It was because her uncle said… her uncle told her they'd kill her. She knows he spoke the truth. She had no choice, she had to leave. She is no use to anyone with her head on a spike… yet- perhaps she would've felt not so guilty then. 

‘He is.’ Catelyn Stark said, ‘He is well.’

Rhaenys could only nod.

‘He is on his way to Dragonstone.’

‘ _Dragonstone_?’ She could've predicted Jon being foolish enough to think that speaking to Viserys would help instead of do more harm. _Gods, please be good… Let no one harm him there_. 

‘He has fought our battles bravely.’

‘I am sure.’ She supposes that meant he is not planning on joining the Night’s Watch the way Joffrey demanded him to. Of course Joffrey would love that, lock Jon Snow away behind a very high, icy wall. She burned the letter that told her of the request. The letters they all wrote her to declare her a traitor, declare her an enemy of the state- that one letter they send to her uncle Doran to demand him to hand her over to the throne so they could rightfully chop off her head- she burned these too. That viscous bastard is a lucky ass with Jon’s first born being a daughter. Had Freia been a grandson of king Rhaegar’s he may have slid off the iron chair in fear. Or maybe he would've been too stupid to realize. He was always too stupid to realize Rhaegar was not his real father. That vile, sickening little oaf. 

Rhaenys wrote to the old bear at Castle Black, lord Mormont. Though she supposes he is a Mormont no longer. She wrote the Lord Commander that ‘I'll burn down your wall and all your twelve castles, including East-Watch-by-the-Sea, if you allow my half-brother to join the black.’ The man never send his reply, which Rhaenys took as a guarantee. Of course the threat was maybe the emptiest one she has ever made, for how does one burn a wall of ice? But it was the message that counted, and the passion behind it, not the words she used.

Catelyn Stark asked for her alliance and Rhaenys could nothing but raise her nose up in air, ‘I support my brother, I support my kin, you are my brother’s aunt, my sister’s mother, my niece’s grandmother, to ask me if my friendship is true of trust you insult me greatly.’ 

Lady Stark had trouble responding to that, ‘I am glad.’

 _I'm not glad_. Rhaenys wanted to tell her. _Not glad at all. I'm burning away under this hot sun, getting bored out of my skull waiting for my time to come and you waste yours by coming here, asking me for an alliance that I have sworn myself to a year ago?_

Rhaenys is not sworn to the Starks, never will be, she has not one drop of northern blood in her veins, the first men are not among her ancestors, yet if Jon chooses their friendship, than she will bend her head for them. Or nod in their direction. But they have been ruining too much and it has been going on for too long, the visit annoyed her and the news from the North is getting on her nerves. Those curious Northernmen and their odd ideas of the world. 

Her Dornish kin is even less eager to come to the need of the Starks. It is not what the original plan was, the North had no part in it. 

'It is numbers that you want, I assume?’ Rhaenys asked Jon’s aunt. 

‘We have a common enemy.’ Was the political correct respond and Rhaenys wanted to roll her eyes. She was disappointed by Catelyn Stark, the idea of receiving an audience from a woman, not a man, exited her at first, but lady Stark was desperate to underestimate the Dornish Queen as much as any man has before her. Catelyn Stark is intelligent, yes, but she also believed she could fool Rhaenys, and so far no one has been able to do not, no man nor woman.

‘If his grace marries my cousin Arianne, my uncles will consider it.’ She said and it pained her to call the boy his grace for if she has her way he won't be king for long. The nerve. She can't believe Jon allowed that to happen. 

Catelyn Stark shook her head and told them her son is already betrothed to be married to a daughter of Lord Walder Frey. Rhaenys raised her eyebrows. How peculiar. 

‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’ Doran declared.

‘How about their girl? Arya Stark? Could she not marry Trystane? They are of the same age, are they not?’ Rhaenys tried but her uncle shook his head.

‘No, not that girl. She is a hostage, am I right? How can we marry Trystane to a girl held captive by those lions? They'll marry the poor thing off to one of theirs and we’ll have no one. I don't need promises, I have plenty of these.’

Rhaenys told Jon’s aunt to bring the proposal over to her son all the same, in the mere hope that Jon’s cousin was less honorable than his father and would consider the match, if anything because the Frey support is of no importance, nothing compared to a princess of Dorne as bride- Doran’s heiress too. 

Now Rhaenys thinks of it she doubts Arianne will agree. When Rhaenys came to Sunspear to marry Quintyn she remembers Arianne trying to seduce the last Baratheon. Renly had only eyes for someone else, however, Rhaenys will never forget that. If only that never happened. If only they did not travel all that way to Dorne, all of them, her father, the queen, those three bastards of hers, even Jon… all that way to the south-east of Dorne to return back to King’s Landing with Rhaenys as much an unmarried maid as she had been when they sailed off. 

Rhaenys will never forget that. The embarrassment, the humiliation. The way they all looked at her- the way they pitied her. After that Dorne was never the same again, not to Rhaenys. She never wanted to marry Quintyn, never quite saw the point of an alliance either, yet still… to be cast aside like that… she'll never forget it. It will haunt her till her last nightmare and her last sweet dream. 

Arianne has denied many men her heart, yet opens her legs for nearly just as many. In that Rhaenys finds herself the least Dornish. She leaves it to the Gods to give judgement and yet… Such things always make her feel abhorrent. Her uncle Oberyn has so much daughters that she always loses count. She never memorizes their first names yet never forgets their last.

Sand. They're bastards. The Dornish are not greatly concerned about whether or not a child is trueborn or bastard-born, especially not if the child is born to a paramour. Oberyn’s recognized paramour is a Sand as well, like his squire. 

In Dorne, many lords and some ladies have paramours, chosen for love and lust rather than for breeding or alliance and they sit next to their lover at the high table, unaware or perhaps unconcerned by the unchaste nature of their status. Oberyn brought his Sand paramour with him to the wedding of Daenerys and Viserys and the ladies of the court were offended by her presence and called her ‘whore’ behind their hands. 

Rhaenys hasn't forgotten the treatment Jon received at times, the way people treated him like the lowest of their society, like garbage. The way bastards are regarded in the south-east end of Westeros is exceptional and unimaginable to anyone who has never set a foot in Dorne. 

When they were all in Dorne they gave Jon a seat next to Aegon, and Aegon sat next to Rhaenys. Rhaenys was the first born then, and Jon as much a son of the King as Aegon. He had the third place, not Joffrey. The way he always should've had the third place. Rhaenys can still remember how uncomfortable it was. Aegon hated it, though not as much as Cersei.

The old High Septon told Rhaenys once, long ago, after she asked, that king's laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another. Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. The High Septon said all bastards are born to betrayal.

So she hated Jon for that. For their father’s betrayal, for looking so Northern, for reminding not only Rhaegar, but her too, of Lyanna Stark. Betrayal indeed. Was it not for Jon’s mother, Elia Martell may still have lived today. Yet Jon's mother died too, and he never grew up with a mother either. Jon was and is as motherless as she has been ever since that day, that bloody day she cannot forget, no matter how hard she tried. She still tries. 

She cannot hate Jon anymore. If anything because Jon proved the high septon wrong. 

Bastard children are born from lust and lies, men say; their nature is wanton and treacherous. But Jon is as good and as true son as any man ever has been. He never lies, he's not treacherous nor wanton. He's good. He makes her proud. If she'll ever see him again she'll tell him. She’ll ask him for forgiveness too, for failing him. For allowing them to make her hate him.

The sexuality of the Dornish is something that not only makes her uncomfortable but embarrassed, awkward and, every now and then, scared too. 

It hurts, that is all Rhaenys knows. A man’s love hurts, physically, your heart, your bones… your eyes after you have cried for too long. There is no use in love. Not like that. Touches like that hurt. The defenseless, powerless inability… she cannot bare the memory of the vulnerability. 

Sansa spoke of it to her. She said it felt good. She said a man’s love is special, _it's all-consuming_ , she said. She said Jon makes her feel like a woman. At one point she mentioned how he makes her feel powerful. 

Sansa told her more than Jon would've liked, that Rhaenys is certain of. Sansa mentioned kissing and touching and breathless gasps and moaning and things that made Rhaenys dig her nails in her own skin. Rhaenys always pretended it disgusted her because it was about Jon, probably that has some truth in it, but really… it disgusted her because everything about it disgusts her. 

After Catelyn Stark left Daenerys arrived. Her belly swollen and her eyes different from the way Rhaenys remembered. She'll never forgive Daenerys, not ever, but she is her aunt. Her twenty-one year old aunt who has seen enough horror to last a life time. Rhaenys knows what that feels like. 

Yet they did not speak a word, nor did they wrap their arms around each other.

Rhaenys asked her if she saw Jon, if she knows where he is, but she didn't say, she shook her head and hugged herself and pretended her whole world is a poisonous nightmare.

Rhaenys knows Daenerys feels as betrayed by her as Rhaenys feels betrayed by Daenerys. The difference is, or so Rhaenys tells herself at night, that Rhaenys has not completely lost her mind. 

She should've seen it coming, she should've realized that shipping Dany off with Viserys would drive her to insanity too. She should've stopped her father, but Viserys would never have let them hide him away in Dragonstone if they had not given him Daenerys to wed and a mad Targaryen at court was simply no option, both for the calmth of the Red Keep and Rhaegar’s inner peace. Rhaenys’s father had simply too much trouble keeping his control when his younger brother was around. The memory of his mad king father made him feel not only guilty but sick to the stomach too. Every child in the Seven Kingdoms knows the Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. Her father wanted the living proof of that as far away from court as they could possibly get him. 

Rhaenys also knows that Daenerys felt that Rhaenys replaced her with Sansa and that is a lie as well. Daenerys was not replaceable and Rhaenys’s relationship with Sansa was not comparable to the one she once used to share with Daenerys. It was not as toxic and despite the way Rhaenys taught Sansa all she knows about court and the great game it was equal. Rhaenys didn't feel Sansa’s emotional dependence the way she used to experience with Daenerys. Dany could not be on her own, she could not think on her own and she relied on Rhaenys for protection. Daenerys was proud, Daenerys was scared, she was lonely and depressed most of all. She wasn't funny or pleasant company, she didn't refuse to take Rhaenys seriously every now and then and she definitely never mocked her. She wasn't bubbly and lovable and good and kind nor did she enjoy silly and small things that makes life worth living. 

Sansa loves Jon for who he is, as a person, his flaws included. Daenerys loves Jon for what she built him up to be in her head. 

Rhaenys knows Daenerys has wondered why Jon decided to love Sansa. Rhaenys wants to answer that question but the truth is she doesn't know. Jon and Sansa had and mayhaps still have a connection that Rhaenys has never understood. All she knows is that, for Jon, it never was a choice. It was the same for Rhaenys. Her father told her to look after her, yet truly… Sansa is too charming not to grow fond of. 

When Rhaenys left her in the snake pit she knew she'd survive. Rhaenys taught her well and all she knows. Yet Dany… she saw no other way but to send not only Brienne but ser Barristan to her, disguised too. Her father's most loyal guard and her truest sworn sword. She would have protected Daenerys with her life, but the time that pleased Daenerys is in the past. The only thing Daenerys feels now is wrath and aversion and the only thing Rhaenys feels is indifference. Daenerys has lost her mind the same way Viserys has and if anything Rhaenys feels a burning need to keep a distance from those whose mind are disturbed. Their madness terrifies her. 

News of Viserys’s fleet sailing towards King’s Landing reached Dorne and her uncles both declared it a happy day. It is all going just as they planned. 

Then Daenerys brought her dead son into the world in the middle of the night and when Rhaenys woke up the next morning, she was gone. 

Rhaenys smashed all the glass ornaments and breakable objects in her room to pieces out of utter frustration and screamed, screamed at the top of her lungs because finally she found a reason to do that. 

After that she went back to bed and she wakes up sweating. Why is it always so hot in this crappy land? How can people live in it? How bad must it be during the hottest day of summer? How can anyone believe that she is more Dornish when all she does here is burn her skin to the merciless sun when, for a moment, she fails to hide in the shadows? 

Rhaenys walks through the garden along the palm trees at her left and the pools at her right. Her thin white cotton dress should breath but all it does is stick to her skin. She moves her hands to the back of her head and loosens her hairnet. Her golden hair falls down over her shoulders and as she closes her eyes she feels the burning sun on her cheeks. 

Dany always loved the heat. She'd bathe in hot baths and sat close to fires, stared into the flames as if Viserys’s mad priestess convinced her to look for visions in the movements. She even claimed to have dreams about fire, about dragons too.

Rhaenys never has been like that. She never enjoyed heat nor has she felt attracted to fire. An attraction to fire always scared her because it was an indication for the Targaryen madness she grew to fear so greatly.

‘True dragons are drawn to the flames,’ Viserys used to say, ‘Fire cannot kill a dragon.’ 

He is planning an attack on King’s Landing that will kill him and Rhaenys has still not decided what that makes her feel. He is her uncle after all, no matter how often she wished him dead. It would be better for all those Rhaenys loves if Viserys died on a burning ship in Blackwater Bay, that includes Daenerys. 

As Rhaenys kicks her shoes off she feels the warmth of the stone floor that covers the ground around the pool. She pulls her gown over her head and stands there in nothing but her smallclothes and her stockings. 

She looks down at her breasts. They are the epitome of her femininity, a symbol of her sexuality, no use to her, no use to the children she'll never have. They are perky and not very big in her hands and though the peaks are much lighter than Arianne’s, her nipples insult her by being so terribly visible through the thin fabric of her dress. 

She dips her toes in the water and the cold is comforting. Slowly she takes steps deeper into the water until her small clothes stick to her body and become a second skin. 

If dragons can't burn, can they drown? She wonders first and then figures they can. It is as if she wants to test it when she fills her lungs with oxygen and then pulls her head underwater, her arms and legs pulled together, turning her body in a ball. 

She hears someone call her name, not her title, just _Rhaenys_. 

She closes her eyes fiercely because the water pricks and she feels her hands turn into fists when her breath leaves her and a sick feeling enters her guts. 

Someone calls her name again, louder this time, but she still refuses to listen. She wants to tell the person to go away but for that she has to go up and she prefers to stay underwater for a little longer. Maybe this is what Freia felt like when she was still in Sansa’s womb. Maybe that is why she fought and cried so loudly when she was pulled away from her mother, it explains why she resisted to come out. 

The water in her ears make odd sounds, as if inhuman creatures sing to her. Maybe they know what to do? 

If only her father were here, with her, smiling and stroking her hair. He always knows, she respected him so much. Now he rests in the Sept of Baelor, his ashes buried, not by his kin, but by his foes. She'll kill them all. 

_Father, father please… forgive me for all my sins, forgive me for my weaknesses. I shall be strong, strong for you…_

If only Jon were here. If only she could tell them all these things she has been thinking, ask him for forgiveness and promise him to fight with him, together, side by side as brothers and sisters should. She'll tell him she loves him, in her cold and unfeeling way, _Jon... forgive me for all I’ve done to you, forgive me for not loving you sooner, for the way I lacked to be what you needed me to be, forgive me for not being your sister, Jon, Jon, Jon. I was weak. My mother… I'm sorry._

She told Sansa. She said we can choose to be strong. 

_I never choose my weakness, Jon, I never choose to do that to you, nor did I choose to hate you. I never choose to let them do that to me. To my mother, I never choose to let them take Aegon from me. I never choose to let you down. You're the only one that remains to me. In the end I choose to allow myself to love you, that's all that matters, is it not?_

She told Sansa we can choose to be better than everyone else, smarter, stronger. 

_I'll be strong. Jon. For father, for Aegon, for mother. For you. You're all I have._

Jon.

Rhaenys gasps when she's pulled from the water, her chest fills with warm air and she fights the arms that dragged her up, back to the real world. 

‘Rhaenys, seven hells!’

Her teeth chatter and her fingers entangle with his as if they are supposed to.

‘Were you going to kill yourself too?’

No. of course not. She'd never do that. She's not Aegon, she's stronger than him, more determined than him and she doesn't give up. 

‘Rhaenys!’

‘ _Jon_ …’ he pulls her to his chest, and she wraps her arms around his neck, her face buried in the crook. He's taller than she is and in his arms she no longer needs to kick her legs to keep her head above the water, he holds her up, she does not need to safe herself. He won't let her drown. A feeling of security takes over and reaches her fingers and her toes, ‘You're here.’

‘I am.’ He says and his voice is no longer angry, though he fails to hide his frustration. 

She screens her face away and smells his scent on the skin of his jaw and it smells strangely like home. She’s glad he lets her hide herself like that because she can't close her mouth in the silent ‘oh’ she makes. 

Then he turns around and hurriedly grabs her arm and hauls her with him to the stairs of the pool. Once they're on the safe ground he grabs the cloak he jerked off and wraps it around her shaking shoulders. Perhaps he knows how much she hates her own nudity or maybe he thinks she's cold and just wants to help her warm up again. 

They stare at each other for a couple of seconds and then Rhaenys tells him the thing that's at the top of her mind, ‘Gods Jon, thank heavens you have curls, you look ridiculous with straight hair.’ 

He ignores her, ‘What were you doing?’ 

‘Cooling down of course, it's been ridiculously hot all day.’ 

He wipes some water from his face and shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips, ‘Have you lost your wits?’

‘I don't believe so.’ She checks every day, though she doubts she'll be the one to notice the first signals when the time comes. She's read and seen enough about madness to know it doesn't work that way. Viserys never notices. 

‘I'm sorry.’ He says, he breathes heavily, pants after the rush that made him jump in the pool. 

‘For what?’ 

He waits a moment, then says, ‘Not coming to you sooner.’ 

She looks at him from top to bottom and then nods, ‘It's quite alright.’ 

 

**Jon**

‘We must get drunk tonight.’ Rhaenys tells him and he doesn't see why he should oppose. They're in Dorne after all, they better enjoy the wine. The taste is sweet and he feels too miserable to not enjoy the numbness in his head. 

‘Were you trying to drown yourself in the pool?’ He asks blandly.

‘No.’ she says, ‘I wasn't, truly. I just… I liked the silence, I suppose.’

Then, she tells him everything and he tells her everything too. 

‘So you have seen Catelyn?’

‘Yes, she looked older than I remember, honestly, but quite feisty too.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘That she waisted her time coming to me, my fealty is yours.’

‘But she-‘

‘ _Yours_.’ She says, ‘If you decide that your cause is their cause then it is them I shall support. When she seeked my conversation she spoke to the wrong man.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I am- they are not my cause.’

‘They are your kin.’ 

‘He refused to trade the Kingslayer.’ He says and Rhaenys understands, she knows. 

‘So you left them?’

‘After releasing the Kingslayer.’

‘You released him?’

He nods, ‘I didn't- I wrote Tyrion to let him know the Kingslayer is on his way. I told him I gave him his brother back in return for my wife and daughter. It's a fair trade… in their eyes hopefully. I saw no other way. I had to do it, I couldn't… I have to get them back. I can't stand it Rhaenys.’ He looks away in his cup, waiting for a scolding, for her to tell him he's a fool who knows nothing. It never comes, she only leans back in her chair and smiles. She looks amused.

‘I must say, I'm impressed.’

‘Are you?’ 

‘It was extremely stupid and I never would've done it,’ she says and he leans his head forward, ‘But I'm ever so glad you did.’ 

He looks up and gulps down some more wine, ‘It _was_ stupid.’ He says. 

She moves her hand to cover his lower arm, ‘You did the right thing, Jon.’

He avoids her eyes, ‘I know I did.’ 

‘Good.’ She pulls her hand back and returns the subject to Catelyn’s visit, ‘My uncle offered my cousin’s hand in marriage to Robb Stark.’ Rhaenys tells him. 

‘Your cousin?’ 

‘Arianne.’ Jon can only frown deep at the mention of that name. Before he came here he travelled to Sunspear, expecting to meet Rhaenys, but she wasn't there. Her uncle Oberyn and her cousins Quintyn, Tristane and Arianne were, however. He remembered Oberyn from Dany’s wedding, and Oberyn remembered him too. Jon wished they'd spoken a bit more back then, perhaps the whole meeting would've been a little less uncomfortable. 

Arianne was uncomfortable too. The way she looked at him, let her eyes move over his body, follow every move he made. She is a beautiful woman, he won't deny it, but he wonders if she has a gentle bone in her body. There is something dark in her eyes that makes him fear her. Fear her words and her thoughts and he doubts her loyalty most of all. 

‘Your aunt told us he is already betrothed to be married to a Frey.’ 

‘That is true.’ Jon says, ‘One of his daughters. We needed to cross the bridge to- when Ned was still alive.’

‘I see.’ Rhaenys bites her lower lip, ‘A pact with Dorne would have been worth ten times more than a pact with Lord Walder. The man can't be trusted, I promise you now that so long as I live you can trust my kin.’ 

‘It is of no matter.’ Jon says, ‘Robb probably wants my head after what I did.’

‘You don't believe that.’ She says and he knows she's right. 

‘He won't listen to me, he never has.’ 

‘Arianne probably won't want to marry him either way.’ Rhaenys says and a smile crosses her lips that he can't quite place, ‘He's too young for her.’ 

‘Even if her father commands it?’

‘No one commands princess Arianne anything.’ 

‘Right.’ Jon says, he know he sounds as if that is something he'd forgotten. 

‘If the Starks and Martells unite their swords… we’ll be invincible.’ Rhaenys says, ‘We know it, my uncle knows it and so does your cousin. We have to work together and we will, the only question is how.’ 

‘Why does there need to be a marriage?’ Jon asks. 

‘Because my uncle does not trust the North.’

‘They’re my family.’ 

‘Naturally. And you are… their niece’s bastard half-brother? My uncle does not see why he should support nor come to rescue the cousin of his niece’s bastard-half brother.’ 

‘That is just-‘

‘And then there is the other problem.’ She takes a sip of her wine.

‘What?’

‘The Declaration of Independence, of course.’ 

‘What about that?’

‘It has to end.’ She says, ‘Obviously.’ 

‘Obviously?’

‘Father would turn in his grave were it not he's been cremated.’

‘Robb will never agree to that.’ 

‘Won't he?’

‘No. he refused to free Sansa in fear of losing it, doing it now what was the-’

‘He'll have to.’ She smiles from above her cup, ‘You see, he needs us, if he means to keep his head.’ 

‘He has not lost one battle.’

‘Yet he's losing this war.’ 

Jon wants to object but he knows it's true, ‘After what I did… after my betrayal, he won't listen to me.’

‘Jon,’ she sighs, ‘You did not betray him. He betrayed you.’

‘He doesn't think so, he did not mean to.’

‘Well, you must tell him you understand.’

‘What?’

‘Tell him you forgive him.’ 

‘How will I-‘

‘It's an art, Jon; blaming others. He'll start blaming himself when you mush his hair and tell him you love him still. Guilt will creep in eventually and he'll even beg you for forgiveness if his honor is as strong as his father’s.’ She shrugs, ‘That is how hearts work.’

Jon nods because he wants to make her believe he understands so she'll end the subject.

‘We can offer them more than an independence.’ 

‘What is that?’

‘Victory.’ She says, ‘With us from the south and their attack from the north… I have a plan that will bring Tywin down like a storm sinks a ship.’ 

‘A plan?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘We will explain to you- we must go to Sunspear first and I'll tell you all- but it only works of your cousin bends his knee- he's a Stark, Starks know how to bend their knee.’

‘You want him to bend his knee to you?‘

‘They'll bend their knee to you.’

‘Me?’

‘You, yes of course, who else?’

‘Why would they need to bend their knee to _me_?’

She leans her head to one side as if she means to calculate if he's being serious or not, ‘You know why.’ She says, she always says that. It used to frustrate him so much, the way she could never simply say it, always forced him to figure it out on his own- or not. And then she'd always pretend his questions were the stupidest she'd ever heard. _You know nothing, do you Jon?_.

Instead of getting angry now, like he always used to do, he realizes that he does know, ‘I don't want to be king.’

‘I'm glad to hear you say it.’

‘You declared yourself the rightful queen. I'll gladly accept-’ 

‘I had to, someone had to, I couldn't proclaim you king when you weren't around. They would've send someone for you and chopped your head off, never mind what might've happened if you'd died fighting for the wolves or joined the black.’ 

‘I don't want to be king.’ He says again. 

‘Do you think that is something of interest to me?’

‘It should be!’

She shakes her head and puts her cup down, ‘Father made his will up the night he died.’ She says, ‘Ned showed it to Joffrey the morning after. It's why they executed him. Do you know what his will said?’

Jon doesn't respond. He knows. Everyone knows. Robb knows, Rhaenys knows, Cersei knows, every damn lord and all their smallfolk in all the seven kingdoms and the free lands beyond the narrow sea knows. He wonders if Sansa knows.

‘I intend to do as father wished.’ 

‘Nobody wants me as king.’ 

‘Father wanted you to be king. I suppose he must've seen something in you that he thought promising.’ 

‘You're the right person.’ He says and he means it, ‘You should be queen.’ 

Rhaenys smiles again, as if the compliment makes her happy. It wasn't meant as a compliment and even if it was, she's not sensitive for compliments, ‘Father wanted you to be his successor for a reason.’ 

‘I don't-‘ 

‘A Stark as queen consort is the best possible outcome for your family-in-law and they _will_ bend their knee to you. Your mother was from the north and your wife is their lord’s sister. They'll swear their fealty to you any day- you’re married to Sansa, they know you, you know the North as well as you know the south, they respect you, the north and the south _both_ , you're well liked, respected, I dare say admired by the general public. But me... not so much. Or have the Northmen not even discussed it?’

Jon looks away, ‘They don't believe you are trustworthy, as you are a woman.’

‘And they didn't want to support Viserys because he is mad?’ 

‘I’m pretty sure he'll kill himself within the coming year.’ 

She takes a gulp of her wine, ‘Lets hope so.’

Jon sighs, ‘So your plan is to team up with the Starks?’

‘No.’ she says, ‘ _Our_ plan is to team up with the Starks.’

‘Our plan is to team up with the Starks?’

She shakes her head, ‘I knew Viserys was going to attack King’s Landing on his own with an embarrassingly small army and no naval experience nor battle insight the moment he send me an equally embarrassing letter in which he named himself king and declared me a traitor. I wanted to let him kill himself first all while the Starks and Lannisters would be at each other’s throats tiring and thinning their armies as they fight this pointless war-‘

‘Killing thousands of innocent good men.’ 

‘That’s father speaking now.’

‘It's a cruel tactic.’ 

‘I'm not fighting these battles am I?’ She asks and she sits up straight, ‘The Starks only come for my aid when they realize they're losing. Am I supposed to pity them now? When they only seek my friendship in their desire for my numbers?’ 

‘Robb’s enemies are your enemies too.’

‘ _Our_ enemies Jon. I'm doing this for you. For you and for father. You are in this with me or I'm out.’

‘I'm in this with you.’

‘So you'll accept the throne?’

‘I don't… I would be a dreadful king.’

‘That is what all good kings think. When they told our father the realm would mourn his death he thought they were joking- yet they all call him good king Rhaegar now, even those who disliked him when he was still with us. He'll end up being Rhaegar the Good in the history books. Not everyone was fond of father, but they all respected him. There are only two people glad of his death and they're Cersei and Joffrey.’ 

‘No one wants me on the throne.’ 

‘You're fit for the throne.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Father believed it, I believe it, many others believe it too. _Sansa_ , she believes in you, she told me.’

He wonders when the mention of Sansa will stop hurting, ‘You said yourself that Sansa likes to see and believe in things that suit her dreams, Sansa never-‘

‘Don't insult her. Sansa is a smart woman, she was always watching everyone and sometimes I think that gave her the opportunity to see things everyone else who couldn't shut up didn't.’

‘Of course she is a smart woman but-‘

‘There is no but. She knows you better than anyone and she _believes_ in you.’

‘I'm not sure if she still does. Not after all this time.’

‘You're a diplomat. You have the right friends and the right traits. You’re honorable, you listen, you worry, you are just and courageous. You have the ability to become the king father wanted to be- a king he was, a king he thought you would be. You have the name, the wife, the heir, we’ll get you an army and you'll be father's son.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I'm a bastard.’ 

Rhaenys’s smile is real now and he sees tears twinkling in her eyes, ‘You’re not, actually. He legitimized you. Named you his trueborn son and heir, prince of Dragonstone and all that. It was a royal degree and everyone knows royal degrees cannot be undone, no matter in how many bits that whore cut that piece of paper.’ 

Jon shakes his head. He is and always will be a bastard. That is part of him, part of who he is. His father did not vow anything to his mother before they made him. Jon is the fruit of betrayal and lust. Once a bastard, always a bastard.

‘You'll be king even if I have to squeeze that crown on your stubborn head.’

‘I really don't want to.’

‘I know you don't, but I also know you are an honorable man, you always do your duty, always, you'll do your duty now. You're clever enough to understand that this is not about what we want. What we want is not important, this is about-‘

‘The greater good?’

‘Exactly.’ 

‘You've never called me clever before.’ 

Rhaenys frowns at him as he smirks, he cannot help it, if he tries he'll make her pay for these words till the end of her days, ‘I said clever enough, not clever.’

‘I'll leave it to you to be clever, I will be the pretty one.’ 

She stares in her glass and suddenly he sees how red her cheeks are. She wanted to get drunk tonight and he supposes they will, they better, ‘I _am_ naming myself Hand of the King- whether you'll like it or not.’

‘Do you want that pin too? I always thought you found it ugly.’

‘It _is_ ugly.’

‘We'll get a new one made for you.’

‘I don't care about pins, really, it's just a stupid pin. I need people to listen to me.’

‘I'll listen to you.’ 

She nods her head, ‘I'll make you listen to me and if you won't you'll regret it.’ 

‘Of course.’

‘And we’ll kill all the Lannisters too.’

‘I'll give you the honors if you like.’

‘I only want Cersei.’

‘Cersei’s yours.’

‘And I want them to play the Rains of Castamere when I do it. To punish her for all the times she made us listen to that cursed song.’

‘Of all the things you want to punish her for, it's that song?’

‘I do hate the beginning.’ 

Jon feels the urge to sing it now just to annoy her, but he's not a good singer so he hums the first tunes instead and she hits his arm with her flat hand and he laughs.

‘Don't you dare!’

‘I’m sorry! We’ll play the Rains of Castamere, I promise.’ 

‘And after that never again.’

‘After that never again.’ He says and he grins at her. He'd never grin at her like that if he weren't drunk, ‘You can kill Cersei… Joffrey is mine.’ 

‘Deal.’ She doesn't ask why but she supposes she already knows, as always, ‘She must think she has won.’

‘She's stupid enough to think that.’

Rhaenys glares ahead of herself as if Cersei stands in front of her, ‘That _vile_ woman, with that _ugly_ smirk, I can totally picture her smirk, can you?’ She gives him a terrible impression and he laughs again.

‘Yeah, she must smirk like that all the time.’

'I can’t stop thinking about my last conversation with her.’

‘How did that go?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘Same as it always went. I told her; _knowledge is power, dear mother_ -‘

‘She always hated it when you called her mother.’

‘Why do you think I called her mother? Because I thought she liked it? I loved the way it made her look like she just nearly choked herself on a lemon.’

Jon nearly chokes on his wine.

‘Anyway… she said, _power is power_ \- told me she could seize me right there and then if she wanted to.’ 

‘Did she?’

‘Of course not! I said, naturally you could but you and I both know you won't. there are three reasons for you not to kill me, the first one is that father likes me so much better than he likes you-‘

‘Isn't that the only reason?’ 

‘I told her, _frankly dear mother_ , he likes everyone more than he likes you.’

‘And the other two reasons? Or have you forgotten?’

‘I did not! Of course not. Second reason was that she'll get bored out of her skull with me dead.’

Jon decides not to take another sip of his wine until this story is over.

‘The third reason I do have forgotten.’ She admits shamelessly.

He laughs, ‘Rhaegar would have skinned her alive had she killed you. Bluffing was always one of her worst traits.’ 

‘I remember the third reason! Third reason was that I'd come haunt her from my grave and drive her to Targaryen insanity. I told her I'll be just as scary dead as I am alive.’

Jon shakes his head and she grins at him, ‘I'm so glad I cannot remember my last conversation with her.’

‘She never conversed with you that much, anyway.’ 

‘She always liked it to make me feel like the dirt underneath her heels.’ 

Rhaenys gulps down some more wine, ‘This wine is awful.’ She says, ‘What do you think?’

‘I just spend months in a Stark army camp, in the war-shaken Riverlands or on horseback, this wine is fabulous.’

She rolls her eyes at him, ‘I’d feel sorry for you if I actually had the capacity to do that.’

‘I don't need you to feel sorry for me, just need you to pour me some more wine.’

She smiles still as she hands him the wine but then she seems to realize she does that and she washes it off her face. 

‘Jon, I never wanted-‘

He doesn't let her finish because something else suddenly pops up in his head, ‘When I was at Dragonstone… Dany was there. With Viserys. He tried to have me killed.’

‘Viserys tried to _kill_ you? I knew it. Knew he'd try... That vicious little monster, he'll burn in hell for this. _How_?’

‘At night. Someone tried to stab me in my sleep. Brienne of Tarth saved me.’ He can see the way she holds her breath suddenly, ‘You send her there to await my arrival?’

‘I expected you to think conversing might help. It’s what father would've done. You underestimated his madness.’ 

‘I suppose I did.’ 

‘You send Daenerys to me with ser Malckom.’ 

‘I did.’ Jon says, he has not seen ser Malckom anywhere, when he didn't he expected the man failed and he felt not only sadness but shame too, ‘I… she was pregnant, I did not want to leave her behind with Viserys after he send a killer after me. And the red lady… Rhaenys you have no idea she is-‘

‘I think I have an idea.’ Rhaenys says, ‘She was here. Daenerys, I mean. Your knight brought her to me.’ 

‘She is here?’

‘ _Was_.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘She is gone now.’

‘Where?’

Rhaenys shrugs again, ‘The Gods know. She probably went ahead to prepare for the arrival of Viserys’s corpse. To burn it, dance around his pire with Mellisandre of Asshai praying and singing songs to the red lord of fucking light.’ She shakes her head, ‘She's dead to me.’ 

‘Why did she leave?’

‘She gave birth here.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘A boy. Two days ago he was born. Viserys thought he was the prince they promised. I don't know who promised exactly. They're all loons in Asshai.’

Jon is confident Rhaenys has never been to Asshai, ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘The baby!’

‘He never lived. As I said, she disappeared after birthing a dead baby, left that same night. Vanished in the middle of it without talking to me first. There is nothing I can do for her now, nothing I want to do. I offered her my help, she threw it right back in my face, accused me of betrayal when all I've ever done is fight for her safety and happiness. She sees betrayal in every corner and choose that mad man over me, over _you_! I can only hope she'll regret her mistakes. Though I tell myself she can't help it. Viserys poisoned her with his ideas. Marrying her to Viserys was cruel and not something father was proud of- yet he saw no other way. Daenerys was a meek and weak little lamb, she'll always be. I did all I could to help her but-‘

‘She told me Sansa died.’

Rhaenys opens her mouth, closes it again and then raises in her chair. Apparently she doesn't know everything. 

‘She told me… she told me she saw her dead body and breath her last breathe. She said she saw the silent sisters take her away, told me my child ripped her open and-‘

‘It's a lie.’ 

‘I know it is.’

‘She was bleeding but when I left… I never would've left her if I'd believed-‘

‘I know that.’

‘I would never have left Freia with them if Sansa had died. I would've protected her from their-‘

‘I know Rhaenys, I know. I know she lives, I know you didn't leave her to- she wrote me.’

‘Who did?’

‘Sansa did.’

‘She wrote?’

He takes the holy piece of paper from his breaches and hands it to her. 

Rhaenys scans the words and a sad smile appears on her face, ‘When did you get this?’

‘Robb gave it to me the day I returned from my visit to Dragonstone.’ 

‘It's much older than that.’

‘I know.’

‘It's the imp’s work.’ 

‘I know that too.’ 

‘That wretched little man.’ Rhaenys hands him the letter back, ‘Once I believed he was the least dangerous one among them but I fear he is the Lannister who looks most like his father.’

‘Have you ever seen Tywin? I don't think he looks like Tyrion at all. He's quite a tall man.’ 

‘Shut up Jon.’ She pulls the letter back and scans it again, ‘She wrote that letter knowing it had a chance of arrival if she'd pretend her life is full of rainbows and sunshine.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘That letter is a lie.’ 

‘I know that too. I'm not as thick as castle walls.’ 

Rhaenys’s mind seems to overwork now as she grabs the arms of her chair, frowns and strengthens her back, ‘That little bitch.’ She suddenly says and if she were an actual dragon, smoke would appear from her nose thrills, ‘How dare she say that to you?’

‘I don't care. She's gone, she's… I've been angry.’ He admits, ‘But being angry with Daenerys won't give me Sansa back.’ 

‘We'll get her back.’ Rhaenys promises him, ‘We’ll do everything it takes. We’ll get her and your daughter and that freaking throne too. We’ll take everything that they took from us and safe it from their clutches.’

‘Shall we march upon King’s Landing tomorrow or this night?’

‘No.’ she says, ‘You’ll convince that thick headed cousin of yours to wed my thick headed cousin, then we raise an army so big the shudders of the ground as it marches will be enough to shake Joff from our father's throne. With a two front war we'll squash Tywin and his freaking army at it’s heart; Casterly Rock, and force them to trade your wife and daughter for their oathbreaking Kingslayer.’ 

‘You don't want to attack King’s Landing?’

‘I'm not Viserys. No one has ever accused me of being overconfident. Father taught me the trick of being unpredictable. No one expects an attack on Casterly Rock. The defenses at King’s Landing are the outmost high, trying to sack it will kill thousands of innocent lives, and I know how much you care about that.’

‘As much as you do.’

‘Precisely.’ She shakes her head, ‘If we attack King’s Landing… they will greet us at the gates with your wife’s corpse.’ 

‘So you want King’s Landing to fall because they surrender?’

‘Good guess, dear brother.’ 

‘And you think they will?’

‘Soon enough… eventually… when the people rise. The people are behind us. Joffrey is not exactly the most popular boy king the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen. They call him bastard and his mother a whore. A _brotherfucker_. Their people are starving and when winter comes I'll have you on the throne of our ancestors the way our father wanted. Before she lets half of the peasants starve to death.’

‘I just want Sansa back.’ Jon says. It's the wine, he knows it's the wine that makes him say it when he adds, ‘I don't care about- I need her back. I can't stand it, it's unbearable. I miss her, I.. I need her.’

Rhaenys only looks at him. He sees no pity in her glistering blue eyes. 

‘She's almost a year old.’ He doesn't know why he suddenly feels the need, why he believes he can finally say it, to Rhaenys of all people. He hasn't spoken with anyone about it. Catelyn tried but it didn't feel right and Robb avoided the subject in case Jon started forcing him into a trade of hostages again, ‘I don't even know what she looks like.’ 

‘I don't know what she looks like either.’ Rhaenys says and she moves her hand to wipe a tear from his cheek that he didn't know was there, ‘But I do know what she looked like when she came into this world. I saw her breath in her first breathe, I heard her squeal as they pulled her from her mother. She was… impressively loud. I saw her when her mother nursed her for the first time and she wrapped her fingers around Sansa’s thumb and… and Sansa kissed her forehead.’ 

Jon doesn't say a thing, he can only cry some more. Rhaenys cries too. Perhaps it doesn't matter when they cry together, maybe their shared weakness makes them strong. 

‘Sansa has… she has never looked so beautiful as she did when… she told me she couldn't believe she was a mother. She said… she was so brave during the delivery, incredibly brave. She screamed and begged…she was in so much pain and she nearly broke the bones in my hands as she squeezed it.’ She smiles at him through her tears as she squeezes his hand too, ‘Afterward… she held Freia and she said it was better for you to have not been there because you would've lost your mind.’

‘I would have lost my mind.’ 

Rhaenys nods, ‘She had dark hair, lots of dark hair, and blue eyes, but perhaps their color has changed. She was so tiny, like this,’ Rhaenys parts her hands to show him his daughter’s size, ‘And when you held her it was like holding an extremely precious sack of flour. She was a drooling miracle, so sweet, and the sounds she made were adorable. She stared up at you and… she was mesmerizing.’

Jon doesn't say a thing and she wipes some more tears from his cheek with the back of her hand.

‘Father saw her too.’ That stirs something in him and he looks up. He knew his father did, ser Barristan told him, yet now… now it may be real. 

‘I know he… he did?’ 

Rhaenys nods and smiles through her tears, ‘He liked the name. Ned said she looked just like you and father smiled and he- he…’ She loses her voice for a second, ‘He wanted you to know… he wanted us to tell you he was- is proud of you.’

Jon wanted to be there. He wanted to be the one to hand his child to his father and tell him she looked beautiful. He wanted to see his father hold his daughter and he wanted to hear him tell him he was proud as he looked in his eyes. He wanted to tell him, ‘look at that, look at what I did, I made that. I can do some things right.’ 

But Jon wasn't there. He was in the fucking Eyrie, and his father died. His father is dead and Jon will never be able to tell him and Rhaegar don't be able to tell Jon. He'll never see his father hold his child. A child that lives, she's real, she exists. He has never seen her but the Gods know he loves her with all his heart. The old Gods and the new, they are his witness, he'll protect her with his life. He'll fight this bloody war for her, win it too. He'll make her a princess, he'll even become a sodding king if he must, the way Rhaegar wanted. 

'I'll gladly give my life for her if I have to.' He says and it makes him feel so odd to realize that in that moment he means Freia, not Sansa. 

'I don't want you to give it gladly! I want you to fight, scream, murder and curse, I want you to never give up and to stand up every time they knock you down, raise and become stronger with every setback- that is true strength.'

'I won't give up.'

'They need you to live, they need you to fight for them.'

'I'll fight for them.'

He wants to hold them, but he can't. Rhaenys holds him instead, ‘I’m sorry, Jon.’ She tells him as she pulls her fingers through his hair the way Catelyn may have done when he was little. When he fell forward and hurt his knee. 

‘I failed them.’ He says. 

‘You did not.’ There is a power in her voice that tells him she means it. 

‘I should be with them, I promised to protect her, I promised to come back as soon as I could, I promised to always… I promised.’ 

‘You'll go back as soon as you can. We'll make sure of it, I swear it to you. That is my promise to you.’ 

‘I should not have… I should not have waited so long with the… with the fucking Kingslayer. I should never have joined their army, I shouldn't have. I should've gone straight back to them. I should never have _left_.’

‘It was not your choice to leave, father made you. You did your duty, followed a king’s demand, you always do your duty, that is who you are.’ 

‘She must hate me.’

‘Sansa could never hate you.’

‘I would hate me.’

She roughly pushes him up and grabs his face between her hands as she hisses, ‘You are not to blame for anything at all, do you understand? Nothing at all! Many have made mistakes, that includes me, but you leaving when father told you to is not a mistake among the others.’ 

‘Rhaenys I-‘

‘No!’ She drops her hands and crosses her arms, ‘she does not hate you, she never could. She told me… she told me to tell you that you…’

‘What?’ His reflexes are working again, ‘what did she tell you?’

‘She wanted me to tell you to love Freia as much as you love her.’

‘Why would she ask you that?’

Rhaenys fills her glass to the rim with wine, ‘I don't know. She said she needed me to ask you.’

‘You don't need to ask me.’

Rhaenys grins her know-it-all grin, ‘I know that.’

‘I'm a fool.’

‘You are indeed.’

‘Why would you want a fool man on the throne?’

She frowns at him, seems to consider her answer and then simply says, ‘Because you won't be a foolish king.’ 

‘Just a foolish man?’

‘A foolish boy.’ She says, ‘It's time to say goodbye to that boy, Jon. Say goodbye to Jon Snow the bastard of Winterfell, we must kill him. Kill the bastard and let the king be born.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

‘I told Sansa you became a man the day you swore your vows to her in the Godswood of Winterfell. You're not that twelve year old boy I met a long time ago. You can do this. I know you can.’

‘Do you?’

‘So does Sansa. You must find the strength you’ll need to protect her and you will, that's what we'll do.’ 

‘You promise?’

‘I'm not a stupid woman.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I don't like promises and I know we're playing with fire, but that is simply the only way. Do you understand?’ 

Jon nods.

‘Good.’ She says, ‘Then this is where our testimony begins.’ 

‘I don't want to call it a testimony.’

‘What do you want to call it?’

‘War.’ Jon says, ‘War is a game lords play. The game of thrones. You and I are in it now, we’re contesters.’

‘We cannot afford to lose.’

‘We either win or we die.’

She grabs his hand and squeezes it. He squeezes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's called 'Last Song' and its gonna be the First Tyrion pov- so that's gonna be nervewrecking to post lol. Do let me know what you think (make a birthday girl happy you know) and have a good week! See you on sunday x❤  
>    
> Ps I'm beyond exited that I can actually use emoticons ✨
> 
> pps Rhaenys has a super clear plan about what they're going to do that's more complicated than it may seem now- it's just that explaining it took too many words and the person who was writing Rhaenys realized the chapter was already nearing 10,000 words- so she decided to put that (and other great chunks of this dialogue, actually) in a future chapter.❄️


	32. One Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freia Targaryen is just a baby. Barely one, with his hair and her eyes and the same happiness radiating from her that gave her mother a childlike, girly bright beauty once. A handsome child, a clever one if the Septa speaks truly. The girl is vulnerable and extremely valuable. Everyone knows it. It is what inspires the singers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the sweet and amazing messages! I cannot say it enough you are all amazing, can't believe you're sticking with me through all this misery... This chapter has Tyrion's first chapter- please don't be too hard on me... I tried. And I needed to dive into his pov for plot purposes.

**Arya**

Treacherous waters and inclement weather delay Viserys’s fleet on its southward journey from Dragonstone so even though the imp said it would take no more than a moon’s turn, the Red Keep has too much time to prepare for the attack. 

A couple of days before the battle the sky is already black with smoke and Arya stares through the window at terrorizing flames that cover the Kingswood. She doesn't really know why or who did that. She heard someone say it's to kill all the grass so Viserys won't be able to keep the horses of his cavalry fed but that sounds so very incredulous to her. Ashes fall down from the sky like flakes of snow and Arya catches it in her hands, trying to pretend she's home. 

Arya recalls how the prince Aegon used to hunt in these woods. Once he dragged Jon along and they fought each other halfway through. Arya still remembers how they returned, all muddy, bruised and embarrassed. Prince Aegon was quite the person. She never expected to miss him when he died, yet she really does. 

A day before Viserys’s fleet is supposed to hit the shore of King’s Landing, Freia turns a year old. 

Sansa does nothing but cry during the day. Tears of joy, sorrow, sadness and anger. 

Arya knows she's probably crying because Jon missed the first year of Freia’s life and though she knows that _is_ depressing, she doesn't quite see how crying about it makes it better. 

At least Freia is not old enough to realize what it actually means to turn a year older, so she doesn't miss a celebrative nameday the same way she doesn't miss having a father. She has never seen Jon in her whole life ever, she probably doesn't even know he exists, so she doesn't miss him- because you can't miss what you've never had. 

Joffrey promised Jon’s head for Freia’s nameday- not very unexpectedly he breaks that promise. Arya wonders if he's ever seen Freia, truly laid eyes on her and she decides he probably hasn't. Sansa protects her baby girl like a dragon protects his eggs, a bitch her pups and a lioness her cubs. 

It is dark outside and Freia is sleeping with her head on Sansa’s shoulder as they pray in the royal sept in the early morning, as early as the first sights of enemy sails on the horizon. 

Arya saw Joffrey not long before, he looked like a boy dressed in his father’s clothes. His armor was designed clearly after Rhaegar’s famous armor, the one he wore when he defeated Robert Baratheon, all black and covered in rubies. 

She saw the imp speak to Sansa, saw the way he stared as she turned her face away from him. 

He wants her. Arya can see it, she has seen it before. Arya wonders how she does it, what it is in her behavior, her face or her words that makes them all want her so much. Even when she doesn't try. She didn't try with Jon and she doesn't try with the imp yet they both love her. It is like that with all men. Even those who don't love her- they still want her, and they always stare, as if they're undressing her with their eyes. As Arya watches the hound she is fairly certain he'd like to see her older sister with no clothes on as well. No one has ever looked at Arya like that. 

Even Joffrey once told Sansa he'll show her how trueborn men take their women, if he ever chooses to do so. Arya heard him say it. He said, ‘Maybe I'll show you one day, if I ever feel like it.’ The whole room went silent when he said that. Maybe that was Joffrey’s way of telling Sansa he finds her attractive. He finds her attractive enough to force her to come to all these official occasions. Arya is never invited, but that might be because she's simply not a proper lady, and she's not a pretender, like Sansa. 

Sansa looked at Joffrey, her face a harness and answered, ‘I don't think you will, your grace.’ 

Joffrey opened his mouth and closed it again and then said, ‘I will if I want to! I’ll do it before I kill your husband! I'll force him to watch!’ 

‘Of course, your grace.’ It was evident in Sansa's voice that she was completely confident it is never going to happen. 

‘I'll defeat him in one on one combat and kill him in front of your eyes, all by myself!’ 

‘Yes, your grace,’ Sansa said, ‘Your friends and foes alike cannot wait to see it.’ 

Sansa is good at that, Arya has to admit it. She makes fun of Joffrey and he knows it yet he doesn't quite understand what she means at the same time so he never knows how to respond nor if he has a reason to get angry- or have her beaten. He hates it. Arya thinks it reminds him of his half-sister Rhaenys. 

As Arya looks sideways she can see Sansa nearly fall asleep as well. Arya is glad Freia is sleeping, she has never been in a place so crowded and it may scare her and she'll start crying. Arya moves her hand and gentle runs the back of her forefinger over Freia's soft and chubby cheek. She's the most innocent thing and Arya has never before felt such a strong urge to protect someone. She hates how much Freia relies on protection. 

Arya smells the scent of candles and the forever present smell of sweat as they find themselves a bench to sit on and she's glad when Sansa grabs her hand. 

‘You want to stay here?’ Arya asks. 

‘I don't want to be near the queen.’ Sansa admits and Arya cannot help but agree yet when the people in the sept start praying for Joffrey’s victory Sansa suddenly stands up. Her face looks uncomfortable and Arya wonders if maybe she does care who wins this battle after all. 

As they walk towards Meagor’s Holdfast, Freia wakes up and it is as if she knows, so silent is she, she barely makes a sound as she hides her face in the crook of Sansa’s neck and holds her wooden unicorn closely to herself, clasps it in her little fist. 

The sounds of battle are there when you have an ear to it. Men scream and catapults are flinging stones. Arya hears the cry of the war horns better than anything. 

At the gates they meet with lady Tanda and her two daughters. One of them is pregnant. Sansa told Arya how she was raped during the uprising after princess Myrcella sailed away. Sansa helps the upset Lady Lollys’s sister, mother and maid convince her to come with them inside. 

Almost every highborn lady of the city is in the ballroom which is surprisingly small. Arya sees ser Ilyn Payne with his pox-ravaged face and her father’s sword in his hand. 

Cersei is dressed in white and looks almost maidenly as she takes her seat on the dais, ‘Sansa sweetling, you look pale, do you sleep well?’ 

Sansa hasn't slept well since Freia was born, yet she wouldn't admit that to Cersei of all people, ‘I feel perfectly alright, thank you, your grace.’ 

‘Why is ser Ilyn Payne here?’ Arya blurts out as they sit down. 

‘To protect us.’ Cersei answers, visibly annoyed. 

‘Don't the red cloaks protect us?’ Arya asks. 

‘Who will protect us from the red cloaks if Viserys’s men break through those doors? Loyal sellswords are as rare as virgin whores.’ Cersei goes on summing up all the things that will happen when a city is sacked which will, according to her, mostly consists of rape and murder. She asks Sansa if she has any notion of what that may be like. Sansa doesn't respond and Cersei smiles, ‘Hasn't Rhaenys taught you about that? She hasn't, has she? All she ever did was complain about her own privileges and all you ever listened to is singers- there is such a lack of good songs about sacking.’ Sansa doesn't respond again and Cersei nods, ‘That’s right, you eat your broth and hope for your bastard traitor to come and rescue you.’ 

As time goes by the queen gets more and more drunk. Musicians play and moon boy dances but all the laughs in the ballroom are hollow. At one point, Freia can no longer uphold her façade and starts crying as the one year old she is. Sansa tries to hush her, but it's no good. She cries and cries. Freia can't sit still and almost reminds Arya of Rickon, the way she fights her mother’s comforting arms. It's not nothing, to be in this new room, with all these people she's doesn't know. Freia doesn't like strangers one bit and Arya doubts she has ever seen so many strangers at once. Freia has absolutely no idea what's going on. The poor thing. 

Cersei watches Sansa’s struggle with a cup of wine in her hand and then loudly tells them, ‘Tears, a woman's weapon, my mother used to call them. It seems to me the child is learning young.’ Cersei smiles widely when she sees Sansa’s shocked face, ‘You're a little fool are you not? Tears are not a woman's only weapon. The best one’s between your legs, but I think little Freia here is a little too young to learn all that.’ 

Now Sansa is not only shocked but disgusted as well and she doesn't hide it very well. 

‘You're a married woman are you not, lady Stark? You know how it works and how much men like it.’ 

‘If you say so, your grace.’ Sansa simply answers, she has been ignoring most of what the queen says for some time now and Arya is glad. 

Osney Kettleback is all smiles when he kneels down in front of the queen and tells everyone who can hear him how the imp rained down dragonfire from above on all the ships, ‘A hundred have burned, maybe more.’ 

Cersei asks after her son, hears of treasonous guards whom she orders to be beheaded and then turns to Sansa to advice her about both fear and treason, ‘The only way to keep your people loyal is to make them fear you more than they do the enemy.’ 

Sansa ignores the queen again and tries to make Freia eat something but Freia's cries only grow louder and the queen suddenly decides it does annoy her after all. 

‘Someone make the babe shut up!’ She orders and Sansa jumps up from her seat. 

‘ _No_!’ She shrieks and the sudden movement and the sound of her mother’s terrified voice make Freia hold her tongue as she gets clutched to Sansa’s chest, ‘Don't you dare reach a hand to her!’ She tells the man who has moved towards her and Arya has never seen that impression on her sister’s face before. 

Cersei waves the man away and her smirk scares Arya, who grabs Sansa’s hand immediately when she sits back down, ‘Sansa, Sansa, Sansa… have I not told you? Love no one but your children, at that a mother has no choice.’ She shakes her beautiful head and sighs, ‘Perhaps you’re not as stupid as you look. Or maybe you’re even more stupid than I thought you were. Who knows?’ Cersei shakes her head again and starts talking about her childhood, reminiscing her life growing up at Casterly Rock and Arya is not much envious. 

News of an attack on the mud bridge comes and Sansa turns to Arya to whisper in her ear, ‘I want to go.’ 

Of course she does. The danger of any man raising a finger to touch Freia gives Sansa enough reason to turn and leave at once. Arya nods because she understands, she expected it, and really, she desperately wants to leave as well. 

Sansa stands there, a softly sobbing one-year-old on her hip, and listens to ser Lancel tell the queen the battle is lost. Cersei leaves the room abruptly to demand them all to bring her son to her and those who she leaves behind smell the fear. It is then that Sansa refinds her inner strength and poise, along with the right words as she hands Freia over to Arya and loudly tells all the women in the room to not have fear, that they are in the safest place and that their men are still bravely fighting. 

Sansa is as soft, stupid and weak as Joffrey always says she is when she orders the measter to look after the wounds of ser Lancell. 

_Perhaps Sansa should be a queen_ , Arya thinks, _Perhaps she should be Jon’s queen like everyone whispers. Perhaps she would be good at that. I'd have to call her ‘your grace’, and I wouldn't even mind_. 

Then Sansa turns back to Arya, takes Freia back from her, clings her child close and nods towards the door, ‘Gods be good.’ She says as they leave the ballroom, ‘Joffrey will lose his head and so will we. She won't hand us over to Viserys alive.’ 

‘Where are we going?’ Arya asks. 

‘Jon's rooms.’ Sansa says, ‘His old ones.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because we have to stay as far away from Ilyn Payne as we possibly can.’ 

Arya nods and follows her sister to the heart of Maegor’s holdfast. She knows the real reason why Sansa wants to go to Jon’s room, but she doesn't say it. 

The room is pitch black and it smells weird. It has been some time since someone walked in there. 

Sansa places Freia down on the bed, and as the baby sits there, one her own, she starts crying again the moment body contact with her mother disappears and she throws her beloved wooden unicorn down on the floor. Sansa moves to sit next to her and she doesn't lean to grab the unicorn from the floor nor does she try to comfort Freia the way she always does. She hides her face behind her hands instead and at one point her shoulders start shaking. 

‘I can't do it anymore.’ Sansa tells her own handpalms, ‘I can't, I won't, I just can't…’ 

It is in that moment it hits Arya how strong her sister has been. How much effort it must cost her to get herself out of bed every day, to get dressed and smile and give Freia a good as possible life. Without Jon, without freedom and all else she deserves. Sansa is a good mother, and motherhood can't be easy in a place like this. To become a mother for the first time... as if that is not hard enough as it is. 

This is the first time Arya truly witnesses Sansa breaking down. Sansa loses her self control as well as her walls of self-protection and as they crumble down the tears won't stop, she hiccups a little and Freia places her hand to her mother's arm, ‘Mama…’ she says. 

Sansa takes Freia's hand in her own and rubs the small fingers with her thumb, 'We’ll go to sleep.’ She says and her voice is hoarse from her crying, ‘When we wake up the battle is over and we’ll know if we are to live or die.’ She crying again and through her sobs and Freia’s whimpering Arya can hear her call for Jon. It's only a whisper but her beg slides through Arya’s heart like ice slid through her father’s neck. 

Arya stands there and watches, not knowing what to say or what to do. She walks over towards the window and stares out at the burning ships, the fire looks so different, not red nor blue but _green_ , it really is dragon fire, Arya realizes and the sight scares her. The smell of burning wood and flesh reaches Jon’s bedchamber. 

‘Little bird, I knew you'd come.’ 

When Arya turns around the hound is there, his one hand covers Sansa’s mouth as the other holds her in his grip. Her cries have turned to shrieks of fear as she stands there, her back pressed to Clegane’s front, her fingers pulling on the hand he presses to her face. 

Arya takes a step towards the both of them. He's drunk, she immediately sees it, ‘let her go!’ 

‘If you move closer I'll kill you all, I promise.’ He says and his dark eyes glare at her warningly. 

Sansa shrieks some more and when he removes his hand she begs again, though this time not for Jon, ‘ _Please, ser_ -’ 

‘I am no knight, how often have I told you that?’ he says, his mouth so close to Sansa’s ear his beard must scratch her bare neck. 

‘What do you want?’ Arya asks and despite him telling her not to she takes another step towards them, ‘Why are you here? Go away!’ 

He grabs her jaw to force her to look at him. Though her head is turned to the hound, she keeps her eyes down. Arya's not the only one who notices. 

'You still can't look, can you?' He lets go of Sansa and pushes her towards the bed, she stumbles and drops down next to Freia, ‘Bloody dwarf, should've killed him years ago.’ 

Sansa moves her fingers through Freia’s hair. She appears almost mad the way she sits there, her eyes wide, the green lights of the fire outside dance on her cheekbones and her hands tremble. She doesn't seem to listen, she doesn't seem to know what she's doing either, or where she is. 

‘I want him dead. I want him burned. I won't be here to see it though, I'm going.’ 

‘Going?’ Arya asks, but the hound does not look at her, he looks at Sansa, who visibly tries to pretend they're all not there, that it's just her and Freia. 

‘I'm leaving. Going north I think, through the Iron Gate.’ 

‘You can't leave!’ Arya loudly tells him, ‘The queen has drawn the-‘ 

‘I have my cloak and this.’ The hound touches the pommel of his sword, ‘The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire.’ 

‘Why are you here?’ Arya asks. 

‘She promised me a song.’ The hound says and he nods in Sansa’s direction. Sansa hands are still caressing Freia’s hair. She says nothing and Freia calms down. 

‘Ssshhhhh…’ Sansa whispers to her, ‘It's alright, sweetling, mama’s here.’ 

The hound walks over to her and grabs her by her upper arm and the touch seems to wake her up, ‘Don't touch me, you're scaring her!’ 

‘She's like her mother, everything scares you!’ he says and he pushes her down into the bed, on her back, and moves over her. 

‘Let her go!’ Arya yells and Freia continues her crying as she watches her mother get assaulted in her father's bed. 

‘Nothing scares me!’ Sansa tries to push him off her but he only presses himself closer to her and her skirts are pushed up in the act, revealing her cotton-clad legs up to her thighs, legs he touches, ‘Only her, if something happens to her, that is all that scares me!’ 

‘You are a liar!’ Clegane wraps his hands around her throat and Sansa digs her nails in his fingers but all her wriggling does is push her skirts further up. 

'Get off her, get off!’ Arya desperately looks around the room to find something she might throw at him. 

‘I know all about fear! You don't know me, you don't know-‘ 

There is a knife suddenly and Sansa starts shaking and she gasps when the hound presses it to the skin of her throat. It is then that Arya realizes he'll rape her right there and then, with Freia sitting on the same bed. That's not going to happen. She'll kill him if she must. 

Arya grabs a white vase from the table and throws it at the hound. He's big enough to shield Sansa from the shards and apparently also too strong to get hurt, it only makes him laugh and the water from the bucket drips down his burned face. 

‘Get off her!’ Arya yells again. 

He looks up at Arya and mocks her with his smile, ‘You're not a little bird, are you? You're not little at all. Braver than she is.’ He shakes Sansa by the fabric of her collar and her teeth chatter but her eyes show no sign of fear, they are like two flaming torches, full of hatred and anger. 

Arya picks up a candleholder and yanks it too, but it doesn't help. She wants to jump on his back and attack him all on her own when Sansa opens her mouth again, ‘You want to rape me?’ A stream of blood appears there where he presses the dagger to her throat, ‘ _Do it_ , I dare you... but you won't have a song out of me then.’ She's not shaking anymore now as a miserable smile spreads across her face, ‘You can't do it. You won't hurt me.’ 

Arya is wondering when ever Sansa believed it was a good idea to promise the hound a song when he suddenly pushes himself off her and removes his knife, 'That's right little bird. I won't hurt you.’ There is certainly lust in his eyes now, it has replaced his anger entirely. 

‘My lord husband is going to kill you.’ Sansa says when she pulls herself up and her skirts back down, she strokes the small cut at her throat and looks at the blood on her fingertips, ‘I will be with him again, and I'll tell him how you've treated me, and he'll kill you.’ 

‘You believe that?’ Clegane scuffs, ‘I haven't seen him in a long time, nor have you. He's not going to safe you, he's letting you rot here in your cave because he doesn't give a shit.’ 

Sansa stands up and hits his cheek with a flat hand. It only makes him laugh. 

‘You don't like to hear me say that, do you?’ 

‘You know him as much as you know me. You're a sad bitter man and you hate me because I believe in things you don't know, but just because you've never seen it and never had it doesn't mean it doesn't exist!’ 

‘He hasn't come to safe you, has he? Accept that he failed you, he's not the hero you think he is, he has never been. He's as weak as his father.’ 

Sansa just glares at him and turns back to Freia, to continue comforting her as if a knife has not just been removed from her throat. 

Suddenly, the tone of the conversation turns drastically and as he stands there, staring at Sansa with his wide and needy eyes, the man mentions a way out, ‘I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me, no one will hurt you again.’ Arya puts the other vase she already picked up back down on the table. That offer is music to her ears and suddenly, Sansa singing a song, seems a small price to pay. 

‘I don't need your help.’ Sansa says. 

‘You can get us out of here?’ Arya asks, ‘Can you take us with you? Out of King’s Landing? If you bring us home… Our brother will richly reward you, I promise, he will.’ 

The hound pretends she's not there. It's Sansa he only has eyes for, as all men always do. He moves back towards Sansa, wrenches her arm and pushes her down into the bed, next to Freia, who cries as loud as Arya has ever heard her cry, ‘Sing, little bird, sing for your little life.’ He puts the blade to Sansa’s throat again and as she continues to look at Sandor Clegane she turns her head to her daughter, closes her eyes and sings. It's Freia’s favorite song. 

_I look up at the sky,_  
_And I see, I see a roof of stars,_  
_They shine so bright,_  
_So bright all night,_  
_Look up at the sky,_  
_Is it not a lovely sight,_  
_Look up and see the twinkle of light,_  
_My sweetling have no fright,_  
_I am here, you will be alright,_  
_Take my hand, my hand, I'll hold you tight,_  
_The moon shines it's light,_  
_There is always that roof, that roof of stars,_  
_And you, you are, not alone at night,_  
_I am here, I’ll be your bravest knight._

When the song is over the hound has removed his dagger and Freia is silent as she has moved against Sansa. 

'Sleep tight.’ Sansa whispers and Freia turns her face to look up at her mother. 

‘Seeb tibe.’ Freia says, touching her ear. 

‘Little bird.’ Sandor Clegane gets up from the bed. He wants to turn and walk away but Arya moves to stand in front of him, blocking the door. 

‘Take me with you.’ Arya says, ‘ _Please_ , take all of us with you. W-we’ll die if we stay here, they'll kill us.’ 

‘They won't kill you.’ 

‘I can't stay here, not one more day. I can't survive here, they'll chop my head off within a year. Help us, please, if you… if you help us our brother will- Sansa get up!’ 

Sansa hugs Freia, who has lays her head in her mother’s lap and shakes. One year olds aren't supposed to experience fear such as this. Sansa shakes her head, her face covered in tears, her bottom lip trembling, ‘ _No_.’ She says, ‘I am not going with him.’ 

‘Robb will reward him! He can get us out of here!’ 

‘Never. I- we will die, I can't bring Freia I… I cannot escape.’ 

‘Look at him!’ Arya says, ‘He'll protect us he says, he'll get us out of here.’ She looks at the hound. He's drunk, but she saw him fight, he is good, and if they find her a sword… she can fight too. 

Sansa can only shake her head, ‘I'm staying h-here.’ She says, ‘Jon will… Jon won't want me to come with him.’ 

‘You think your bastard is coming to safe you? After a year? You still think he cares?’ The hound starts again but Sansa ignores his words and silently cries some more as she strokes Freia’s curls. 

‘You go with him.’ She says, ‘You can't stay here, it's true. You can escape with him, no one will notice but me… I am not in a place to take such risks. I have to… I have Freia.’ 

Arya takes a step towards Sansa, ‘I won't leave you.’ She says. 

Sansa finally looks up, her eyes move from Arya to the hound and back to Arya, ‘You can't stay here.’ She says again and then she turns to the hound, looking him right in the eye, ‘You will bring her home? Or was your offer meant for me alone?’ 

The hound is drunk, as drunk as a man can be and his face is covered in blood but despite that and his wounds, Arya can still see guilt somewhere in his expression, ‘I'll protect her.’ He then says and there is a glimmer in his eyes as he looks at Sansa that makes him appear as soft as cake, ‘I said I would, did I not?’ 

‘I gave you a song.’ Sansa says, ‘Now you must protect my sister.’ 

‘Sansa, no...’ 

Sansa gets up from the bed and moves to Arya to hug her fiercely, ‘You must go, you and I both know it. If you stay they'll either kill you or marry you off to the dwarf or some other Lannister. You must go to Robb… go to Jon go to... to mother.’ 

Arya can feel the tears on her cheeks all suddenly, ‘No, Sansa, we have to stay t-together…’ 

‘We’ll be together.’ She says, ‘Soon. They'll have a trade of hostages… but you must go first. Please, you know you cannot stay here.’ 

‘Nor can you!’ 

‘I can't but I have to. I can't flee the city now. I have Freia, I must protect her. We can't take her with us and I'm not leaving without her.’ 

‘S-Sansa…’ 

‘Arya, please.’ Sansa grabs her shoulders, ‘Y-you must tell Jon I love him, tell him I think of him always and t-tell him that I have forgiven him, whatever there was to forgive. You must tell him that. Tell him to never forget me.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘Tell him I love him unconditionally.’ 

‘San-‘ 

‘You must tell him!’ 

‘I will!’ 

‘Good.’ Sansa nods and lets her go, ‘Good.’ 

. 

**Tyrion**

When the Tyrells arrive at court Tyrion notices how the battle for Sansa Stark’s favor has begun. For her trust, her words, all she knows. He's no longer the only one who sees that one day, perhaps she may be the key to the north… even the Seven Kingdoms. _Queen consort_.

Margaery Tyrell reminds him of her brother, Loras, with her chestnut curls and her brown eyes. She has the same natural charm, and she tries to flatter Sansa with it. 

If Sansa was lonesome, silent and visibly lonely before the disappearance of Arya Stark, she tries to fade into the walls now. It is as if she is counting the days and Tyrion knows why, he knows she has good reason to. If he has his way she won't need to wait much longer. 

Margaery must've offered her friendship. She gives Sansa and Joffrey the same dazzling smile. Margaery is an intelligent, cunning, shrewd and politically savvy young woman. In every way the younger embodiment of the queen of thorns. The girl is as pretty as she is clever and it reassures Tyrion, for Joffrey could do a lot worse in a queen. He needs someone who can control him the way his mother has embarrassingly failed to do. 

‘Once we bring the Starks to their knees we kill Jon Snow and marry Sansa Stark off to some of our own.’ His father tells him and Cersei both. 

Cersei grins at him afterwards, when it's just the two of them, ‘Are you looking forward to it?’ 

He tells her he does not want to marry the Stark girl, Jon’s wife, but she doesn't believe him. He would not have believed him, no one would. 

At first he told himself it was because she is Jon’s wife. He cared for Jon once, surely caring for his wife and looking out for her was respectable and right. Then he caught himself staring. Then she caught him staring. 

She is just as comely as the Tyrell girl, but not a girl. Sansa Stark is a woman and therefor no man sees shame is wanting her. 

Her hair is a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief has given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it has only made her more beautiful. He wants to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. 

‘If you marry her, you can have her, if she wants it or not. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ 

‘I will not rape her.’ 

‘It's not rape if she's your wife.’ 

Cersei can never be happy for too long, as their father discusses marrying her off to either Balon Greyjoy or that Tyrell boy, the same Tyrell boy he saw pining over Sansa many times, smiling at her, asking her to join him in the gardens. She rejects always, everyone, politely, with a flutter of her eyelashes and a smile directed down to her shoes. 

He has thought about it, many times, at night and during broad daylight. He sees her holding her child, and her tenderness makes his knees go weak. 

Sweet-smelling, softly speaking Sansa Stark. She is a beautiful woman, with her red curls, the round swell of her breasts through her pale-blue gown, her skinny arms, slim fingers and high cheekbones. Not a child like her sister was, not rebellious and wild. She's a proper little lady. Her protest is one of silence; a drawing in her eyes. Those big, beautiful blue eyes. 

She hates, despises and mistrusts him. He has wanted her for quite some time now. He wanted her body ever since he saw her dance and smile at Viserys’s wedding. Her happiness was a lovely rarity in the capital. She was pregnant back then, the swell of her belly was only small and one hardly noticed it if it wasn't paid any attention but her breasts... He was not the only one who stared, the only one who wondered why the bastard of Winterfell was allowed to have something so good to the eyes, have something like that… every night in his bed if Jaime spoke the truth. Panting and moaning his name. 

Damn Jon. Jon and everything about him. Snow or Stark or Targaryen or maybe a bit of all of these. In the city they call his daughter Freia Targaryen. Joffrey has ripped tongues from many singers who sang a song about her. 

He told Cersei to stop her son, he said, ‘When you tear out a man’s tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you're only telling the world that you fear what he might say.’ 

Freia Targaryen is just a baby. Barely one, with his hair and her eyes and the same happiness radiating from her that gave her mother a childlike, girly bright beauty once. A handsome child, a clever one if the Septa speaks truly. Tyrion wonders how a one year old can be clever. The girl is vulnerable and extremely valuable. Everyone knows it. It is what inspires the singers. 

Sansa Stark does not radiate happiness anymore and it's no longer just her body that he wants. He wants to comfort her. He wants to make her laugh. He wants her to come to him willingly, bringing him her sorrows and her joys and her lust. 

He could be good to her. If they marry him to her he swears he'll be good. He can be kind and kindness is not common among Lannisters. He may be ugly and mismatched and the man of her nightmares but in the dark- he can be the knight of flowers. He can be Winterfell’s bastard too, if she likes. 

She'll never want him, he knows that. No one will ever want him the way she wants Rhaegar’s bastard. It's why the Gods made whores for imps like him. 

He wants her to trust him, and perhaps she can. She does not now, she never did, she is no fool. He wants her happiness too. He knows that. If he can't make her happy, he can give her something that might. He has the opportunity, he could if he decides. He decides he will. 

He takes the letters, all bound together with a ribbon, from the drawer of the desk. He may not be Hand anymore, they may have stripped him off it all, taken it away, he still has the power to do this. It's right. 

She's in her room, holding an opened book, sitting by the window, staring out at the sea, her head leaning against the post. 

In front of her, on the rug, is her child, dressed in pink with white ribbons. Freia is babbling to the direwolf and he cannot make out what she's saying. She stands up and takes her few steps to pick up a wooden unicorn that is lying there on the floor. She wobbles when she squats down but then moves up again successfully and shows the unicorn to the wolf. 

Tyrion is not sure what it's name is, all he knows is that Joffrey desperately wanted to behead it and it took Tyrion the promise of sewing the direwolf’s head into Jon Snow’s body after his death, to restrain him from it. Tyrion knows they will never sew that wolf’s head into Jon’s body, but it won't hurt to allow Joffrey his sickening daydreams, if it means saving an innocent life. 

The child walks on her own. Give her a year or three and she'll walk taller than any dwarf ever will. Her steps are wobbly but determined and the moment she reaches the beast again she spreads her arms out and hugs him. Tyrion would expect the wolf to shake the infant off, but he doesn't, he turns his giant head towards her and licks her cheek, presses his wet nose to her face. 

Freia giggles and grabs the white fur in her fists to hold herself upright before she leans her head against his snowy white coat. She babbles to the wolf as if he can hear her and Tyrion wonders if maybe he can. 

Sansa turns around and gets up, ‘Freia careful...’ she walks over towards the child, lifts her up and strokes the brown curls from Freia's small face. When she turns she spots him. 

‘My lord.’ She doesn't tell him she's pleased to see him, he doesn't expect her to. 

‘Lady Stark.’ He says after clearing his throat, ‘Is your child well?’ 

Sansa frowns at him, not hiding her opinion on his useless question. He can see it for himself, she is doing well. Freia seems miraculously unaware of all the horror that surrounds her. 

‘We have not been able to find your sister.’ He tells her and she doesn't pretend to be concerned. _At least she trusts me that much_ , he thinks, bitterly. 

‘You don't know where she is?’ Sansa asks as her daughter moves her hand towards the auburn hair and pulls on a pin. 

‘I'm afraid not.’ 

Sansa nods and if she were as bold as Arya Stark she'd tell him how much that pleases her, but she's too smart to be bold. 

Joffrey wanted to punish Sansa for the escape of her sister but Tywin stopped him. Tyrion understands as well as his father that Sansa knows very well that her sister escaped during the battle, that she would've gone with her was it not that she has a child, a small child, and she cannot escape without bringing her to danger. So she stayed, and now she is all alone. Tyrion feels sorry for her. He used to think pity kills all feeling of desire but he now knows that's not true at all. The way he wants to bring her comfort goes beyond his arms wrapped around her slender body. 

‘I received a letter from your husband.’ He tells her and finally she stops hiding her curiosity, it makes him feel jealous, ‘He wrote me before the battle.’ 

‘Did he?’ 

Tyrion nods, ‘He has released the Kingslayer.’ 

There is an emotion on her face that combines relieve with hope. Did she ever wonder? Wonder if he'd do that for her? Or was she always certain? 

‘I and lord Tywin have agreed to trade hostages with your husband.’ 

‘Not my brother?’ 

‘The invite comes from your husband.’ Tyrion himself is not sure if that means there is a break in the Stark camp or if it means that Jon has more influence and power than the actual king in the North himself. It could mean either of these two options… or a combination of both. If the rumors are true Rhaegar’s bastard travelled to his sister in Dorne and from there went back North, with Rhaenys, most likely to Riverrun. An alliance like that could mean the end of Joffrey, and so much more. It took them too long to form the alliance that Rhaegar had so carefully planned out. 

Sansa nods and turns her face away again as if it costs her simply too much power to keep looking at him. 

_She thinks I'm ugly_ , he realizes, ‘In the Riverlands. With your brother and his sister.’ 

She looks a little surprised at that. Perhaps she didn't expect the princess Rhaenys to travel north either, if that is what surprises her then she doesn't say it, she says nothing. She never says more than she needs to, she quickly learned that. 

‘We have already send him a raven to inform him of our acceptance.’ Even the child looks at him with distrust, even a one year old thinks he looks like a monster, maybe she already knows the word _dwarf_ , maybe that is what Sansa calls him in her head. 

‘Me and Freia both?’ She asks again, ‘We’ll be released?’ 

‘You and the child both.’ He repeats. 

Sansa nods, sloppily kisses her daughter’s cheek, who tries to stick the head of that wooden unicorn in her mouth, and stands up. She strokes her skirts to straighten them, ‘The news pleases me greatly, I would like to thank his grace, our good king, for showing his mercy and being so good and kind. I will never forget how gently he treated me as I was his guest.’ 

Tyrion cannot help but feel sick at her words. Not only are they lies, those lies slice right through his disfigured body. 

_Joffrey wanted to beat you_ , he wants to say, _He wanted to hurt you and make you suffer for your sister's escape. He has not even been informed of this trade, if he was he never would've allowed it. He enjoys your pain, to see your depression, despair and desperation, your hopelessness and sadness most of all_ , if only he could say that, if he could he'd tell her, _It's me, I'm the one who saved you, I have done everything I could to give you what you want most, I'll bring you home, personally if I have to_. 

‘I’ll inform his grace of your gratitude.’ He says instead. 

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She looks away again, as soon as she sees her opportunity, and turns her back to him too. 

He clears his throat again and decides that now he must do what no one allowed him to do, what he has been thinking of doing ever since he came here and saw her sit next to Joffrey at his nameday tourney, her face blue, purple and barely healing. 

‘I wanted to give you this, my lady.’ 

She has a suspicious look in her eyes as he stretches his hand with the letters out towards her. 

She bats her eyelashes, looks at her child and then back up at him. 

‘What’s that, my lord?’ 

‘Letters.’ He says stupidly, it is a response that Jon could've given. He was always good at that, Tyrion remembers, those empty-headed, nervous answers that only Rhaegar and Sansa never mocked him for. Gods be good, is he trying to speak like the bastard now? So many of them admired Jon, even Tyrion himself at times. He can't deny the boy was clever, clever enough to trade Jaime for his heir, apparently. Clever enough to win this war that eventually will be his own? Tyrion doubts it. Does he hope it? He's not sure. He's not sure about Jon Snow. He liked him, certainly, envied him too, for despite his birth, he still seems to have it all. He has kin that loves him, a king as father who, though not always cherished him, respected him and treated him well, he has no name but the parents to make up for it, a birth that no one else in the world shares with him. The blood of the dragon and the blood of the first men. A Stark and a Targaryen. 

Worst of all Jon Snow was, and probably still is, pretty. He had a nose and he stood tall in a way no dwarf will ever know. His curly hair and his strong arms and his jawline made him look like a Northener from the age of heroes- but with the eyes of a dragon, the attitude of his father. He didn't smile often but when he smiled it didn't look like a grimace, it melted maidens’ hearts. His eyes were pretty too, grey, kind and dark and she used to stare in them. 

He has her too. They have not seen each other for nearly a year and a half, yet she's still his. He knows the Tyrell’s have tried to push their son at her, charm her, amuse her, enchant her, flatter her. Bed her if he can. She didn't let them, she lets no one. She's dutiful and loyal. Loyal to her bastard husband who should've been king all this time. 

Tyrion cannot bring himself to hate Jon Snow. He cannot find a reason to even try. 

‘Letters?’ 

‘From your husband.’ 

She swallows, perhaps she tries to swallow away an acid taste in her throat, or a fear, a distrust. Perhaps she considers if it will be worth it, maybe she thinks it's a trap. He always congratulated himself on his ability to read people, but he cannot read her. Maybe that is why she attracts him so. 

He places the letters on the table that stands at his right. The table is empty aside from a vase of purple bellflowers. He can see fault lines in the white vase as if someone smashed it to the floor. He wonders if she did that herself. 

He allows her to eye him for another second until he bows his head for her, ‘I’ll leave you now, lady Stark.’ He says before he turns to leave. 

‘Thank you.’ She whispers with her soft voice, all hoarse from the tears and the wind of emotions that blows through her. He barely hears it. 

He may never have her love or her desire or even her kindness. She may never look at him for longer than she needs to, or smile at him and laugh that laugh that sounds like both a twitter and the clattering water falling down a fountain. He may never have her naked in his bed, or sitting next to him at a table… at least he'll have her gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for any sansan shippers (I love these people, truly), it's just that I, both as a writer and as a person, never quite managed to get used to the whole 'him being middle-aged and her being thirteen' thing, he wasn't being much of a gentleman either. Every time I read their scenes in the books I just keep thinking 'poor Sansa'. In this story she's nineteen now and in such a different position mentally too, plus this worked plotwise. Had to get Arya out of King's Landing. 
> 
> Next chapter Robb's getting engaged, and his future wife hates it. Chapter after that is called Red Wedding and - spoiler alert- nobody dies. =o


	33. Rich Autumn Auburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon grabs a glass, fills it with Oberyn’s favorite wine, hands it to Rhaenys and demands to know, ‘What did Robb say?’

**Jon**

They're on their way to Sunspear when Rhaenys wakes him up from his tavern bed with some unsurprising yet disturbing news. 

‘Ser Barristan Selmy has written to me.’ Rhaenys says and she hands him the parchment. 

‘Viserys is dead?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Died from his burns. Barristan says Daenerys nursed him but he was passed help. The gods know he has been for years.’

‘It's a painful death.’ 

‘Especially for a dragon.’ Rhaenys scoffs, ‘Considering they can't burn and all.’ She shakes her head and looks at the letter in Jon’s hands with skepticism, ‘It’s one less enemy for us, though I understand you'd think it would be disrespectful to dance on the table.’ 

‘Disrespectful to whom?’

‘Father, of course. Viserys was his brother after all.’

‘So… Ser Barristan writes to you?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘He's been sending me updates since they arrived in Dragonstone a year ago... which was after I send him there.’

‘Where is Daenerys now?’

‘It doesn't say, only mentions Viserys dying and the Red Lady fleeing, she's gone too, let's pray she took herself and her ideas with her back to Essos. Ser Barristan asks if he can come to us now, to protect the rightful king.’ 

‘The rightful king?’ 

‘Yes, _you_ , of course, who else?’ She asks and clearly thinks it’s one of his dumbest questions ever, which says something. 

‘I'm not a king, I'll let him know once I am.’

‘You were king from the moment father’s soul left his body. It would be good of you to think of who you'd want in your king’s guard.’ 

‘I have Malckom.’ Ser Malckom is waiting for him to arrive in Sunspear, he was already on his way back to the North after delivering Daenerys to Rhaenys, when he found out Jon was no longer with the Starks. 

‘Ser Malckom Hauls is a sworn shield, he's only one knight, you cannot-‘

‘I have very few others I can trust. I'll get myself a King’s Guard when I’m wearing an actual crown.’ 

‘Crowns don't make you king, Jon.’ Rhaenys says but she leaves the subject, thankfully. 

Jon hands the letter back to her, which she takes, ‘Tell him to stay with Dany, I want to have her both watched and protected.’

Rhaenys pushes the letter back, ‘You can tell him yourself.’ She says- and he does. 

At Sunspear they're greeted by Princess Arianne and prince Oberyn both.

Oberyn is rather exquisite and after a childhood in Winterfell and years under the wings of the etiquettes of his father’s court Jon is not quite accustomed to that. He likes to think he knows how to behave around it, _smile and nod and never appear as if he disapproves_ , but comfortable is least among his feelings. 

He has to give it to Rhaenys’s cousin, however, she's worse, and that is quite the achievement. Sansa would not like her at all, he's certain of that. Arianne is not nice nor kind or sweet, she's not friendly or pleasant and she doesn't use her courtesies as an armor. She looks at him as if she sees through all the layers of clothing he wears, and these are a lot more layers than she wears. It’s as if he's not a person to her but merely an object that must be used to her advantages. 

‘Arianne likes you.’ Rhaenys tells him and he laughs, ‘She does! She's not easy you know, she hardly ever likes people, but she called you determined and brave.’

‘Are these character traits she enjoys in men?’

‘In people, I’d say. She called you intelligent too.’ 

‘Even if she likes me, which I'm sure she doesn't, it will be in an unusually uncomfortable and undesired way.’ 

Rhaenys looks certainly uncomfortable at that and goes on to not deny it, ‘She thinks you're too Northern, but she said she won't deny you to be handsome for a northerner.’ 

‘Handsome for a northerner? That's peculiar, because I'm a southroner.’ 

‘Just ignore it, please?’ She asks, and he nods, though he has never avoided looking at someone this much. 

Later that day, in one golden room that's far too hot during the day but pleasant and elegant after sundown, they gather, all four of them, and stand around a round table. Rhaenys rolls a map out that’s so big the wood of the table disappears from view, ‘What you're looking at are the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.’ 

‘I know that.’ Jon looks sideways at Oberyn who leans with his hands on the table and stares down at the map. His niece stands next to him, cross armed. Arianne’s yellow silks look expensive and imposing. He decides comfort matters less to her than extravagance. he can't imagine all those beads, bells and heavy jewelry have a light weight.

‘Soldiers give you an army, armies give you power and power is what will put you on your father's iron chair.’ Oberyn shakes a bowl with wooden dolls in yellow, blue and red colors, in his hands, ‘Every soldier is a man with his own life.’ He drops the bowl on the table in front of Jon’s eyes, takes one out and hands it to Jon, ‘This one doll is 10,000 lives, lives that we are going to play with…’ he makes a head gesture to the table, ‘Look at that map, it's the board game Jon Snow. Let's play.’ 

Rhaenys grabs one wooden soldier and places it with three others down on the map there where Dorne is, ’These four are the 40,000 soldiers that are with us.’ 

‘Not enough.’ Oberyn whistles and he presses three dolls down on the Stormlands, ‘These 30,000 would be nice in case we are lucky and all, but still… not enough.’ 

‘Storm’s End is unnecessary.’ Arianne says and she shakes her head, she stands at the other end of the table and breaks a doll in half and together with four others she marks the Stark army, ’45,000 Northern men could be useful… if we ally them- as you hope and assume we will, but even then-‘

‘Not enough.’ Oberyn tells Jon.

‘Numbers are not everything.’ Jon says, ‘Battles have been won against greater odds, the northern fighting style could-’ 

‘Very true.’ Arianne agrees, ‘Battles maybe… but not most wars.’ 

‘Armies are expensive.’ Oberyn says, ‘Which, in our case, is a good thing because even though these lions have 50,000 men…’ he puts five dolls down on top of the Westerlands, ‘They are-‘

‘Broke.’ Jon says, ‘They are in debt with the iron bank.’ 

Rhaenys grins, ‘That's right.’ She turns her head to watch Arianne break another doll apart and she places it, along with four others down on the Riverlands, ‘Your cousin has nine dolls, the lions five and we've got another four, if we ally that would outrank us thirteen against five were it not that-‘

‘Joffrey is engaged to be married to Margaery Tyrell.’ Jon says, he pulls the bowl from Oberyn’s hands and grabs nine dolls from it and puts them down on top of a drawn version of Highgarden. 

‘Might even be ten.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘That means we're outnumbered by thirteen against fourteen.’ Jon says. 

‘Might even be fifteen.’ Rhaenys says. 

Jon looks at the map and spots the three dolls on top of Storm’s End, ‘The Stormlands might be enough but it will be tricky, the Tyrell’s have enough gold to equip their army lavishly, they have such a strong cavalry and the Lannisters are the best organized of all the armies in Westeros… numbers are not everything. You need swords and strategy just as much if not more, Tywin isn't winning this war because he's defeating Robb in battle, he's defeating him because he knows how to fare war, he's better at it and he doesn't even need to fight to be that.’ 

Oberyn looks at Rhaenys, ‘Your half-brother knows what he speaks of.’ 

‘Father taught him well.’ Rhaenys says, not taking her eyes of Jon as she says it. 

Jon looks at the Vale, grabs four dolls and throws them down, watches Arianne split another doll and add it to these four, ‘45,000 knights of the Vale… The Eyrie is… I don't believe we can count on Sansa’s aunt.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘Myrcella is going to marry that sickly boy, the imp’s work… and Lysa Arryn has the wits to match her son’s ill health.’ 

Jon nods and sighs, ‘The iron islands… 20,000 raping-‘

‘Not the Iron Islands.’ Rhaenys says and she shakes her head, ‘They are not the answer, father never trusted them and nor shall we, not for only 20,000...’ 

‘So we are left to hope Robb will bend his knee and pray the Stormlands will support us?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘No… well yes and no. We will hope for that, but we will not sit and hope only. We need your cousin, but not as much as he needs us, he has kept peddling but his boat is sinking so that is not what I worry over…’

Jon doesn't understand how she can't worry over that, it's all he can’t stop thinking about. 

‘This is what we must concern ourselves with.’ She points at the nine dolls of the Reach. 

‘They have chosen their side, we can't expect-‘

‘It is Margaery Tyrell who will marry Joffrey, Highgarden marries the Rock… but it's not the Reach who marries the lion.’ Rhaenys says and she picks up four dolls, ‘You know how much a lord relies on his bannermen. The reach may have 9,000 soldiers… the Martells do not.’

Jon realizes and nods, he takes the dolls from her hands and looks at them, ‘The Reach is the largest kingdom after the North, the most fertile one and heavily populated. It’s also been relatively unaffected by the wars thus far… If houses from the Reach choose to betray-‘

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘They shall choose to support their true king.’ She says, ‘And know they have not supported a traitorous lord.’

‘The Florents?’ Jon asks.

'They claim to descent from house Gardener.’ Rhaenys says, ‘They even claim to be the rightful possessor of Highgarden, the ones with the superior line of descent.’ 

‘You want to offer them the Reach?’ Jon asks and he can feel his mouth twitch in a smile, his sister is brilliant. 

‘We offer them what they believe should be theirs.’ She picks up another doll from Highgarden and places it in Jon’s hand, ‘I have met lord Allister often, as have you, I find his company much more pleasant than Lord Mance’s.’

Jon bites his lip, ‘It's a big if with many buts.’ 

‘True.’ Rhaenys agrees, ‘But I believe that if we could scoop them away and they could bring their fair share of other bannermen along… which I presume likely, we could add another five dolls to our dollhouse and we'll playing, not gambling the game with seventeen against nine.’ 

‘And if the Stormlands will join us-‘

‘Which they will because floaters always pick the winning side.’ 

‘-We’d have a fair chance.’ 

'Twenty dolls against nine.’ Rhaenys says, ‘We forgive the Tyrells after we've won this war, the price they'll pay is the loss of Highgarden but we shan't chop off their heads- they won't pay this scheme for power with their lives… and that will be mercy.’ 

Jon nods, ‘How did you think of this?’ 

Rhaenys looks at her uncle, ‘It took me a while, but once it popped up it all came rushing to me.’

As Jon scans Oberyn he realizes this may or may not be his idea all along. The Martells and Tyrells are not the best of friends. Typical. But Jon doesn't care. It's a good plan. It's a bet, of course it is, but he knows it is a safe one. One his father would have approved of. 

Rhaenys looks down at the map, ‘I don't believe Cersei will see this coming, not even Tyrion will. They are expecting us to rely on the Stormlands, they think we expected the support of the Vale, they might even think we'll go begging in Pyke…. they underestimate the diversity in the Reach and… we will be unpredictable. Which is what father told us to be.’ 

Jon nods, ‘If it works… you're brilliant.’ 

‘It's her Rhoynar blood.’ Oberyn says and he looks at Arianne, who's eying them all. 

‘I don't care what it is.’ Jon says.

Rhaenys grins at him and pulls the dolls from his other hand and adds them back to the Reach, ‘First we’ll inform your cousin that his reign is over, then we travel south to meet with lord Alester Florent and his son Alekyr at Bitterbridge, hosted by the Caswells who will be accompanied by the lord of Goldengrove, the Meadows of Grassy Vale, the Fossoways of Cider Hall, lord Oakheart of Old Oak… I’m hoping for the four shields of the shield islands but the only lord who confirmed his presence is lord Osbert Serry. I have no response from the Ashfords yet but Shireen Ashford used to be one of my ladies and we were the best of friends. She was always a manipulative, clever little thing, I’m sure she’ll talk some sense into her husband.’ 

‘You have arranged it already?’ 

‘What do you think? They were very eager, not all of them fancy a Lannister as their king. I had to us messengers on horseback rather than ravens… you know what they say, _dark wings, dark words_ , can't trust those birds, that's why I'm still working on it, obviously, it takes more time this way.’ Rhaenys glances at Oberyn, ‘Robb Stark needs to bend his knee. That is all I ask of him.’

‘But it's not all Dorne asks of him.’ Jon says and that is when Oberyn turns his face away from Jon and looks at Arianne for the first time since they all stood around this map.

‘I am meeting with him.’ Arianne says, ‘But I promise nothing, I agreed before because I saw the urgency but then he insulted me with his refusal.’ 

Jon opens his mouth but Rhaenys is too quick, ‘We only need to be sure they will not rebel after we win their war for them, their mistake is the vast confidence and rejection of allies… they played and they lost. They give up their independence now and we need to know they won't celebrate it again in the future.’ 

‘We do not trust your people.’ Arianne says, ‘The North is very far away… it has never been our friend before.’ 

‘‘My uncle told me we find our true friends on the battlefield.’ Jon says.

Oberyn shakes his head, ‘Common enemies are not enough when the goals of the war fought is as different as fire and ice.’ He grabs a doll from Dorne and throws it at Jon, who catches it, ‘We play this game for my sister’s daughter… but I refuse to spill a drop of Dornish blood for Northern foolishness.’ 

‘My cousin-‘

‘Has refused a princess of house Martell for a bride- my brother considers it a plain insult.’ Oberyn says and he takes two more dolls in his hands, ‘He is betrothed to marry a Frey? Why would I trust a man who'd rather fuck a Frey than a Martell? That is reason enough to assume his head is filled with straw, not brain.’

‘My cousin is honorable, he promised lord Walder-‘

‘Who promises Lord Walder anything? Lord Walder will not win this war for him.’ Oberyn points at Rhaenys, ‘ _This_ woman will, and only because you urge her to help those who refused to help her. The North decided not to support the true line when they believed they needed no one… now the king in the North hides behind his mother's skirts and sends a Tully woman south to ask for help? They should have asked sooner, back when no one but her mother's family supported Rhaegar’s only daughter- not even her last remaining brother did.’

Jon feels his face heat up, ‘I have never-‘

Rhaenys cuts him off, ‘My brother is right, there is no reason to make them our enemies and we do share the same dream-‘

‘Kill the lions.’ Oberyn says. 

‘We revenge my mother and my father.’ Rhaenys says and she nods at Jon, ‘This is our plan.’

Jon nods too. 

'I look forward to meeting this young wolf.’ Oberyn says and he hands half a doll, 5,000 men, over to Arianne, who challengingly glares at Jon. 

20,000 men will accompany them to the Riverlands, half the Dornish army, traveling by ships to avoid crossing both the Reach and the Westerlands. Jon is not sure of much when it concerns the Dornish, but they do seem to value his sister’s life and that reassures him, Rhaenys is completely at ease around them and that is enough for now.

Jon wasn't so happy when Doran Martell suggested they’d be accompanied by Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne both, but there was little he could do to oppose. Endure, is the magical word, and honestly, after all these moons of frustration and irritation, being around Rhaenys, who not only listens, but agrees with all he says, is like a breath of fresh air. A warm cloak around his shoulders.

Jon and Rhaenys both agree that he'll let her speak to the Starks. He'll stay behind in their army camp, with his thoughts, his headache and his grinding teeth to wait for their return. 

Somehow, Jon's glad Oberyn went along. Not only makes the idea of staying behind with the man him nervous, if anything, the prince will be intimidating and that might actually be a good thing for once.

In their absence, a letter from his uncle Tyrion arrives.

He doesn't believe it at first but the seal is real, the lion is unmistakably a Lannister’s and he even recognizes the handwriting. It's the first letter he receives from Tyrion personally. He has seen his written words before but they were always sighed by Joffrey. This letter comes from Tyrion and Tyrion alone. He doesn't sign it with Hand of the king but Jon doesn't care to dwell on that. 

They say they'll return both Sansa and his daughter to him once Ser Jaime Lannister safely arrives in King’s Landing. That could be any day now. Rhaenys told him Brienne is smart, strong, fast, clever and all that. He could have Sansa back within a moon’s turn. That feels so incredulously wonderful that he nearly sinks through his knees and loses consciousness. 

He buries his face in the letter, screams in it, then clutches it in his hand, slams into the wall with that same hand, nearly breaks his hand and then sinks down in his cot, feeling shivers go through his body as he flexes his soar fingers. 

Ser Malckon clearly thinks he lost his mind but Jon doesn't care. As he lays in his bed, trembling, he feels a smile appear on his cheeks that makes his jaw ache and his eyes water. It that moment, nothing but that letter matters, his life finally makes sense again and there seems to be some right in the world once more.

Thank you, gods, old and new, thank you mother, father, maid, warrior, crow and the others. Thank you R’hollor and drowned god, thank you all these gods they pray to in the Free cities, the great stallion too. They are all real, he's sure of it.

He highly doubts there can possibly be anything that could put a damper on his mood until Rhaenys returns to his tent, without both Arianne and Oberyn, and looks at him apologetically. 

‘I must say, I should've taken you more seriously when you told me your cousin will dwell long on your deeds.’

In this moment, Jon does not give a fig, he throws Tyrion’s letter in her direction, she catches it and smiles while reading, ‘It will be fucking worth it.’ He tells her. 

‘Yes, I'm sure it will.’ She presses her lips together and then says, ‘I knew they'd agree. Tywin thinks he has won this war and he is no fool, the North remembers, they’ll never accept a man in their castle that does not descend from the great Bran the Builder. He's trying to set the foundations for the future he envisions. Doing this is his way of giving us a taste of how he may forgive us after we kneel and beg for mercy. He would never have agreed had he been doubtful of his victory.’

‘A taste of how he will forgive us? I wonder how many times Cersei has promised herself and her son our heads on spikes.’ 

‘Joffrey is a child and Cersei an over-privileged whore.’ 

Jon grabs a glass, fills it with Oberyn’s favorite wine, hands it to Rhaenys and demands, ‘What did Robb say?’

Rhaenys’s smile disappears, she takes the glass and sighs, ‘He confided in me of his plan to entangle Tywin's army in a chase in the west while Viserys marched on King's Landing. He was forced to move back, however and it allowed Tywin's force to turn around and arrive at the capital in time for the Battle of the Blackwater.’

‘That makes no difference.’ Jon says, ‘One mad man or another on the throne.’

‘It emphasizes the plain truth that he is losing this lost war.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And you have helped him lose it.’

‘Me? What have I done? He never listened to me, all I did-‘

‘Was release Ser Jaime Lannister. It earned you the enmity of Lord Rickard Karstark.’

Jon nods, ‘Jaime slew two of Rickard's sons in the Whispering Wood.’ 

Lord Rickard required vengeance for their deaths… he demanded your cousin to name you traitor and chop your head off.’ 

Jon raises his nose higher up in the air, ‘I see.’

‘I must say, Robb Stark did not say it with words but he gave me the clear impression he’ll never follow that request.’ 

Jon takes the glass from her hands and takes a long gulp, ‘How nice of him.’ 

‘I'm sure- confident he will forgive you.’ She says, ‘In fact, he may ask you-‘

‘ _Why_? Because he refuses to execute me? I don't need his fucking forgiveness.’ 

‘I know that Jon, but he needs our alliance more than ever. We have a slight problem.’ 

‘A slight problem?’ 

‘Well, Robb Stark does.’ 

‘What did he do?’ 

‘Robb Stark has beheaded lord Rickard Karstark.’

Jon frowns, ‘Why in the name of the old Gods did he do that?’

‘Apparently, they disobeyed… after you set the Kingslayer free and his grace refused to have you followed by a search party the man killed two boys, a Lannister and a Frey. Stark claimed he killed not only those boys, but his honor too. Or so it was explained to me.’ 

Jon understands it all immediately, ‘And now he blames me indirectly?’ 

‘Well, he has every reason to blame you indirectly, honestly.’ 

Jon bites his lip, remembers Tyrion's letter and shrugs, ‘He can blame me from the grave if he desires it, I shall not regret it ever, not for a moment.’ 

‘I told him just the same.’ Rhaenys says, ‘That angered him for a bit so I decided to explain how these new developments make him in greater need for our men than ever before.’

'He must've hated talking to you.’ 

Rhaenys huffs, ‘He has no idea how lucky he is that we're reaching out for them, we don't have to, we-‘

‘He's Sansa’s brother. The North remembers, friendship with the Stark camp is vital for the future, better avoid a bloodbath, it won't be much fun to re-conquer that land, especially not during winter.’

‘I even called him _my lord_ too, he didn't like that, though he tried to hide it, he still seems to feel graceful despite his nearing end.’

‘What did he say? When you told him he needs us?’

‘That angered him too. Obviously it embarrassed him to be addressed the way he was by a _woman_ , especially in the company of bannermen. Though he got better at hiding his emotions the more time passed by, which I have to admire him for, usually, with men, it's the other way around.’ 

‘And then?’

‘He's no fool, your cousin, though he might become one if he lets his bad habits get the better of him. He'll make the right decision and he'll forgive you, you _are_ saving his ass.’ 

Jon wants to tell her she is the one saving Robb’s ass, but then he remembers to ask, 'Was Theon there?’ Jon has worried over Theon’s influence.

‘Who?’

‘Theon Greyjoy.’

‘I would not recognize the face that name belongs to.’

Jon sighs, ‘I don't know he… he'd probably say something, may have introduced himself? If he were there I doubt he kept his mouth shut.’

‘The Boltons, Mormonts, Umbers… All of them there but the Karstarks and no Greyjoy.’

Jon nods, ‘Well that means he left for the iron islands.’ He shakes his head, ‘Robb’s a fool.’

‘He did not look like a fool. He may need some time to realize it but he will know that this is his only way.’ 

‘Did anyone else say a thing?’

‘Do you think I let them?’ Rhaenys snorts, ‘Gods they were too typical, all of them. Once they saw me their eyebrows disappeared behind their hair. They do not trust me, well, I don't need their trust. They need mine- the trust of my uncle's truly, and I shall demand their respect in return.’ 

‘They will.’ Jon ensures her, ‘And you're right, Robb will make the right choice- eventually. I hope.’

‘Mayhaps he misses you, secretly he's eager to welcome you back.’ 

‘Will he invite me to his wedding?’

Rhaenys suddenly seems a little nervous, ‘Yes, I have been thinking about how to tell you this.’ She says. 

‘Tell me what?’

‘My cousin Arianne never agreed to anything. She came here to consider it, now she has met him and I-‘

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘She doesn't want to. She… she was insulted, you see. My cousin Arianne is much like uncle Oberyn, she feels she does him a favor by marrying him and she expected him to beg. I’m afraid he refused to beg. They didn't seem very pleased with the idea nor the look of each other.’ Rhaenys avoids his eyes, ‘He has not agreed to anything either which I presume has much to do with his anger.’ 

‘Really?’ That all doesn’t surprise him. He knew this was going to happen. 

Jon turns away from his sister and walks back to the stool in his tent. 

‘Do you believe you can convince her?’

‘Only if he agrees to it, which I'm not sure he will.’ She says, ‘Somehow he seems rather eager for a Frey in his bed. He really is his father's son.’

‘Don't say that.’ He can't have her mock Ned, not now, not ever.

‘Arianne is rather stubborn.’

‘ _Rather stubborn_?’ He wants to stick his fist in his mouth to keep himself from screaming, ‘Doesn't the little wench know what's at stake?’ 

‘Don't call her that!’ Rhaenys fidgets with her skirt. 

‘If she won't agree we can't help the Stark cause, if we cannot-‘

‘You don't need to tell me all that, I am quite aware of the consequences.’ She sighs, ‘I'll talk to her.’

‘What if she won't do it?’

‘She'll simply have to.’ 

‘What if she simply won't?’

‘We’ll think of something.’

‘Will we?’

‘Naturally.’

Jon sighs, sits down on the stool and drops his face in his hand palm, ‘I fucking hate her. I knew this would happen, I told you, told you from the start, we cannot trust her.’

‘No need to repeat it now.’

‘All the need!’ He gets up again, angrily, ‘Robb beheaded a freaking Karstark! They’ll consider it kinslaying, without our support he is a dead man walking! He is my cousin still, Sansa’s brother. If we don't seek their alliance now, if we don't bind our strengths we’ll have to re-conquer the North before we can focus on-‘

‘I know Jon, as I said, there is no need to spread the possibility out for me.’

She doesn't understand. He doesn't do it for her, he needs to say it out loud for himself because otherwise he won't be able to think, it will burst from his brain. 

‘Screaming at each other is of no help either,’ she says and she sits down on the stool he just jumped up from, ‘I’ll talk to her and then we'll-‘

‘Why won't she marry him?’

‘Jon I-‘

‘Did she ever plan on considering it at all?’

‘I'm sure she did, though I know that the idea of marrying a removed king never spoke to her imagination much, nor does the North, to be quite honest with you.’ 

‘Then _why_ did she come at all?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘See more of the world? Experience different cultures and enrich her-‘

‘Isn't he handsome? Or exotic or what? What is it?’ No one ever asked him if he wanted to marry Sansa, and there was very little that depended on his union compared to this one. 

That little Martell bitch. With her black hair in ringlets and her doe eyes and her flowing silks, jewels, and other ostentatious displays of wealth. She does look like her uncle Oberyn, very fond of herself indeed. 

Robb may not be a poet nor a handsome dream prince who sings songs and plays the harp but, as far as Jon can tell, he is not ugly. He remembers Cersei’s handmaidens swooning over him at Jon’s wedding, they nearly drooled on their food. He is a freaking _king_ for crying out loud.

‘She feels the urge to show you, that we cannot tell her what to do.’ Jon decides and Rhaenys doesn't deny it. 

‘She also declared him a boy. You have to understand, Robb Stark is twenty years old when my cousin is nearly twenty-six, of course she-’ 

‘Does this not bother you one bit?’

‘It bothers me greatly but I do not see the purpose of angering myself over it.’

‘I'm impressed by your self-containment.’ 

‘Well, thank you.’

‘You'll convince her?’

‘I'll try but you know how I feel about promises.’

‘You've made me a few.’

She ignores that. 

Jon nods, walks around a little in the tent while biting the inside of his cheek as Rhaenys watches him with a frown and then throws his arms in the air, ‘Gods be good, Rhaenys if she won't do it someone else must.’ 

‘You suggest?’ 

‘Prince Trystane? You mentioned-‘

‘Not Arya Stark, she is no option.‘

‘Someone else then!’

‘Im not sure-‘

‘Are there no other women in your family? Don't they have cousins?’

‘Uncle Oberyn has plenty of daughters. I couldn't tell you their names but as far as I've seen them they are rather pretty.’

‘His bastards?’

‘As I said, plenty to choose from.’ 

‘Do you think… is there a chance-‘

‘Would your cousin accept a bastard for a bride?’

‘I'm sure that would convince the Dornish that his intentions are sincere.’

‘It would make him seem rather desperate, I'm afraid. Nor would his bannermen approve- or the rest of Westeros.’

‘I was a bastard when Sansa was forced to marry me.’

Rhaenys clearly stops herself from rolling her eyes, ‘If he cannot shed the desire to embarrass himself I should certainly recommend him a marriage with a sandsnake.’ 

Jon glares at her, ‘No marriage with a sandsnake then.’

‘It is quite a shame there are no babies.’ Rhaenys suddenly says, ‘We could betroth Freia to a Dornish-‘

‘I’m not betrothing my one year old daughter!’

‘As I said, there are no male babies. It's not an op-‘

‘It's not a consideration!’

‘I'm only-‘

‘I can't use this right now, either give me good suggestions or-‘

'Perhaps one of my uncles could develop a fancy for your aunt Catelyn.’

Jon feels ready to burst from his skin now, ‘Don't embarrass yourself.’ 

‘I'm merely trying to be helpful.’ 

_Helpful._

he watches her as she sits there, on that freaking stool. Her hair braided from her face, highlighting her extraordinary beauty. Her wide blue eyes stare at him almost challengingly as she crosses both her arms and legs. Her whole feminine attire disappears in that moment and as they look at each other, for the first time ever, he feels like her equal. 

She looks around the tent as if she hopes for something unusual to jump from behind a flap and she taps her foot. The short heel of her boot makes a sound on the grassy ground that echoes through his head. She wriggles a little in her seat and seems completely at ease with herself and the situation, her fingers playing with the golden chain around her neck, until she finds his gaze. 

‘ _No_.’ Her voice trembles. 

‘Rhaenys you have to-’

‘I don't have to do anything!’ She jumps up from the bench and her eyes are so wide he fears they'll roll out of their holes down on the floor. 

‘Please, you must understand-’

‘I understand prfectly.’

‘Rhaenys-’

She seems deeply humiliated by the mere idea alone, ‘No, I won't. Never, no. You cannot ask this of me.’

‘Can't you consider it? In the-‘ 

She hits him hard in his face and he's sure that he'll have her hand printed on his cheek. He moves his fingers to the sore spot and then looks back at her. He has never seen her scared. He has seen her angry, upset, furious, offended, annoyed, mad with grief but never has he seen the terror in her eyes the way he does now. 

‘Rhaenys…’ he whispers and he stretches his hand out towards her but she makes a shrieked movement away from him as if his touch could poison her with a deadly disease. 

He stares down at the ground, grabs the pommel of his sword, forces his eyes shut fiercely and then when he opens them again she has turned away from him, hugging herself. 

‘I'm sorry.’ He says, ‘You’re right, I shouldn't have asked.’

He doesn't see her face as she shakes her head, ‘You do not understand.’ She says, her voice huskier than ever before. 

‘I don't.’ He agrees, ‘But it doesn't matter.’ 

She finally turns back around and he sees her cheeks covered with shiny tears. Somehow the redness in her eyes only makes her more beautiful, ‘I- You do… I'm wrong. You can ask this of me.’ She says, ‘I should do my duty like my betters have done before me.’

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘But I can't.’ She shakes her head and more tears appear in the corners of her eyes, ‘Jon… I am as weak as Aegon, please forgive me.’

He wants to walk over to her and pull her against him, but again she shrieks away.

‘You don't understand.’

‘I do. I mean, I _don't_ , but you don't need to explain it to me. I know what happened.’

She shakes her head, ‘No you don’t.’ She says, ‘you know nothing, Jon Snow. It was-’ 

‘You don't need to tell me.’ He says. Perhaps he doesn't want to know, maybe he doesn't believe he'll be able to handle it. 

‘You did your duty when you married Sansa. I should do the same.’

‘It doesn't matter.’

‘It _does_ matter.’ 

He wishes he never brought it up, 'Rhaenys, forget it, I don't want to ask that of you.’

She sinks down on his cot, ‘Forgive me please, I fail you.’

He sits down next to her and finally manages to wrap an arm around her. She feels cold, too cold and he presses her against him to warm her up, ‘You could never fail me.’ He says.

She allows him to pull her close and lays her head on his shoulder. They're never intimate like this and yet it still manages to feel natural. As they sit there and minutes pass by he feels her body relax.

‘I upset you.’ 

‘With good reason.’ She looks down and sees Tyrion’s letter lying on the floor, there where she must’ve dropped it. She leans over and grabs it, unfolds it in her hand palm, ‘I'm sorry to put such a damper on the first good news we've had since she was born.’ 

The letter to tell him of his daughter’s birth came attached to another that informed him of his father’s death. Jon wonders when it was truly the last time he received good news only. 

‘Someone will marry Robb Stark. I'll drag her to the sept if I must.’ 

‘We cannot lose this war.’ Jon says, ‘their lives depend on it.’

Rhaenys smooths the letter some more and then hands it back to them, ‘I told you we'd win this war together and we shall. Perhaps not tomorrow, or in a moon’s turn, maybe not even within twelve moonturns, but before winter is here.’

Jon nods once, ‘Winter is-‘

‘Coming.’ She frowns at him as if she did not just have a complete breakdown, ‘I know. I’m the one who had an audience with the Starks. ‘When they say winter is coming it's coming, father said they’re always right.’ 

‘Father was always right too so it must be true.’ 

Rhaenys moves away from him and just like that she returns to the role she feels most comfortable playing. The cold and careful armor she seems to protect herself with at all times covers her again. She nearly told him what happened that night and he never thought she ever would. 

 

**Sansa**

She watches Margaery Tyrell from afar and decides that the girl somehow reminds her of Rhaenys. Not because they are alike, not one bit. Rhaenys never faked kindness and goodness nor did she surround herself with giggles and innocent maidens. Yet they both play the game. Sansa has not seen a woman but Cersei play the game ever since Rhaenys left and somehow, it amuses her. 

Cersei and Margaery have at least something in common, aside from their power hunger and the way they use their femininity, they both think Sansa is stupid. 

Sansa succeeded in allowing Cersei to underestimate her and she manages to do the same with Margaery. 

Margaery constantly invites her to spend time with her and her cousins and though Sansa carefully tries to not insult her, she prefers to stay away. 

As soon as the kingslayer returns. She tells herself. It could be any day. She only needs to keep her mouth shut and she can go home. She can go to Jon. Leave this place and she'll never have to see any of them ever again. 

If the gods are good she can be gone before the wedding happens. Freia is sixteen moonturns old, if it takes another moonturn… she won't remember the separation. 

Jon has missed so much. Her first crawl, first bite of fruit, first words, first steps, first smile, first wave, first everything. He didn't see her when she was so small her head fit in the palm of Sansa’s hand. He didn't wake up in the middle of the night because of the wailing and he didn't have to wonder what the seven hells was wrong because she wouldn't shut up no matter what he tried.

Freia sleeps through the night and though she is difficult to please with food, she doesn't spit it out anymore. She can tell Sansa ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and she walks as if she has never done anything else better. When Sansa reads a book, she insists on flipping the pages for her, she babbles stories to Ghost and wishes Sansa good-night, she holds her own spoon and she can stack three whole blocks into a tower, after which she’ll delight in immediately knocking it down. If Sansa leaves her alone with a crayon, she scribbles on anything that’s within her reach and though she doesn’t feel comfortable walking up a flight of stairs she's so determined to do it anyway that she grasps Sansa’s hand for support.

It won't be long now. Sansa can pretend this never happened. Maybe in a moon’s turn, a little longer or even a little sooner than that and she can go home. She can hold him, he can hold her and they can pretend they were never parted. Pretend this wall between them, so high and firm and unbreakable at times, never existed. 

She weeps at night thinking about how she'll see him again, ruined some of the words he wrote her because she cried her bitter tears while reading them and they dropped down on the paper and the ink sank apart before she could do anything about it. It matters not, she has memorized each one of them by head. Some are long, some are barely notes, some are bright, almost cheerful and bring smiles to her lips, others make her sick to the stomach. All of them were opened before. She wonders who saw them, who read him describe his everything to her. These letters belong to her, she was supposed to read them and she alone. How dare they? How could they keep this from her? This small thing that means everything and hurts no one. How cruel. 

_dearest Sansa… beautiful perfect Sansa… My sweet Sansa… Dear Sans… To my wife… Sansa I'm sorry… Sansa forgive me… Sansa I miss you… Sansa I need you… Sansa I have to talk to you… Sansa please don't hate me, Sansa…_

If Sansa for one moment doubted she knew who he was these doubts are all washed away now. 

_My father is dead, I hate myself for not being there. I hate myself for the way I feel. I cannot believe he is gone, perhaps I never believed he'd truly die, how can I feel so sad? I feel so dreadfully miserable, my heart bleeds and all I know is that I don't know. I need to speak to you, need to see you. You'll hold me, won't you, when we are together again? Don't hate me please._

‘Letters from your father.’ Sansa tells Freia, and she tells her so much more, ‘His name is Jon, _Jon Snow_ , and his hair is just like yours. He is the best man in the whole wide world and he loves you so.’ 

Finally, she can say it, finally she can tell her.

_I’ll trade the Kingslayer for you. I swear I will. You'll come back to me, both of you. I love you. Both of you. Do you believe me when I say it? When I say I love both of you? Our daughter too. I have never seen her but she’s ours. I’ll die for her Sansa, if I must, I’ll gladly give my life for her. For you too. Don't you ever dare forget that._

Did she ever forget that? Did she allow them to make her forget it? She won't deny that it threatened to fade away perhaps once, for a slight second. But it all comes back now. She reads his letters and hears his voice in her head. She no longer needs to speak to him and pretend to hear his response, imagine what he may say. She doesn't need to pretend he tells her to be strong, to not give up. She can read him say it now, which is more than she ever thought she needed. 

_You’re strong Sansa, I know you are, don't listen to them, whatever they say. Remember who you are, what you are. Put on your armor and never let their words reach you. Remember all I said to you. I pray to the gods they don't hurt you. I spoke to a man who was at court not long after father died and he told me they do not hurt you. I need to know that's true. If they hurt you, you know what I'll do. Sansa, we'll be together again, soon, I know it, you must know it too. We're simply not supposed to be apart._

She cries most over his pleading for forgiveness, because she can't tell him there's nothing to forgive.

_You have no idea how sorry I am… I know you must be so angry… Sansa, I never meant… Please forgive me… Please know that I think of you always… Sansa please don't hate me… I beg you not to hate me… Sansa please… Sansa I beg you… Sansa forgive me… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry… I hate myself, I do, I really do, Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…_

The first one is the one she reads every day before she falls asleep. 

_When I return to you I shall never leave you again, this I swear. What I also swear is that I will come for you, I will. I shall always protect you, protecting you is all I want, all I ever wanted. You must know that, I swear it, I do. All I do is for you and you must always remember that, never forget it. I will bring you home._

In the days that pass by nothing changes yet everything has. She wants to wait, keep that up, her shields and her patience. The obedient sister-in-law, innocent and stupid. But it's harder, suddenly. 

She remembers what Cersei told her. Tears are not a women’s only weapon. _The best one’s between your legs._

Would she be able to do that? She's not sure. Her initial response is _never_ , but she may have said the same once about sticking a dagger in a man’s eye. She _killed_ someone. If she can do that… what won't she do? Or will not be capable of? Perhaps she can do anything if she's driven to it. Perhaps she can use tears as a weapon. Perhaps she can do things she never would've dreamed of before. 

But this… no. Her mother would turn her face away from her if she'd know, maybe never look at her again, disown her too, tell her she dishonored the family. Jon… would he forgive her? She doubts he'd forgive her the consideration. He'll kill the man with his bare hands, pay for it with his life if he must. Somehow that thought gives her the urge to smile. 

Sansa is not like Cersei, nothing like her, never will be, never could be, but she can be cunning too. 

She knows the man who gave her those letters is the key she needs. She has to keep him as her friend. She'll have to make him believe that she trusts him and use him to the best of her advantages. Will she have to spread her legs for him? Of course not. She's not Cersei Lannister. She's Sansa Stark of Winterfell.

‘I'd like to write to my husband.’

He doesn't respond.

‘And I think you could help me with that.’ Sansa knows flattery can bring any men to his knees, ‘I think you could help me with so much,’ she presses a bright smile on her face and looks him right in his eyes, ‘But this is all I ask.’ 

Rhaenys taught her that underestimation can be used to one’s advantage. She knows this man does not underestimate her, she knows he doesn't underestimate Jon either. And that last thing… that gives her power too.

 _Weakness is a choice, we can choose to be strong_.

‘What do you want to write him, lady Stark?’

‘I want to write a very long, very detailed letter that only I will read. And he too, of course.’

Tyrion watches her in the way he not always dares to and she stares right back. He constantly keeps his eyes on her. At first it was only out of understandable curiosity, but now there is something else in his eyes that she doesn't want there to be.

The imp, the dwarf, the Lannister half-man... He desires her and she doesn't know why. Because of how she looks? Because of what she says? The things she does... Because of her name? Jon has of yet not joined the Night's Watch. She is a married woman. What can he possibly want from her that could do him any benefit? A traitor's daughter, a traitor's sister and a traitor's wife. Sansa has to admit, it's quite the achievement. Few noble women can say the same. 

f Jon marries the watch, will they marry her to the imp? The idea disgusts her. He disgusts her. There is nothing Sansa wants more but to feel a man inside her, a man who holds her and touches her and makes her feel good. But Gods please not him, no one like that, no one else, she wants only one. 

Tyrion nods his head, ‘You can write him.’ He says.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She still looks at him. She remembers what the hound said, how he noticed the way she tried to avoid looking at his face. There are worse things in the world than his face, she thinks. Yes, he is ugly, but he means to help her too, he has always been kind to her, she remembers. She can look him in the eye, if she tries she can pretend he's handsome.

‘Do you want to write it now?’

Sansa shakes her head. She has spent the past week writing it, overthinking every word, spilling so much paper. Knowing it would reach him made her unusually careful with what to say. The letter turned into not a very long one. There are not that many things she needs him to know. They'll be together soon, all the rest of it she'll tell him while looking into his eyes. Those grey eyes, his mother’s eyes, her father's eyes. Jon's dark, beautiful, good eyes. 

Sansa remembers the prophecy of that witch again. She had forgotten about it completely but lately it keeps coming back. 

Five daughter and three sons. 

She was so awfully happy with that prediction. She believed the witch meant they'd live happily and forever together without paying attention to the rest of it. But the witch never said these children would be his, she only said they’d be hers. So, now… all she hopes is that the prophecy was false. 

‘You will send it to him?’ She asks.

He nods.

‘You swear it?’ She urges on.

Sansa was married before, she can see it, she knows what the look in his eyes means. Jon used to look at her like that, with these eyes. Jon knew what she looks like underneath her clothes. When he looked at her he didn't need to imagine, he could undress her with his eyes. Tyrion merely tries to do the same.

Sansa doesn’t want any man to touch her, ever again, none of them, only him. To the seven hells with these five daughters and three sons. She has Freia, Freia is Jon’s, she's all she has left of him, she is all she needs, the only daughter she could ever want and if Freia is the only daughter of Jon’s the Gods will ever give her she'll be grateful.  

'I swear it to you.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

'Lady Sansa…’ he finally looks away as he turns her letter over in his hands, ‘I wish to help you.’

‘I know that, my lord.’

‘Do you? Really? Your husband is an honorable man, I’d like to help you for him.’

He's a liar when he says that. A good liar, but so is she. Perhaps he is not as trained as Sansa. Her whole life is a lie.

‘I hope you can trust me.’

There are very few people she trusts these days. She trusts Freia. Freia will never give away Sansa's secrets, that's for sure. Who else does she trust? Not him. He is a Lannister and she remembers how she promised. 

‘If there is anything that I can do for you-‘

‘Send the letter.’ Sansa says, ‘I need you to send the letter.’

‘I will.’

Sansa smiles at him again, ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Did she use him? Took advantage of his kindness? Of his feelings for her? Yes, she did, but she cannot bring herself to feel guilty. She would do it again in an instant. 

She holds Freia's head in her hand and kisses her temple and moves to sit in the rocking chair. She sings a song, her voice soft and soothing and Freia relaxes. She's tired. She walks, talks, sings, screams and dances around until she falls asleep lying on the floor. she always gets all cranky when she's tired. 

Freia wants to stay up all day, find out more about the world that is a playground to her, a fascinating place of faces that she all trusts, animals she all wants to hug, plants that smell weird, so may objects to use as toys and lights she tries to grab with her little fist.

Freia needs to sleep now. In her mother’s arms. She needs to hear her mother tell her a story and sing her to sleep. She needs to hear Sansa whisper in her ear, to know how loved she is, by her mama and her father, who is so far away but misses her always. 

‘His name is _Jon_ and we’ll see him soon Freia, I promise you, we’ll be together, we’ll be where we belong.’

Freia leans her head on Sansa’s shoulder, still making some whiny sounds as Sansa pushes her nose in the dark brown curls, 'Mama...' Freia babbles and not long after she has already fallen asleep. Falling asleep on Sansa’s shoulder is a want, not a need. She doesn't have to, she should fall asleep on her own, in her crib, but Sansa’s greatest challenge in motherhood turned out to be her own weakness. Sansa simply likes it when she sits in the rocking chair and Freia drools all over her silk shoulder and her small, warm body is safe in her arms.

Sansa stands up, humming softly, the small head still on her shoulder. She walks back into the bedchamber, lays Freia down in the bed and moves in there with her. 

_You are my responsibility now. I know that I am not what you hoped for but I promise that you can always count on me. I will protect you and I will take care of you._

It hurts so much. She doesn’t even know where he is in this world, though he belongs with her. The pain is still not fading, still as pale and as painful and stern as it was in the beginning. Her determination, however, is growing. 

For all Sansa knows they all may be dead tomorrow, as dead as her father, as dead as Jon's father and as dead as her brother-in-law Aegon who ended it himself. Sansa cannot end it herself, she doesn't want to, she has Freia, she has and wants to live for Freia. The fear of death is too great, her hope too strong and fierce. She looks at the sleeping figure of her daughter and wishes the pain physically hurt her, instead of the constant mental ache, the longing and the missing. If she were physically hurt, at least she'd have an excuse to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's that. Thank you for reading, and thanks again for all the love, you can follow me on Tumblr if you want, my name is (plot twist!) winterfelland, and I'll be back by the end of this week (Sunday that is)! please let me know what you think X


	34. The Red Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘ _Executed_?’ Rhaenys smiles that smile again, ‘Depends on your idea of the term. Grandpapa Aerys burned them all.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour! I hope you all had a good week and all.  
> ..  
> Originally the convo between Jon and Rhaenys in chapter 31 was much longer but I didn't want to have a whole chapter of them talking, was afraid it might be too much, so I split it up and the other half of it is in here. If anyone really hates dialogue... well you can't skip this chapter cause you'll miss some important details but I thought I'd warn you beforehand. I love writing dialogues.

**Jon**

Jon sees Robb again long after all the arrangements have been made and the contracts have been signed, a fortnight after meeting Catelyn. 

She took his face in her hands and told him she is proud, ‘If you had not done it, I would've.’ Knowing that's true finally gave him the strength to forgive her. He has been trying to do so for a year now, but it's only when he finally manages that he knows he never really succeeded, no matter how hard he tried. 

Being back at Riverrun feels odd, it doesn't feel like the place where he should be, where he needs to be. He walks into the room they told him to find his cousin and when he appears in the door opening of the solar Robb looks up instantly, as if he loudly ran in. He gets up from his chair and opens his mouth to speak but Jon doesn’t give him the opportunity. 

‘As her brother, I feel I have a duty to warn you that if you mistreat her or cause her any harm, I shall haunt you down with dogs and kill you personally.’

Robb opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he says, ‘It took you a long time to show me your face.’ 

Jon raises an eyebrow at that, ‘It was not necessary.’ 

‘Is it now?’

‘As I said, she is my sister. It is my duty to protect her from anyone who might harm her.’

‘Jon, I-‘

‘I forgive you.’ Jon says, and they both know he doesn't speak the truth.

‘What?’

‘I forgive you for what you did.’

‘Jon I-‘

‘I forgive you for wanting to let my wife rot away in the hands of the enemy. I forgive you for thinking you could tell me what to do, I forgive you for taking my alliance for granted, I forgive you for not only neglecting but also forgetting who I am, where I'm from, what I know, who my _father_ was and I forgive you for betraying me because… Because you are my cousin. You are kin. Your father raised us together and we are brothers by law.’

Robb doesn't say a thing but the confusion on his face has made place for a deep red color that could indicate both embarrassment and anger. Or a combination of both. 

‘But if you ever let that crown on your head weight heaviest on your decision again, to the suffering of my kin, you will be nothing to me.’ 

Rhaenys told him this is how hearts work. She told him to forgive him, to not give him an opportunity to think Jon was the one who needed forgiveness. Looking at Robb’s face only confirmed how right she was. She always is. 

Except about her cousin Arianne, who crossed her arms, mocked them and told them no. He has never wanted to strangle anyone as much in his life before. Not even Cersei. Truly. 

The night before her wedding Rhaenys knocks on his door, dressed in her nightdress with a dark-red robe over it.

‘Have you seen the comet?’

‘I have.’ He says, ‘It's rather beautiful, isn't it?’

‘Your pathetic aunt thinks it's an omen or a sign for the marriage. She must think it means it will be _fruitful_.’

Jon raises his eyebrows at the word pathetic. Catelyn is not pathetic, but this is not the moment to tell her that.

‘Do you have wine?’

He turns to the table and hands her an already filled glass.

‘I want to have a tremendous headache at my wedding day.’ She tells him before she takes a long gulp.

‘I had a headache at my wedding day. It might mean good fortune.’

‘I don't mean to be cruel, but your marriage life at this moment is not something I am envious of.’

He gives her a glare and fills himself a glass too as she settles on a sofa in front of the burning fire. 

‘He won't ever hurt you, I won't let him.’ Jon tells her as he watches her, ‘I told him, I said I’d hunt him down with dogs if he will.’

She doesn’t seem very impressed, frowns but doesn't say much as he moves over towards the sofa, drops down next to her and wraps an arm around her. She doesn't respond, only lets him comfort her and he's glad of it, she doesn't always allow others to see her weakness. 

‘The gods are punishing me.’

‘The Gods stopped caring a long time ago.’

‘Don't.’

‘Only if you promise to not wonder again what it is you have done wrong for them to want to punish you like this.’ Rhaenys just stares in the flames and he repeats what he has told her a hundred times before, if not more, ‘Rhaenys, you do not have to do this.’

‘Don't he ridiculous.’ She closes her eyes as she sighs, ‘Not after all that, not after all the arrangements have been made, we need this alliance.’

‘Fuck the arrangements, if you tell me now that you cannot do it we’ll get on a horse tonight and ride away.’ 

She shakes her head, ‘Father didn't raise me a coward. I don't run away from my duty. Especially not in the middle of the night.’ 

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘You shouldn't pity me. I am only doing what you have done before me. I'm no better than you.’

‘That was different, I didn't… I didn't _mind_ , I didn’t expect to ever marry, I had not-‘

‘It's not different. Not at all. We want to win this war-‘

‘We can find another way.’

She speaks louder when she repeats what she must keep repeating to herself, ‘We don't have time to find another way, we don't have time for anything. Sansa is their prisoner.’

‘He won't hurt you, I'll kill him if he tries.’

‘He won't try.’ Rhaenys huffs, ‘ _I'll_ kill him if he tries.’

He can't help but smile at that, ‘We can have it annulled as soon as the war ends.’

‘We will.’ She says, ‘And I won't let him touch me.’

‘It's just a formality then.’ 

Her eyes burn bright when she glares at him, ‘You haven't told anyone, have you?’

‘What?’

‘What I told you.’

‘Told me what?’ She presses her lips together and he understands. They discussed it. It was one of her reasons to initially refuse to marry him, marry anyone. She refused to lie about it. Eventually they decided there was no other way but to lie about it, though Jon likes to refer to the matter as _kept silent_ , which, he argues, is not the same, ‘Oh. No. I haven't. I… I haven't told anyone.’

‘Not even Sansa?’

‘No.’

She nods, ‘So he can't know?’

‘Robb? No, I don't… who else knows?’

‘The measter.’ She says, ‘The one who looked at me. The measter from Sunspear.’

‘Only one measter?’

She nods, ‘Grand measter Pycelle to confirm it. Father knew, Aegon knew… possibly Cersei.’

‘Cersei?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Rhaegar wouldn't share that with her.’

She shakes her head, ‘Not father, but grand measter Pycelle might.’

‘I doubt Cersei and Robb ever had a conversation about it, if they ever conversed at all.’

‘If the marriage is not consummated we can annul it when it no longer suits our needs.’ She says.

‘He won't force you.’

‘But we can't tell him either.’ She repeats, ‘He cannot know.’ 

‘Maybe he'll-‘

‘I see no reason to inform him of my shame!’

He leans back a little at the loudness in her voice, ‘It’s not a shame Rhaenys.’ He says, ‘You have _nothing_ to be embarrassed about.’ 

‘Don’t lie to me.’ She says, ‘I know how the world works, how it treats my sex, views us. I am a worthless woman, damaged goods and of no value.’ 

‘You are worth more than all the men in this castle combined.’

She's hard to compliment, but despite her fear and anger she seems flattered by it still, ‘You only say that to cheer my mood.’

He rubs her arm with his hand, ‘Rhaenys, you're my sister, we'll protect each other. Once the war is over I'll get you an annulment.’ 

‘I'll get myself an annulment.’ 

‘And you can be my hand of the king, the way we planned.’

She nods once, and then the tears start falling down. He holds her in his arms the way he once never believed he ever would. He’s so glad he can. 

‘I'm so sorry.’ He tells her. 

He knows she does it for him, for his child and wife and his cause. _Their cause_. He also knows it's her worst nightmare come to life and he hates himself for planting the idea in her head. He hates himself most for allowing her to do it to herself. 

They sit there, in his bedchamber in front of the fire, talking. They do that a lot, lately and he wonders if it’s because they simply have no one else to talk to, or because perhaps they have so much talking to catch up on. 

‘I've never asked if it makes you sad that you'll never be a mother.’

‘You don't have to ask if you don't want to know.’

'Aren’t you?’

‘Sad is not the right description.’ 

‘What is?’

She purses her lips, ‘I haven't found the word yet.’

‘But you'd want to? Be a mother?’

‘It helps not to wish for things that are not meant to be. I'll be a wonderful aunt to your brood.’

‘You will. I… I really hope you will.’

‘I really hope you'll have lots of them.’

‘I hope that too.’

‘You will.’ She says, ‘We’ll get Sansa back and you two can start making babies again.’

‘You shouldn't decline Sansa to a baby maker.’

‘I'm declining you to a baby maker.’ She says and he laughs.

‘Oh well. That way it doesn't matter.’ 

She turns towards him and stares at him for a while, unashamed, before she asks, ‘Don't you think it will be hard for you? To lie to him. I know you love him as a brother.’ 

‘I did.’ Jon says.

‘You _do_. You may fool him and even yourself but you do not fool me, Jon Snow.’ She says and she leans backwards on the sofa. 

‘I don't know if I'll ever be able to forget that he-‘

‘You should never forget anything, it's the ‘realizing whether or not it's important’ part that matters.’

‘It is important.’ 

She just looks at him for a moment and takes a sip of wine, ‘I never expected to be married. Not after Quintyn.’

‘I don't believe I ever expected you to be married.’ 

‘Why not?’ She sounds almost insulted. 

‘Because I didn’t think father would want you to live somewhere else.’

‘That had nothing to do with it.’ She takes his cup to refill it for him.

‘I thought he might… I didn’t think he’d ever find any man good enough for you.’

Rhaenys smiles sadly at that, Rhaegar always loved her most, the only one who never disappointed him, ‘He wouldn't have locked me up in the Red Keep against my wishes.’ 

He sits up straight, ‘You must miss the Red Keep.’

‘Why would I ever miss the Red Keep?’ she asks, handing him his wine. 

‘It's your home isn't it?’

‘I have lived there all my life, yes. The only things I miss are mother, father and Aegon, you shouldn’t love a place too much, places don’t love back.’

‘Do you think Aegon would mind? If he knew you and I were-‘

‘Fighting the war that should've been his? I'm sure he's looking down at us right now, terribly glad he never lived to be part of it.’

'I don't think we would be sitting here like this if he'd lived.’ He and Rhaenys only tend to tell each other deep truths when they're drunk. And he's worse at it than she is.

‘I agree.’ 

‘I wasn't sad at all when he died.’

‘I was sad enough for the both of us.’

She avoids to look at him when she pulls her legs up and leans her chin on her knees, ‘I was sad because I wasn't sad. Not as sad as I should've been.’

She nods and looks down, ‘Yes… I understand that.’ She seems to mean it. 

‘Have you forgiven father?’

‘That's part of mourning.’ She decides, ‘Forgiving them all they have done.’

‘So you still think Aegon died-‘

‘Aegon died because he was ill.’ She says.

‘His mind was disturbed.’ Jon says. 

‘I suppose you could say that.’ 

‘Don't you think the Gods left him?’

‘Do _you_ think the Gods left him?’

‘Maybe he is sending us signs with that red comet up in the air.’ Jon murmurs in his cup. 

‘If Aegon saw an opportunity to send us anything it would be a good barrel of wine, nothing else, certainly not a-‘

She doesn't find the opportunity to finish her sentence because Jon bursts out laughing. 

She grins at his face, ‘Stop it, I wasn’t trying to be funny!’ she laughs.

When Jon finds his breath again he says, ‘Aegon would hate the wedding. He always hated weddings, all of them, especially the ones he had to leave the Red Keep for.’

‘Uhuh, Heavens, he _hated_ yours.’ 

‘He had to travel for a moon's turn and you know how he looked on a horse. Once there, father made him talk to people, forced him to pretend to like ugly men he hated and behave properly and everything.’ 

‘If he'd be here all the Riverlord daughters would be pining over him and he'd hate it. It’s good he’s not here. He'd probably convince me not to do it and we'd end up having a problem.’

He nods, ‘Good point.’ 

They clink their glasses and she grins at him before she gulps it all down at once. 

‘Don’t hold back.’ He says.

‘You know me, I never do.’ She says, wiping her mouth with her sleeve before refilling her glass again. 

‘If Viserys were here he'd be convinced that thing is a fireball send by the lord of Lights.’

‘Lord of _light_ , Jon, and yes, he would most certainly be telling us that. Thank the lord of Light he's not here.’

Jon laughs, ‘I’m sure they have already named it Joffrey’s comet in King’s Landing.’ She doesn't respond and he adds, ‘Because it’s as red as a dragon’s fire.’

‘I heard one of the Stark bannermen say our father send it as a sign, they call it Rhaegar’s tears. Father _would_ be the sort of man to do that.’ 

‘He wouldn't call it tears, though.’

‘What would he call it?’

Jon coughs, ‘ _Fire and Blood_.

Rhaenys laughs so high pitchedly that it's nearly as if she's giggling, ‘It could mean glory.’

‘Or perhaps it means death.’

‘death?’

‘Blood and dead, aye, that's all the Gods send us.’

‘We do that to ourselves… What do you think?’

‘What I think?’ 

‘ _Aye_.’ She says, her voice deep. 

Jon ignores her mocking and shrugs, ‘It doesn't matter what I think but- a maester who taught me once told me comets as red as these only appear when a dragon is born.’ 

Rhaenys looks at him as if he lost his mind. She is right, so it does not bother him, ‘Thankfully that's not true because the dragons are all gone.’ She says.

‘Thankfully?’ 

‘No one in his right mind should want these things back.’ 

‘We could use one now. Or _three_.’

‘I don't want you to start your reign by burning innocents. I don't even want you to start your reign by burning the guilty. A clean and deserved death is not to go up in flames screaming.’

‘The only thing I know is that it's not a sign from the Gods.’ Jon says, ‘The comet, I mean.’

‘What else would it be, if it's not a sign from the Gods? Who else could bring such wonders up to the sky? For all the world to see.’ 

Jon shrugs, ‘I don't know.’

'You know nothing.’ Rhaenys says, shaking her head. 

‘I've been to some places and everywhere they think they found the right God, the true one, I'm sure the Dothraki in the Great Grass Sea think it's a stallion galloping on a star or something.’

‘When was it the last time you visited the Grand Grassy sea again?’ 

‘I have never been there,’ Jon says, ‘But I've met a Dorthraki horse lord- we could probably use some of these in our army.’ 

She looks at him, her face crooked, ‘When did you meet them?’ she asks and her voice indicates she doesn't believe he has. 

‘When I was at Sunspear.’

She opens her mouth in a gasp, ‘How? _When_? Where was _I_?’

He laughs, ‘I don't know, not there, not meeting a Dothraki horselord.’

‘How long was his braid? They are not called horselords! They are _khals_ and their wives are-‘

‘Khaleesi’s, yes, I remember, I received an excellent education.’ 

‘Yes, you have, it was the exact same one I received- except the sewing and curtsying. My days lacked a certain amount of sparring.’

‘Rhaegar never failed to groom us for greatness.’

Rhaenys grins at him again, and moves to sit in a cross-legged position, ‘ _Please_ …’

‘Actually, when I grew up at Winterfell there was a ward from the Iron Islands, the one who Robb send away, I told you about him… they believe in the Drowned God, I suppose they think it's a salty sign that tells them the tides are turning.’

She bursts out laughing again, ‘We have never been to the Iron Islands. Father dragged us through the Seven Kingdoms but never took us there. Why do you think that is?’

‘I don't know. Maybe the stories about laying with their horses are true.’

‘These stories are about the Dothraki. They make their enemies bed their horses.’

‘Right.’ 

‘Remember when we were at Casterly Rock?’

‘Yes. Joffrey would be fostered there but when we left we took him with us again.’

‘Ugh!’ Rhaenys throws her hair over her shoulder, ‘The disappointment.’

‘Nobody ever told me why that was.’ 

‘Father and lord Tywin had quite the disagreement.’ Rhaenys says. She knows of course, she knows everything. Lord Tywin wanted the prince Joffrey to marry the lady Sansa Stark after father decided not to wed her to Aegon.’

‘S-Sansa? But-‘

‘She ended up with you, _obviously_ , that was quite the plot twist. I'm not sure but I think Lord Tywin is still not too happy about it.’ 

Rhaenys smiles because she seems to enjoy her own joke but he doesn't really catch it.

‘I liked Highgarden far better, which is where we went afterwards, remember? And after that the Stormlands too, Aegon quite enjoyed the Stormlands.’

‘He enjoyed it a bit too much.’ Jon says, which she completely ignores. 

‘Once we travelled we'd always visit more places than one before we returned because father believed he had to be seen.’

‘ _Seen to be believed_.’ Jon remembers far too well, ‘By the people of the realm. He never visited the wall though, and he went to Winterfell only once, to drop me off.’ 

They don't say anything for a moment and Jon takes another gulp, he knows that when they don't say much he’ll continue to hide his depression with talking.

‘In King’s Landing there were always the tradesmen from the free cities and they don't all keep the faith of the Seven either. In Braavos there are worshippers they call Faceless Men, a guild of assassins.’ Rhaenys says, she has turned her head to stare into the flames of the fire, 'They consider killing a sacrament to their god.’

‘Sounds like such lovely people.’ Jon says as he looks down in his glass to study the color of his wine. 

‘They believe death is a merciful end to suffering.’

‘I think that depends on how you die.’

‘I think I agree with you there.’ She turns her head back to him and frowns when she asks, ‘What Gods do you pray to? Still these old ones?’ 

‘I try to pray to my mother’s Gods.’ He says, ‘But they never really say anything back. You have to have faith in something, though. If you don't you'll give up.’ 

When Rhaenys doesn’t respond, he looks at her face, scans it the way he used to do with high lords and members of the King’s council. 

He feels the need to rub that look off her face, ‘Tyrion used to tell us the only good god is between a woman’s legs.’ 

Rhaenys’s laugh is just as husky as her voice, ‘How many women did you take when you were in the capital, Jon?’ she asks, ‘How often did Tyrion Lannister take the king’s handsome bastard son with him to visit Lord Baelish’s special house?’

Jon takes the last gulp from his drink, ‘I took only one, all my life. Just her.’ He says and he places the empty cup on the table in front of him, ‘Sansa is- I've always been true to her.’ 

‘You’re as honorable as your uncle.’ Rhaenys nods, ‘I do believe in the Gods, still, and I pray to them that your uncle’s honor won't kill you the way it killed him.’

‘Smart men are not always wise.’ Jon says, ‘And even so, this has nothing to do with honor.’ 

‘But-‘ 

‘She's my lady wife.’ Jon says, ‘She is the one thing I have ever truly wanted. Freia is my trueborn daughter. Sansa’s children will be the only children I'll ever have. I won't father any bastards, and she is the only one who will ever be mine.’

‘Honor it is.’

He grins, ‘No.’ He shakes his head, ‘It’s all about me. I wouldn’t be able to bare it. I shall never shame her like that, never.’ 

Rhaenys squeezes his shoulder but doesn't say a thing.

‘Robb will be faithful to you too.’ Jon says, ‘He is as honorable as Ned Stark. You may mock it or be your judgmental self about it, but I can promise you it'll be better to marry an honorable stupid man than a clever dishonorable one.’ 

'Sansa must agree with you there.’

‘I'm sure she will, she's from the North, after all.’ 

‘Are all men from the North like that? Like my brother is?’

‘No,’ Jon says, ‘There is only one man like me and that is me.’

When she gets up to go to her own rooms she hesitates with her hand on the doorknob, ‘Jon?’ 

He stands next to his bed, ready to throw himself in it and sink away in a drunk sleep, and looks up at her, ‘What is it?’

She turns around and leans with her back against the door, her eyes wide and scared, again, why has she been scared so often lately? Rhaenys was always that person who feared nothing, ‘When I told you… I wanted to tell you what happened… last week. But you didn't let me… why?’

‘I didn't think you'd want to say it out loud. You don't have to if you don't want to.’ 

‘You assumed that?’

Jon nods. 

‘I don't need you to decide what I do or do not want to say out loud. I'll tell you myself.’ She says and she doesn't sound angry, though he knows this is something men do that has bothered her before. 

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Don't be.’ She looks at the slippers on her feet, ‘I don't want to say it out loud.’ 

Jon doesn't know what to say, so he waits for her to say what she wants, or doesn't want to say. 

‘But I do want you to know. That is weird, isn't it?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Not weird at all.’ He has loads of things he'd like her to know too, but he'll never find the bravery to actually say it. As usual Rhaenys has to be stronger than everyone else, him especially. 

‘Do you want to hear it?’

‘No.’ He admits, ‘But I'll always listen to you.’ 

Rhaenys nods and walks over to the other side of his bed and sits down on it with her back towards him. He walks around it and sits down beside her. 

‘How much of it do you remember?’ He asks. 

Rhaenys folds her hands in her lap, ‘I don't know how much I remember, sometimes I think I have filled in the gaps of my memory through the years and I can't distantiate realty from my own imagination.’

‘I think that's normal.’ 

‘You know that I can have no children because I... because they raped me.’

‘I do, I… I know that.’ Jon feels sick already.

She nods, ‘I just… it is all so vague, I hardly remember any details, I don't remember big chunks of it just… I remember mother telling us to hide under the bed. That's what I remember. She tried to put us in some closet first but we didn't fit so… we crawled under the bed, me and Aegon, he was barely one, just a baby and he wouldn't stop crying until he- until they came in.’ 

The moment she starts talking it’s almost as if it's not hard for her at all. She has trouble finding the right words sometimes but the story is told with a certain coolness that makes it somehow worse. If she sobbed he'd be able to hug and comfort her. Now all he can do is listen and feel an urge come up to kill something. 

‘He stopped crying when they came in and I don't remember how… I didn't know what they were doing, I had no idea, of course I didn't but… they dragged mama through the room by her hair and pushed her down into the bed. I didn't know, I didn't understand, it's only much later that I realized they were… they were _raping_ her.’ 

The word seems to be so painful to her and he squeezes her hand as she digs her nails in his palm. 

‘I remember how they argued, how they… I remember how she begged and cried and then they started fighting. I think they- I _know_ they started fighting because they were impatient. They were… they were fighting over who got to r-rape my mother n-next.’ 

‘That is…’ he doesn't know what word could possibly ever describe how utterly monstrous that is. 

‘Then Aegon started crying again and they noticed us. They pulled us from under the bed and after that… I don't know. I just don't know. I _really_ don't remember, I don't even remember what it felt like.’ She smiles slightly through her tears as if that is such a weird thing, for her to forget parts of a memory she lived through when she was three, ‘I don't even remember pain or… I don't remember how many of them- how many- how much I've been- I don't remember. All I remember is my mother screaming. She screamed and Aegon cried. I remember her begging, I remember how she wept and how Aegon just… I told him afterwards I said _hush egg, mama will wake up_ , but I knew she wouldn't.’

‘They stabbed her.’ Jon says, as if he needs to clarify it to himself. 

‘Yes. Yes I… they did. And I don't remember that. Maybe I looked away or maybe… I don't know. I remember blood on my hands and in my hair, _her_ blood, but I don't know how it got there and I don't know how… I don't remember. But they told me that is how they found us. It's when the guards found us and… well it was too late of course but had they waited longer I would have died that night.’ 

‘They were punished.’ Jon says, ‘Weren't they? They were… they were executed.’ 

‘ _Executed_?’ Rhaenys smiles that smile again, ‘Depends on your idea of the term. Grandpapa Aerys burned them all.’

‘Well I… I suppose he did something right after all.’ 

‘Did he? It never brought my mother back. But I suppose it… I suppose it is a condolence to know they will burn in the hells and went there screaming.’ She moves closer to him, takes his face in her cold hand and tells him, ‘Hate and anger will never bring you what you truly want, you have to remember that, Jon. Revenge is always a disappointment, I know that. The only thing that might make you feel better is to protect those you have left, it’s that what you should always focus on. It is what father has always done.’ 

Jon watches her sleep that night, he stares at her back, as she turned away from him sometime during the night. She's all calm and peaceful, almost angelic and graceful with her eyes closed. 

He knows she is marrying Robb for him and for Sansa. She promised him to protect Sansa and Freia and she believes she failed in that. She didn't. If anyone failed it was him. After tomorrow he has failed to protect Rhaenys as well because in her own way, she will take the walk of execution down the aisle of the sept. The worst thing is that he'll allow her to do that. 

When she joked about Aegon convincing her not to do it he knew she was right. Aegon would not have let her do this to herself. But then, Aegon knew nothing of honor, nor of kinship. Rhaenys marries Robb because she wants to protect her kin, and for that, Jon will be forever grateful. 

 

Jon’s only sister marries his cousin and Sansa’s brother in a dark red dress with small black diamonds in her honey-colored hair that for once, is loose and falls down, it's so long it reaches her hips and the curls shine like molten gold. She didn't make the dress herself, she can't have had the time and she's not really the person to make her own wedding dress. 

The silk and satin of her sleeves fall over her hands, hiding the many rings she always wears on her fingers. Velvet rims her bodice like scales and where a necklace in the shape of a dragon covers her pale skin, he can see her unsteady breathing. It's the only thing unsteady about her. 

The golden three-headed dragon on her cloak spits fire and Jon can't help but stare at them all through the ceremony. They look so dangerous, so powerful and mighty. They remind him of King’s Landing, of the way his father sat below a banner with just the same dragon. 

As far as Jon knows Robb and Rhaenys have not spend a single conversation privately, and as they stand at the altar together Robb looks everywhere but at his bride. Jon cannot blame him, Rhaenys glares at her new lord husband with eyes that spit so much fire they'll turn him to ashes if he only dares blink her way. She glares at him, at what he represents, at what he'll become to her, at his sole existence. 

It's a southern ceremony. Not like the one Jon and Sansa had, in front of a tree, with the old Gods as witnesses. There is a measter, and as they say their vows he nods and declares them lord husband and lady wife afterwards. They have to kiss too and Rhaenys keeps her eyes forcefully open as Robb leans over to quickly and shortly press his lips to hers. 

Jon looks sideways at Catelyn, she’s dressed in dark green which looks lovely on her. Rickon stands beside her and he seems to feel the tension as he hops from his one foot to the other. 

Bran sits in his special chair and he seems more bored than tense. They arrived from Winterfell this morning and were both so enthusiastic when they saw him and Jon couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat as Rickon ran into his arms. He lifted the boy up, grabbed him by the back of his cloak to make him ‘fly’ like he always used to do, threw him across the room and played with him like clearly no one has done in what may be years. 

Rickon seems so lonely. Especially with Bran being crippled, there is no one of his own age to play with. He spends his time with the direwolves but Jon notices how he lives up in the new environment with all the exiting army men, the knights and banners and the tremendous amount of horses. He is so energetic, can't sit still for a moment and his excitement gives Jon some energy he seemed to lack lately. He's so young, Barely seven, the poor thing.

Catelyn moves her hand through Rickon’s auburn curls to gently tell him she's proud of how he manages to stand still and her eyes meet Jon’s. She smiles a sad but encouraging smile at him. Her support means more to him than he expected it would. It means the world, frankly, and her kind eyes warm his limbs. They’re Sansa’s eyes.

‘There is a letter for you, from the imp.’ She tells him during the feast, as he sits at the high table, close to Robb’s Tully uncle, who is drinking his wine eagerly. 

He looks at it, turns it around in his hand and then nods at her, ‘Thank you.’ 

‘Mayhaps it is about the trade.’ She says, ‘You should open it.’

‘I will.’

‘Not now?’

Jon looks sideways at Rhaenys, who clearly has the headache she desired so much, and stares out at the people in the room with fierce and spiteful eyes. 

‘It can't possibly be about the trade.’ Jon says, ‘He'll let me know once Jaime arrives in the capital, and there hasn't been enough time for that yet.’ 

She nods in understanding, ‘Then what else could he write you about?’

‘Could be anything.’ Jon shrugs, ‘He might be sending us Joffrey’s congratulations for this joyous occasion.’ 

She smiles a small smile, ‘I have been told it was you who proposed it.’

‘Somehow I think I have made his life easier by preventing a marriage between houses Martell and Stark.’ 

‘Why so?’

‘My sister’s cousin is not someone who belongs on my short list of confidants.’ 

Catelyn looks sideways at the seats of the table that have been taken by the princess of Dorne and her uncle, ‘They are exotic, aren't they? She would not have fared well in Winterfell, no.’ 

‘Nor will Rhaenys, I’m afraid, but at least she never complains.’ 

‘So, it is a match that you think will… you may think they could… grow fond of each other?’

‘Sansa looked nearly as bad.’ Jon reminds her, ‘She managed to grow fond of me.’

Catelyn smiles at that again, ‘She did not need to try, not one bit.’ She presses her lips together and then tells him, ‘I wasn’t at all pleased when Ned married her off to you, I won’t deny it, not after all these years, but Sansa could not have been granted a better marriage.’

‘Thank you.’ He breathes and he feels stupid for not saying something better, something with more substance, for what she says… That is all he ever wanted to hear.

‘You never know, truly, sometimes we’re lucky and the Gods gift us love, but sometimes… Sometimes they do not and all there’s left to do is endure.’ 

‘They call this the Red Wedding.’ He says, ‘Because of the comet.’ 

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means something, that is all I know, and we must hope it has nothing to do with us nor our enemies.’ 

‘Are our enemies alike, Jon? Do we share them?’

That questions hurts him more than he initially expected, ‘Of course they are, Catelyn.’ He says.

‘You must forgive him.’ Catelyn urges, it is the first time she tries, ‘He loves you so. He has missed you terribly.’

‘So, he sees how he has wronged me?’

‘He sees how you see it that way.’

‘I'll forgive him if he ever believes it too.’ Jon says, ‘Not a moment sooner.’

‘You told him you've forgiven him.’ Catelyn says, ‘Because he is your kin, you said. Was that a lie?’

He ignores that question, ‘We do not need to be friends. We are allies now, which might be more practical and sufficient.’

‘When I hear you talk of each other like this I feel the urge to send the both of you to bed with no supper. You and Robb have never been friends. You are brothers. He is the only brother you have ever known.’ 

He knows that is true, ‘Once that may have been the most important thing in the world.’ 

She nods because she knows who is now, ‘If Sansa forgives him so must you.’

‘I do not know if she forgives him.’

‘Sansa always forgave him anything, she'll forgive him this too, she'll understand, the way she has always understood you too.’ 

‘Do you pray for that when you visit the sept?’ Jon asks. 

‘No,’ she says, a sad grimace adorns her face, ‘I pray to have my daughters with me, in my arms, where they once fell asleep every night.’

‘I pray to have my daughter with me too.’ Jon admits. 

‘You must.’ She says, ‘Pray for it every night and every day. To the old Gods and the New. It's better to pray to as many as you can, keep them all happy.’ 

‘They have never answered my prayers before.’ Jon says.

‘Haven't they? They have answered mine.’

‘Truly?’

She nods, ‘Of course. I prayed for my husband's safe return so often and they gave it to me every time but once. I prayed for my children to come into this world screaming loudly and full of health and all of them did. I prayed for my son Bran to wake up when he fell from a window and he opened his eyes. I prayed for my daughter to have a healthy child and they tell us the Gods gave her one. I pray for my son to live through his battles and return victoriously and to this day he has not lost a single one. I prayed for you to come back to us and here you are. The gods are cruel but they do so to teach us. Sometimes they are merciful and good.’

‘And you think the Gods did all that?’

‘There cannot be gain without loss, no light without darkness, no life without death. The gods give us pain to guide us as we find our destiny.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Sometimes our suffering is just that. Sometimes we regret and we never get the chance to make it better, we’ll just have to live with our mistake until we die.’

Some tears twinkle as she looks at him and then she smiles through her watery eyes, ‘You sound just like your father.’ 

‘You have never said that before.’

‘Well, I'm sure many have told you so terribly often, I'm certainly not the one who knew him best.’

‘You always tell me I look like Ned.’

‘You do. You still do. But you _sound_ like your father. Though as stubborn as Lyanna. The solemnness is all Ned, however.’

‘Solemn?’

‘Oh yes. The long solemn face of the Starks. Often we received visitors and one would think you were Robb, so much you looked like a Stark.’ She smiles at him as if she is his mother, remembering the times when she was the one raising him, scolding him, kissing the top of his head, washing his hair and sending him to bed with no supper far too often for his own liking. 

‘As much Stark blood flows through my veins as through Robb’s.’

‘Thrones usually don't care about blood as much as they do about names and armies.’

‘I have both.’ He says, ‘My father gave me the name and my sister gave me the army.’

‘So you want the throne then? It really is all about that?’

‘I want this to be over, so I can finally bring Sansa home the way I promised.’ 

‘But?’ 

‘But I have a duty.’

‘To whom?’

‘My father. My house, my sister, my brother, even to Sansa and our child. I always do my duty, Cat, I'm not sure if that is all Ned or all Rhaegar because always doing their duty was the only thing they had in common.’

‘They taught you well.’

‘They did.’ He presses his lips together and then says, ‘My father told me once that brave men don't fight because they want to kill their foes, they go to battle because they want to protect what they leave behind in their homes. If I don't fight this war we'll never be safe.’ 

‘Your father was a wise man.’ She says after some consideration, ‘And a good king.’

‘He was a very good king.’ 

She squeezes his shoulder and stands up, ‘I must bring the boys to bed.’ She says, ‘Before they fall asleep with their heads dropped in their food.’ She wishes him good-night then and he watches her walk away, leave the hall.

As soon as she's gone Jon turns with his back to the room, so no one can see him but the fabric of his cloak and he breaks the Lannister seal of his letter. It is directed at him and him alone. Not Rhaenys, not Robb, just him. _Jon Snow_. 

He knows what it might be and he can't believe himself for thinking it, yet his hands tremble as he unfolds the paper, then nearly drops off his stool the moment the handwriting appears to his eyes. 

_To my husband,_

_I feel so blessed that I get to talk to you, for talking to you is all I've dreamed of ever since you left me. I know how much you miss me, for I feel it too. I believe I must remind you of what we are, to each other. Never forget it, Jon, us, don't you dare forget it for a moment. They will never break us, or truly keep us apart, for I am always with you, a part of me is you._  
_You wrote me to ask me to believe you when you say you love our child. There is no need to ask. I know you, remember? I know you to be the best man in the whole world and I am still everyday so grateful to be your lady wife._  
_I tell our daughter of you as much as I can. She walks and talks. She calls me her mama and I am so proud to be her mother. You must be proud to be her father too. She's a sweet and good girl. Very clever._  
_I have been scared, but not anymore. I know that the Gods will bring us together again, for it is you where I belong, you are my home, you are my everything. There is simply no other way. So you too mustn't be scared. You must be strong and as brave as I know you are. I have such faith in you, and you must believe in yourself, remember who you are._  
_Jon, for all the things I wish to tell you, there is not enough paper in the world to write it down. When we see each other I shall say it all. I'll look at you and you'll be all I'll see. For now, all I need you to know is that I am well, truly, healthy and willful and determined more and more every day. They have tried and failed to break my spirit._  
_Above everything else I need you to know that I love you and I need to remind you that I know you, I know how you love me and how you'll do all you can to protect me. I remember how you promised, I'll remember until the day I die. All you said to me, during our first night together. I can still hear you say it, I regret never telling you how much that meant to me then and still does now. So there is nothing to forgive. I mean that with all my heart and all the rest of me, body and soul. I am yours, always, forever. Be strong and don’t forget me._

_Your wife,_  
_Sansa Stark of Winterfell_

 

**Sansa**

‘So my brother married the princess Rhaenys?’

Tyrion nods, ‘He has.’ 

‘At Riverrun?’

He nods again, ‘They have joined their forces.’ 

Sansa bites her lip and looks at her nails as she asks, ‘Where are they now?’

‘There was a small siege on Winterfell, by the Ironborn.’

‘The Ironborn?’

'Yes. Your father's previous ward launched an attack and took it in his hands.’

‘Theon?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry to say it.’ He seems to think the news shocks her. As much as it disgusts her it does not shock her, if only. She's sure, however, that it shocked Robb.

‘My brothers… the youngest, Brandon and Rickon, were they-‘

‘They are both well.’ Tyrion says, ‘They were present at the wedding in the Riverlands when the attack occurred.’ 

‘But the castle is back in Stark hands now?’ She asks. 

‘Oh yes, it took them half an hour, probably, but it is a distraction.’

‘Who is… who took it back? Is Jon fighting?’

‘It was a Northern host, with the Dornish alliance they could leave enough men behind to march back up North without losing land to my father.’ 

‘So my husband was fighting?’

‘Your husband remained south with his sister, I believe. They have reconquered some Riverland castles that were in Lannister hands and they're marching south, I suspect… I suspect they will try to attack Casterly Rock once they’ve re-conquered the Riverlands.’

‘Casterly Rock?’

Tyrion nods, ‘They'd be clever not to. The castle has not fallen since my ancestors took it from the Casterlies, that is a thousand years ago.’

‘So, Jon is fighting?’

‘Commanding. He is commanding the Martell army with Oberyn Martell and his sister.’

Why can’t he simply answer her question? Sansa feels her irritation grow though she manages to hide it from him. She doesn’t care about the complications of politics, she cares about Jon’s health and life, ‘So, is he fighting?’

‘I suspect he is.’

Sansa gulps the fear in her throat away, ‘And he's with Rhaenys?’

‘Messengers all seem to agree that his alliance lies with his sister before your brother.’

Sansa still can't believe Rhaenys married her brother. They seem like such an incredulous match and she doubts they can possibly ever have a conversation that goes further than the usual pleasantries. What on earth should they ever converse about? They hardly share the same interests. Yet… she thinks that perhaps their differences can be a good thing. They could teach each other a lot, mayhaps they can complement each other. A better bride than a princess of the blood could not be found. And Robb is a king. Or is he a king no longer?

‘What were the… Why did they marry?’ 

‘Your brother has sworn his fealty to your husband.’

Sansa feels the urge to laugh at that, ‘Fealty? To _Jon_? That is not… why would he do that?’

Tyrion doesn't respond, only looks at her with eyes that tell her she knows, and he knows she knows. 

‘That is… that is quite absurd.’ Sansa stammers. 

‘You're not the first to use that word.’

‘Am I not?’ Sansa smiles at that though she doesn't feel like smiling at all, ‘I believe you when you tell me so.’

'Your brother was losing his war, Sansa, he needed this alliance and I dare say the Dornishmen refused to come to aid without more than a promise.’

It annoys her he calls her Sansa, as if they’re friends, she’s lady Stark, ‘I see.’ Sansa says and he looks at her as if he doesn't believe her. 

‘He has not been crowned or… declared king. He has not even named himself king as of yet.’

‘But he will?’

‘It seems many believe king Rhaegar wanted his bastard to succeed him.’

‘Many believe he is a bastard no longer.’ Sansa says and she loses herself when she glares at him. The imp. He has no honor, fighting for Joffrey and doing all he can just to… it is pathetic at its best. 

‘There has to be a royal degree to legalize a bastard.’ Tyrion says, ‘His grace is not-‘

Sansa stands up abruptly and so does he, it silences him, thankfully, ‘I am very grateful to you for telling me all this, my lord, truly grateful.’

Sansa tries not to lose control over her knees as they shake and she flexes her hand before she steadies herself. It’s time now to give him her most dazzling smile and after she does she turns around to leave him there. 

‘I must go, my lord, forgive me.’

'There is something else.' He says and she stops. 

‘Something about Jon?’

Tyrion shakes his head, ‘It’s the Princess Daenerys.’ 

‘Is she with them?’ She should be worried about Daenerys, but she hasn't been for a second and it helps to know Daenerys has probably not given her a moment of thought either. 

‘No, she has crossed the narrow sea and arrived in Braavos.’ 

‘Braavos?’

Tyrion nods, ‘We're hoping to find useful spies to inform us of her activities but as for now… we only hear rumors.’ 

‘And what do these rumors say?’

Tyrion looks uncomfortable then, as if he fears the answer will not please her one bit, ‘Daenerys has… they say she has dragons. They say she put the corpse of prince Viserys on a pire, placed three eggs by his side, set it all on fire and walked right through the flames. When the flames died down she lived, her clothes and hair burned but her eggs hatched, all three of them.’ 

Sansa can't help but giggle, ‘Well, this gives me inspiration for Freia’s bedtime stories, thank you for sharing it with me, my lord.’ 

'They say it's true, my lady.’ 

‘They say my father-in-law went up in flames and flew into the sky, soaring through the air, escaping the clutches of his iron chair.’ Sansa walks away from him, towards the door, ‘My lady mother always told me to only believe what I see with my own eyes.’ she nods her head to him, ‘I will leave you now.’ 

‘Lady Stark…’ he bows for her again and it's the last thing she sees before she finally closes the door behind her.

Freia's sleeping when Sansa enters her room. Her pretty curls plastered to her sweaty forehead in her sleep. When the Septa puts her to bed she always wraps her in too many blankets. Sansa removes one and kisses her cheek gently. 

She's getting so big. She's slowly turning into a person now, with preferences and wants, demands and all sorts of feelings. Getting prettier and wittier every day. She can really make Sansa laugh. 

She needs her sleep, she spent her entire morning bellowing because measter Pycelle tried to investigate her health. Sansa tried not to get angry, she knew it wouldn't help. She's not sure why they suddenly found the need to look at her daughter's health, they haven't forced that on her since Freia was barely a fortnight old. 

At one and a half Freia is a steady walker and a confident talker. She babbles the ears of Sansa’s head. Her vocabulary stretches as far as about fifteen words but she understands far more than she can speak, Sansa knows that. Freia still relies on non-verbal communication, pointing and gesturing to tell Sansa what she wants or what she wants Sansa to see.

There are more and more clear words between the chattering. She can say ‘bye-bye’ now, and ‘milk’, ‘Ghost’, ‘mine’, ‘gone’ and ‘please’. Sansa is still trying to teach her how to say thank you. 

Her first real sentence was, ‘What’s that?’ And Sansa is always glad to answer to her eagerness to learn. 

Freia is surer on her feet, climbs on furniture and can throw a ball too. She remains to hate strangers and she's as cuddly as ever but her curiosity to the world outside her room and Myrcella’s garden steadily grows. Tommen waved at her once and tried to play with her but thankfully she didn't seem into it at all. She's awfully bashful and timid around people she doesn't know and Sansa cannot imagine Cersei liking the prospect of Tommen and Freia being playmates and it could cause mingling Sansa would love to avoid. 

Freia's awfully bashful and timid around people she doesn't know. Outside the safety of their room Freia won't walk on her own without holding Sansa’s hand and she always hides behind her skirts when someone talks to her. She seems like a completely different girl then. 

Sansa kisses Freia's head again and turns to her bed. She feels tired too, perhaps tired enough to sleep. She sleeps a lot lately, and it's because she hopes times goes by faster when she sleeps, things are easier then. When she sleeps, she doesn't have to think and if she's lucky, she dreams and she'll dream of a place much better, where she's not alone and doesn't need to count the days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am that person who actually explains her own prophecies (damn you George), here you go:
> 
> White wedding: JonxSansa  
> Red wedding: RobbxRhaenys  
> The wedding that never should have happened: ViserysxDaenerys  
> The wedding that may never happen: RobbxArianne  
> Purple wedding: ... 
> 
> Hope that clarifies. I have told some of you that it's going to get worse before it gets better. worse starts next chapter, and it's called Trade of Hostages.  
> Thanks for (still) reading, have the loveliest of weeks and please let me know what you think!


	35. Trade of Hostages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freia lays on her back and Ghost looks down on her before he licks her face and she giggles, outstretches her hand and pads him, not at all gently, ‘Sweet Ghosty! Good boy!’ she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to 're-write' that scene where Olenna and Margaery question Sansa and she admits he's a monster and all, but then I decided you guys can understand by now that Sansa is in a far better place, stronger and smarter and playing the game better (as best as she can) without a do-over of that conversation, Sansa realizes Margaery is not as sweet as she seems and would never trust her. It would've taken me at least 4,000 words, half a chapter, and we all just want this separation to end, don't we? So Margaery will be lacking in the fic, consider her sacrificed for the reunion one chapter earlier, which I prioritized. Hope nobody is too disappointed about it!

**Sansa**

‘Oh, she's such a sweet thing!’ Margaery Tyrell tells everyone sitting around her during a tea party in the garden that she willingly hosts to celebrate Sansa’s twentieth nameday.

The woman decided to host it without request. She would not have been asked and all Sansa does as she sits in one of the wooden chairs, a tea cup in her hand, is keep an eye on Freia, who frolics around with Ghost in the distance, as she awaits that blissful moment where she'll be able to leave this playlet without insulting Joffrey’s betrothed. 

It never fails to baffle Sansa how much the tea parties resemble the ones Rhaenys used to throw. The way Margaery openly challenges and tries to actively change the fashions of the court are just as alike, just as dangerous.

Freia lays on her back and Ghost looks down on her before he licks her face and she giggles, outstretches her hand and pads him, not at all gently, ‘Sweet Ghosty! Good boy!’ she says. 

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Sansa says. 

Margaery has never heard Freia scream ‘IS MINE!’ Nor has she seen her throw her cup on the floor, spilling the content all over, because it’s ‘NOT MINE!’. Freia is the sweetest thing, but she has a mind of her own and not the means to always make them clear to those around her. 

‘And so well-behaved, don't you think, grandmother?’

Olenna Tyrell has been kind to Sansa, and she hasn't been terribly kind to many. Sansa is no fool, she knows the Tyrells think she may come in handy in the future, yet she cannot help enjoying some pleasant company, people who don’t insult her whenever they see an opportunity, don’t threaten to either rape her or beat her bloody. She had forgotten how nice female company can be, yet, truly, the Tyrell’s treat her like a pawn just as much. 

'Tell me, lady Stark, is that beast not dangerous?’

‘Ghost? Oh no, he's ever so gentle, he would never hurt her, he's always looking after her.’ 

‘But it's a beast. How can a beast-‘

‘Ghost loves her.’ Truly he does, and Freia loves Ghost, they're best friends. It makes Sansa feel a little guilty that she has forced Freia to find her best friend in a direwolf by keeping her away from everyone else in the world, including other children, but she has never seemed lonely.

'She's beautiful.' One of Margaery’s cousins tells her, Sansa has forgotten the girl’s name.

‘Thank you.’ Sansa smiles politely. 

'My lady?’ Sansa looks up and a servant hands a platter to her with a letter on it. 

‘Thank you.’ She whispers to him and it is not the first time in her life she hates how soft her voice is. She takes the letter in her hand, turns it over. 

‘from lord Tyrion.’ 

Sansa nods and waves the man away. It has been opened, of course, but at least he has the decency to admit to it, and not wrap it up with a new seal. The Targaryen three-headed seal. Sansa looks at its red color, at how dangerous it looks, so mighty. 

All their life together Jon not only used but also wore the direwolf of house Stark in a white color. Bastards are not allowed to use their father’s sigil, so he used his mother’s reversed. Jon couldn't even use the grey wolf, yet he preferred the white one over a black three-headed dragon. Now, she sees no sign of no wolf. Three heads of the dragon, house Targaryen, Fire and Blood, blood of old Valyria, of the dragon, his father’s house. Red upon a black field. 

‘What does lord Tyrion want?’ Olenna asks her. 

Sansa smiles without looking up, ‘Oh, nothing really, not of any importance it… it has to do with the fabrics I need to make my daughter her new clothes. She's growing out of these.’

‘She gets bigger every day.’

There is little that comes out of Margaery’s mouth that Sansa finds trustworthy but she does believe she speaks the truth when she coos over Freia. Why wouldn't Margaery think she is a sweet thing? She certainly looks the part. 

Sansa feels her fingers around the letter tremble and she gives the Tyrell women the same dazzling smile she usually reserves for the imp. 

‘Have you prepared yourself a new dress?’

‘Why would I?’

‘For the wedding, of course! Won't you have two different ones, one for the ceremony and one for the-‘

‘Oh yes, I am looking through silks.’ Sansa widens her smile. 

Margaery seems to sense how Sansa is not interested in conversing about dresses so she starts to tell her grandmother about her own dress though it must certainly be a story the woman has heard before, could likely tell herself. It will be some time before the wedding will actually take place. It's going to be quite the grand affair, apparently, and grand affairs demand time to be prepared. 

Their talking grands Sansa the opportunity to shakily unfold the paper and read his words, finally.

_Dearest Sansa,_

_Two letters of yours have reached me, that is far too little and yet somehow all I needed. Your words gave me the strength to become me again, which I’d not been for a very long time. I thought I was losing my wits, perhaps I still am. We'll get you back Sansa, we'll take down all those that wronged us._  
_I love you, I love you so, and though you don't need it I want to tell you again to be strong, don't you dare give up Sansa, don't even think of it. I'll be damned if you do._  
_I wish I could talk to you, I'm always afraid I'll forget what you look like. I couldn't possibly write a letter with everything I need to say to you in it. I'll tell you when I see you. I'll tell you so much. You know how terrible I am at talking, but I'll talk so much and you'll have to listen to it, Sansa, promise me. I close my eyes sometimes and do my best to pretend you are there but it gets harder and it makes me feel so sick. I can't sleep ever since you're gone and it’s been almost two years, I’m so tired._  
_You know me better than anyone, I think you are the only one who truly knew me and I also think that without you, I'm not really me. Does that sound logical to you? I don't really care anymore, I seem to care about less and less these days._  
_I don’t think you’d be happy with the look of me if you'd see me now. You would want to cut my hair. I'm not shaving properly anymore either. I promise I'll resume the moment you'll have to look at my face again. I lost a lot of weight too, but now I'm gaining it suddenly._  
_I wish I could write and tell you of how well I am but I'm not, I feel like I'm dying. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you that, perhaps I should boast about the size of this freaking army and tell you how confident Rhaenys is, but I'd be such a liar. I cannot lie to you._  
_I'm scared, Sansa, and I miss you so much. You're so far away. It feels like it's not a thousand miles that is between us but a really high wall, ten times higher than the one up in the North, and you’re at the other side, nearly close enough but I can't see or hear you and sometimes it's as if you never existed. Like you have never been with me, like I've always been alone._  
_I've been trying to climb the damn wall for so long now but I keep falling off and no matter how hard I try to knock it down it just keeps standing and it laughs at me, at how stupid I am for not giving up. I'll always keep trying. I'm not going to stop fighting this cursed wall until you and I are together again. Because you do exist, you're real, and still so vivid in my memory. I talk to you in my head all day and I know you so well I can pretend to know what you'll say back._  
_I suppose that the point of this hurriedly written and stupid letter is that I want to tell you to look after yourself, be safe and all that, don't lose limbs or eyes or vital parts of yourself because without you I am nothing and oddly it seems that lately, there are far too many people that rely on me. I still don’t know why and how that happened. I can’t process it. I really don’t want to be king. Can you imagine? Me? It’s ridiculous, I can’t even begin to describe it. I'm too weak to do this without you Sansa, I can’t do anything without you. I need you, need you safe and happy, I really just really want to hear your voice and see your face._  
_I love you, I love you, I love you so much it hurts, lately everything hurts and I need you to be here to tell me to stop brooding and to not feel sorry for myself. I just wanted to say I love you again, so I love you. I'll always love you. How can you ask me not to forget you? Even if I tried I couldn't. I cannot stop thinking of you. Don't you ever dare ask me such a thing again._  
_You must tell Freia I love her and give her a kiss from me. I'll send you kisses and I swear to the Gods every night, to all of them, that this is going to be over soon. I love you._

 _Jon_

‘Lady Stark?’

Sansa's bottom lip trembles as she clutches the letter in her hand. 

'Are you quite alright?’

‘I am.’ She lies. She has never felt so miserable in her life. Constantly she thinks she cannot possibly miss him more but now… he is right. It is as if he is so close to her, all she'd need to do is stretch her arm out and grasp but whenever she tries… she can only grasp for smoke. And it really is as if he never existed. 

Sansa bites her lower lip to stop it from trembling and with the letter in her fist she marches to the grass and lifts Freia up. 

Freia squeals, ‘Mama no! Mama down! GHOST! Ghost, _help _!’__

__Sansa just places her on her hip and ignores her protests, ‘Time for bed, Freia.’_ _

__‘NOO! don't want to! I don't sleep! No sleepy!’_ _

__Sansa drags her with her, Ghost following her loyally, away from this awful tea party and these awful people. She can't stand it anymore._ _

__‘These Northeners.’ One of the ladies at the party say, ‘Such strange people.’_ _

__Sansa hides her own tear-covered face in her daughter's curly and messy hair. She'll have to put Freia is a bath first, that's for sure. She cannot imagine doing something better than putting Freia in a bath on her name day._ _

__Freia doesn't like baths one bit. She thinks the water and soap hurts her eyes and she has not quite grown used to being wet all over. She always complains that the water is either too hot or too cold and she can be scared too, especially when Sansa puts a tad too much water in the tub._ _

__So usually Sansa just takes the bath with her. They used to do so all the time when she was a baby and when Sansa is in there with her she doesn't mind when the water is up halfway and she takes her unicorn with her and makes it swim._ _

__Maybe Sansa should get in there with her today as well. Maybe she can’t stand the loneliness anymore, if only Arya was still with her._ _

__Jon exists, he loves her. Everything was real, he wrote to her. It's not in her head, all these times he held her and whispered to her during the night. He's real and not only his letter is proof of that. The child he gave her is too. She looks like him, everyone tells her, she's just as sweet as he is, her kindness and stubbornness comes from him, just like her hair and the way she sometimes looks at Sansa, as if her mother has completely lost her mind._ _

__‘Mama, mama, mama!’ Freia sings for her as she sits in the bathtub, unicorn in hand._ _

__‘Are you singing a song for me?’_ _

__Freia doesn't shake her head nor nod only sings some more._ _

__Sansa leans her chin in her hand palm, her elbow to the rim of the tub, as she watches Freia play with the water, ‘It's my nameday, you know, it's only normal to sing for me.’_ _

__Freia doesn't respond again, looks at her unicorn and holds it out for Sansa, ‘You-con?’_ _

__‘That's a unicorn.’_ _

__‘You-wi-con.’ Freia tries._ _

__‘Almost.’ Sansa says and she smiles, she moves her hand to stroke Freia's wet hair._ _

__‘No, eyes ow.’ Freia says and she points at Sansa’s eye._ _

__‘We won't wash your hair.’ Sansa says._ _

__‘Pro-wys?’_ _

__‘I promise.’ Sansa nods._ _

__Freia seems contempt with that answer and she starts splashing water around playfully._ _

__‘Freia?’ Sansa whispers, ‘We’re going to your papa soon, real soon.’_ _

__Freia looks up and doesn't seem to understand._ _

__‘I love him and you'll love him too.’_ _

__‘Lobbin?’_ _

__‘Love him.’ Sansa say, ‘Like I love you.’_ _

__‘La joe too.’ Freia says and she slams the water with the unicorn again._ _

__‘Yes, love you too.’_ _

__‘La joe, la joe, u-corn! Mama and Ghost!’ Freia sings and Sansa smiles brightly through her tears._ _

__‘You're such a good singer, the best one I've ever heard.’_ _

__

__**Robb** _ _

__Robb remembers the way Rhaenys Targaryen rode in the Winterfell courtyard on some white horse, looking just as, if not kinglier than Rhaegar. That is his earliest memory of her, the first time he ever lay eyes on her and it’s as clear as water. He even remembers what she wore that day, she was all in black, like her father and brother, and he recalls thinking she looked like she desperately wanted to be the younger, female replica of the king._ _

__He glanced at her during Sansa’s wedding feast, admired her too, with Theon’s vile jokes in the background that he may or may not have laughed at. Theon said he wouldn’t shy away from doing _that_ , the moment Jon couldn’t hear. He respected Jon enough to not say such things about his sister when he could hear. Robb remembers saying, ‘Really? She seems like she hates everything and everyone.’ _ _

__Robb now knows he was right about that- unfortunately. He never thought she'd be his lady wife, sometimes he has to pinch himself because she still doesn’t seem like his lady wife- at least not like the lady wife he always expected to one day have. Far from it._ _

__She is beautiful yes, but maybe not very much in a good way. She seems almost inhuman, with her golden hair and lilac-blue eyes. She's not tall at all, rather small in fact, smaller than most women, but she makes up for it in statue, all slender and elegant. Her arrogance alone outwits him and she looks every bit a Targaryen._ _

__She hides her hair in a hairnet and it highlights her cheekbones. The jewels she wears reflect dragons and fire motives and she is nearly always dressed in either red, black or pearly white. Why can't she wear green for a change? Or blue or orange or whatever? She’d look so lovely in cornflower blue or in a pale violet red color, or the stark grey color… even salmon, anything really, that isn’t either colorless or red._ _

__Stern and unforgiving. That is how his mother describes his bride and so far he feels he has to agree, unfeeling too, and yet so terribly enchanting._ _

__She is extremely unforgiving and unfeeling when it comes to her aunt Deanerys. She enters the room, glares at all his bannermen who either hate her guts or fear her or both, throws a letter in Jon’s face and clarifies her frustrated anger with no further explanation by telling him, ‘Ser Barristan has written me again.’_ _

__It’s really _true_?’ Is all Jon asks and Robb knows he stops breathing for a moment._ _

__Rhaenys doesn’t answer with a yes or a no, instead she aggressively grabs the letter back and rips it apart in a hundred pieces._ _

__Rhaenys is not pleased with her father’s only sister, not pleased at all. She feels both betrayed and insulted and emphasizes that the prince Viserys was insane and caused his younger sister-wife to become the same._ _

__Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen has three actual dragons, named herself the ‘last Targaryen’ and Rhaenys disagrees. She calls her own aunt a threat, says she lost her mind, calls her poisoned with sick ideas, emphasizes that the new faith of the firelord has given her uncle and aunt both the illusion of superiority. Rhaenys claims Daenerys Stormborn is self-entitled and believes herself supreme, remarkable, exceptional and magical because she is of the ‘blood of the dragon’; a full-blooded Targaryen. Unlike Jon and Rhaenys both. Bastard or no._ _

__She straightens her back, burns all Robb’s bannermen with her eyes as they either back down or look away when she raises herself. Jon may be married, and Sansa may be Jon’s queen, but Rhaenys is her father’s daughter in a way Jon is not his son. Rhaenys is the true queen in all but name._ _

__There is a look of absolute casualty on her face that scares Robb a little when she declares, ‘I see only one solution, the bitch has got to be assassinated.’_ _

__Jon disagrees and they fight over it for hours. No exaggeration, _hours_ , and Robb feels impressed, with the both of them, but mostly with Jon, because truly, he would not dare wage that storm. _ _

__‘She’s our _aunt_! She has _dragons_!’_ _

__‘ _Please_! All hells must burn before I fear her! We shall not fear her! I want her _dead_!’ _ _

__‘She’s in Essos! It doesn’t matter Rhaenys, she’s miles and miles away!’_ _

__‘She better stays there. I am going to write her!’_ _

__‘You will not!’_ _

__‘I will write her and I’ll tell her that if she ever dares set foot on Westeros ground again she’ll-‘_ _

__‘You will _not_ write to her!’ _ _

__‘I’ll let the world know that Targaryens burn just the same as every peasant that ever lived!’_ _

__‘Rhaenys!’_ _

__‘She betrayed us!’_ _

__‘They call her the unburnt, she has three _dragons_ , we cannot-‘_ _

__‘I will not fear her! I’ll show them what unburnt truly means!’_ _

__Robb leaves them to it and goes for a ride in the hope of the waters having cooled once he returns. They luckily have and a cold silence has replaced it. Jon naturally doesn’t want to talk to him so he supposes he’ll have to disturb his lady wife._ _

__He walks past her bedchamber once the sun has gone down and when he opens the door without knocking she doesn’t get as furious with him as she might have, was it not that she leans against the window post, dressed in her white nightgown, her nose pressed to the glass, tears streaming down her face._ _

__‘Rhaenys…’_ _

__‘Leave me alone.’_ _

__‘If there is-‘_ _

__She pushes herself off the glass, ‘Why can no one ever fucking leave me alone?’_ _

__‘I’m sorry, I-‘_ _

__‘Just go Robb, for the sake of the Gods, _get out_.’_ _

__He avoids her for three whole days after that, because this is clearly the only thing he is capable of doing that every now and then might, _might_ please her._ _

__Smile and nod is all he does yet he only ever receives her unimpressed and irritated glances, ‘don’t embarrass yourself’ She constantly tells him, and he never quite knows what he did wrong this time. All he knows is that she has decided, at some point he cannot remember, that she hates him to the bone._ _

__Her smile is so beautiful, yet she never grands it to him. He is a move in her strategy, and he knows that. At first it bugged him, now he doesn't believe he minds. Had he married the Frey girl it would have been the other way around, yet he feels he's still better off this way._ _

__After the betrayal of the Karstarks there was no other way. If he had to marry an angelic Targaryen Princess to turn the tables in his favor again… that was a sacrifice he was willing to make._ _

__When Jon and Rhaenys fight, they _fight_ , they both enter the arena with an equal amount of pugnacity, a lust for blood, and they don’t back down or hold in. When they are not fighting… They are such a union. Jon and his sister are a strong front, as if they’re embers of some exclusive brotherhood and Robb is never invited. It annoys him and it worries him. Most of all it makes him jealous. He used to be the one Jon trusted most, he used to be his brother. Now, there is something in Jon’s eyes that tells him he is much more of an enemy. _ _

__The way Rhaenys speaks to Jon and trusts him, drinks wine with him after sundown and laughs at what he says annoys him even more. He doesn't remember them to be so friendly, and when he mentions it to his mother she reminds him of how the loss of a parent can bring a brother and a sister together._ _

__When Theon betrayed him in the worst way a man can be betrayed, Rhaenys urged Robb to ride North and free Winterfell himself._ _

__‘You must come with me.’ He said._ _

__‘My place is here. With my army and my brother.’_ _

__‘I am your lord husband.’ He told her, ‘Your place is with me.’_ _

__She barely frowned, ‘Only I’ll be the judge of that.’_ _

__He wonders if she really is his wife. They spoke their vows and were declared wedded in the sight of the gods but the night of their marriage she locked her door and has avoided his company with no consideration ever since. He has not bedded his wife, not had her beneath him, not even seen her in anything less than her fully-covering, to the neck bottomed up nightgown and he can't deny it makes him feel both like a fool and desperate though he hopes she's unaware of that._ _

__She hasn't told him why but he knows why, she knows how this is a marriage he needed more than she did. They both know that if he were not Sansa’s brother, and Sansa not Jon’s wife, Robb would never have wedded his sister._ _

__When he returned to Riverrun Jon is further south, fighting the battle of Oxcross for him. She greeted him with asking,_ _

__‘Did you chop off the head?’_ _

__‘The head?’_ _

__She always likes to roll her eyes at his questions just to make him feel stupid, ‘The traitor’s head, of course. Of the man you trusted.’ It was as if she asked to make him feel even worse._ _

__‘I did.’ Robb said, ‘I chopped it off myself and send it to his father in a wooden box.’_ _

__‘You did it yourself?’_ _

__He nodded._ _

__‘Jon always told me you Northerners prefer to swing the sword yourselves,’ she said, ‘How odd.’_ _

__‘If I couldn't do it myself, how can I know the man deserved to die?’_ _

__She smiled a little at that, ‘If only men who deserve it lose their heads... You would never have been king.’_ _

__After saying that she walked away and left him all alone._ _

__She does that often, make her comments about the North. He tells her she'll like Winterfell, how it's bigger than the Red Keep and she reminds him that she has seen it, and decided long ago that she has too much Martell blood in her veins to enjoy a place so often covered in snow._ _

__He suggests, ‘Perhaps it would be wise to not emphasis on your mother’s lineage so much. They call you the queen of Dorne.’_ _

__Her eyes widen for a moment and he instantly knows he said the complete and utter wrong thing, ‘Do I strike you as a woman who lies awake at night worrying about what the kitchen maids name her as they whisper behind their hands?’_ _

__‘N-no.’_ _

__‘Then why on earth would you make such a comment?’_ _

__‘I was only-‘_ _

__‘Are you really as thick as castle walls?’_ _

__‘That is not-‘_ _

__‘I am my father's daughter! I have the blood of the dragon _and_ of the Rhoynar.’ _ _

__‘I am aware of that.’_ _

__‘You must be careful not to forget.’_ _

__She is quite the remarkable woman. He knows many men envy him, thinking he gets to have her. He truly hopes no one will ever know he doesn't. They'll laugh at him even worse than she laughs at him._ _

__There are definitely those times he tells himself he shouldn't want to want her, when her overconfident self-opinion and imperious haughtiness exasperate him. He doesn't truly know why he wants her most of the time, it's just that he would really want to know what she looks like with no clothes on. He'd really like to kiss her too._ _

__He catches himself worrying over her, when she's off doing things that ladies shouldn't, or when she is too far away from her guards. Mayhaps it is because she is his wife, perhaps what he feels is a sense of duty, a sense of responsibility. Mayhaps he still feels that, despite her unwavering, humiliating rejection, marriage means something._ _

__The first time she ever comes to him makes his heart stop pounding._ _

__‘What is it?’ He is talking to his square in the stables of Riverrun, mere days after he returns from re-conquering Pinkmaiden. The light from behind her creates a halo around her body and her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, which surprises and instantly worries him. It’s so long it reaches her hips, messier than he has ever seen it and the wind blows it to cover her face._ _

__‘Leave.’ She tells his square._ _

__‘Rhaenys what-‘_ _

__‘Leave us, now!’_ _

__She takes her steps towards him and the heels under her boots click to the stone of the floor._ _

__Only once they are all alone, for the first time ever, he realizes, she wraps her arms around herself and tells him, ‘The Kingslayer has arrived in the capital.’_ _

__‘Has he?’_ _

__She nods and when he moves closer he sees some sparkles lying on her cheeks. Aside from that one time he found her crying in her bedchamber he has never seen a heavy emotion on her face aside from displease. She is good at hiding, she appears as indifferent as her father. Now, she has cried, and she shows him her tears, ‘They have accepted the trade.’_ _

__He cannot help but broadly smile, ‘T-that is wonderful news, Rhaenys, why are you-‘_ _

__‘No!’ She pushes the letter in her hands to his chest and the pressure hurts him more than it should, ‘It is not! Read it.’_ _

__He awkwardly unfolds the letter and stares at the words._ _

__‘Read it, Robb!’ She shoves him with her hands, ‘What does it say? Tell me, I need to hear you tell me I misunderstood.’_ _

__‘Rhaenys-‘_ _

__‘Read it, you fool!’_ _

__‘The king… Joffrey of house Targaryen, first of his name, king of the Andals, Rhoynar, first men all that… has decreed to accept the trade of hostages, offered by his bastard half-brother, Jon Snow, son of Lyanna Stark.’_ _

__‘Go on.’_ _

__‘However, as much he desires to fulfill his duty according to the agreed covenant… he has found that…’ Robb needs to take an extra amount of air in his lungs before he goes on, ‘He has found that the other party did not.’_ _

__Rhaenys nods, biting her lower lip, shifting on her feet nervously. She moves her hand up to bite on the top of her thumb, ‘That monstrous bastard.’ She whispers, ‘That vile, disgraceful, loathsome _usurper_!’_ _

__‘What does he mean? The other party has not?’_ _

__She smiles in a way that makes him doubt her sanity, ‘I have been informed, that Ser Jaime Lannister lost more than his dignity and self-respect between now and the moment he was captured.’_ _

__‘What do you mean?’_ _

__She outwardly laughs now, a hollow, husky laugh that both suits her voice and her current state, ‘He lost a hand.’_ _

__‘A hand?’_ _

__‘Only one remains!’ She laughs some more and muffles the sound behind her hands, ‘Read the rest.’_ _

__He has trouble reading the words through his widened eyes, ‘Therefore his grace cannot meet the required demands, and-‘_ _

__‘We get Freia.’ She says, ‘His grace is his humble and noble self and gives us Freia.’ The tears stream down her face and she's no longer laughing._ _

__‘Only Freia?’_ _

__She nods, ‘Once she turns two. They'll separate her from her mother on her second nameday. They find it cruel to do so any sooner, an infant is supposed to remain with the mother, even Joffrey apparently seems to believe so.’_ _

__‘We have… are you telling me… Have we traded the kingslayer for a baby?’_ _

__Her hand on his cheek burns. He knows he deserved the slap, he knows he won't tell her he knows._ _

__‘Have you told Jon?’_ _

__‘If you say that to Jon I'll… if you only dare complain to him about this, I’ll hack off your head like a Northener and make his daughter lord of Winterfell.’_ _

__‘You haven't told him?’_ _

__‘How can I tell him? How do I ever find the words to tell him that after two years we have still, _still_ failed to get his wife from the clutches of that _brotherfucker_! Damn him! Damn that little rat and his whore mother!’_ _

__He lets her rage on for some more, realizes he has never heard a woman use so many swear words in one single conversation and then feels his hand squeeze the letter to a ball in his palm, ‘Who chopped off his hand?’_ _

__‘Perhaps you should be the one to tell him.’ Rhaenys says, her voice soft and civil again, ‘You must tell him how the Kingslayer could not defend himself when Bolton knights captured and humiliated him. Chopping of his sword hand, nearly killing him in the process, before he was brought before lord Bolton of the Dreadfort who gave him the safe escort a hostage offered for trade deserves.’_ _

__‘Lord Bolton?‘_ _

__‘If you had not been thick headed and foolish, we could've had Sansa and the child back a year ago. Now…’ she takes an extra step towards him and he can see the blush on her cheeks, her pale skin glows like pearls, ‘Now we may have to wait until we see our chance to sack the damn city, which could take another two, maybe three years, if we're lucky, and only if they do not chop her head off before it’s too late, to prove a point or keep her from our hands alive.’_ _

__‘I do not believe it.’_ _

__‘Is it not what the letter says?’_ _

__He looks down at the crumpled paper in his hand, ‘I am not the one who released the kingslayer, accompanied by only two chaperones, this is not-‘_ _

__She hits him again, ‘This is your fault.’ She says and her voice trembles, ‘I hope you feel guilty for the rest of your pathetic life, truly, I do.’_ _

__‘Rhaenys…’ he tries and he stretches his arms out to her but she shrieks away as if his touch will give her a deadly disease, ‘Rhaenys, I’m sorry.’_ _

__‘Lets pray to the Gods that one day you'll see a chance to tell Sansa the same, as you look into her eyes.’ With these words she turns and marches away, leaving him there, feeling so guilty it makes him sick, so sick that at one point he fears he’s dying._ _

__

__**Catelyn** _ _

__When the news reaches them, Catelyn, for the first time, believes that truly, all is lost. She is not necessarily sure why. She expected to always feel the most hopeless at lost battles or deaths, large numbers of losses and betrayals. Yet this news… this news stings nearly as deep as the news of Ned’s death._ _

__The news stings nearly as much as the soundless tears that drop down Jon’s cheeks. She wants to hold him and cry with him, but even more so she knows that he'll push her away and they will make each other feel worse, if that is possible._ _

__Freia.. they can have Freia. That feels so surreal, nearly as surreal as the girl’s whole existence. When she reaches her second nameday. That is as soon as soon can be and it gives Catelyn restless nights._ _

__‘Could we not kidnap them?’ Rickon asks halfway through a bedtime story._ _

__‘No, sweet thing,’ Catelyn says and she muffles his hair, ‘I don't believe we could.’_ _

__‘And if we pay them money? Robb’s princess wife is always wearing diamonds, perhaps-‘_ _

__‘Sansa and Arya are worth more than all the diamonds in the world, don't you think?’_ _

__Rickon seems to consider it but then he nods, ‘Yes.’ He bites his lower lip, ‘So when is she coming? I've never met her. What do two-year-olds look like?’_ _

__‘Well…’ Catelyn leans her back against the headboard of his bed, ‘They can walk and talk, though not so very well, not as good as you, so they use small words and they point a lot.’_ _

__‘Can she run?’_ _

__‘I doubt it.’_ _

__‘But I could play with her?’_ _

__‘You must be very careful. She'll be small and-‘_ _

__‘She is a girl of course.’_ _

__‘A very small girl, but you must certainly try to be nice to her, she is your niece after all.’_ _

__‘I'll be nice to her.’ Rickon promises._ _

__‘I know you will.’ She says and rubs his still round baby cheek with her finger._ _

__‘I don't think Jon is looking forward to it very much.’_ _

__‘It's very difficult for Jon.’_ _

__Rickon looks as if he thinks everything is always difficult for Jon, but still he asks, ‘Why?’_ _

__‘Because he doesn't want to separate a daughter from her mother.’_ _

__‘Then why does he do it?’ Rickon asks again, at seven, he is going through the same phase as he was when he was three, asking ‘why?’ all the time._ _

__‘Because Freia is much safer with us. King Joffrey is not a nice person, so it is good to get her out of King’s Landing.’_ _

__‘But Sansa can't come?’_ _

__‘No, she can’t. So, he has to separate them, you see? But he doesn't really want to. He really just wants to have them both.’_ _

__‘Bran says Jon can't go to the capital himself because the king will chop his head off.’ Rickon tells her._ _

__Catelyn nods, ‘I'm afraid that's true.’_ _

__‘So he won't go?’_ _

__‘No.’ she stares at her hand as her fingers move through his auburn-colored curls, ‘He won't.’_ _

__'Bran says Jon will be king.' Rickon goes on, ‘But when Robb was king they all called him your grace but nobody calls Jon grace.’_ _

__Catelyn bites her lower lip, ‘It’s complicated.’_ _

__‘I still don't understand why he’s angry with Robb.’_ _

__Catelyn sighs, ‘Nor do I.’ She lies._ _

__‘Will they be angry with each other for much longer?’_ _

__‘I don’t know sweetling, I wonder as much as you do.’_ _

__Rickon nods, ‘Maybe I can teach Freia how to ride a pony.’_ _

__‘I don't think she'll be quite big enough for that, but you can teach her other things, you can tell her stories and show her around.’_ _

__‘Bran says we're going back to Winterfell, is Freia coming too?’_ _

__Catelyn nods, ‘Yes, that is where they will bring her. She won't come here. Jon doesn't think it will be safe enough.’_ _

__‘So, Freia will be at Winterfell?’_ _

__‘With us.’ Catelyn says, ‘We’ll be there with her.’_ _

__Rickon gasps in childlike excitement, ‘If there is snow we could have a snowball fight!’_ _

__‘Remember what I told you about being careful?’_ _

__‘Won't she be able to throw a snowball?’_ _

__‘I don't think you should throw one at her.’ Catelyn is sad to inform._ _

__‘I'll throw one at Jon. Maybe he'll be fun again once Freia comes to live with us. Will she stay forever?’_ _

__‘I'm not sure about forever, but for the time being yes, so long as the war is still going on.’_ _

__‘I wish the war would just end.’ He sighs, ‘At first it was exiting but now I don't like it anymore.’_ _

__‘I don't like it either.’_ _

__‘Everyone is all sad and moody and I miss Arya and Sansa.’_ _

__‘I miss Arya and Sansa too.’_ _

__‘I miss father most of all.’_ _

__Catelyn grabs his hand in hers, ‘We all miss father.’_ _

__‘Robb went to war to get father back but then he died and now everyone is still fighting. Sansa is away and Robb suddenly married Jon’s sister and everything is a mess. When do you think it will be over?’ Rickon asks._ _

__‘As soon as soon can be.’ Catelyn says, it is the closest thing to honesty she can come up with._ _

__‘Do you think we'll ever see Sansa and Arya again?’_ _

__‘I do.’ She says and she squeezes her youngest son’s hand, ‘I believe it and so must you.’_ _

__He nods, ‘Okay.’ He says._ _

__‘Very good,’ she says and she kisses the top of his head, ‘Good night my sweet one.’_ _

__‘Good night.’_ _

__When Catelyn finds Jon in the hall he is stroking Greywind’s fur and he doesn't look up when she walks over._ _

__'How are you?'_ _

__He doesn't respond._ _

__‘You have made the right decision.’ She tells him._ _

__‘I know that.’ He says, still refusing to look at her, ‘I wouldn't have done it if I'd not been completely sure.’_ _

__‘Jon-‘_ _

__'Safe if Cat.’ He moves to stand up, ‘I don't need to hear you say it, Rhaenys told me, she said it all and she's much better with words.’_ _

__‘I don't believe there is anyone who is as good with words as the princess Rhaenys.’_ _

__A sad smile is on his face for half a second only and she realizes he has probably been drinking, she would have if she were him, ‘She’d call that her dearest compliment.’_ _

__‘I will not lie to you and pretend I enjoy your sister’s company-‘_ _

__‘She is hard to love.’_ _

__‘-But I have great admiration for both her strength and her talent for judgement and comprehension. She is right, this may be your only chance to safe her, you may never see her alive if you do not take her now.’_ _

__‘What if this was my only chance to ever see Sansa alive again?’ He asks and it is then she realizes he hasn’t just been drinking, he has been drinking too much, ‘I should've done it sooner, I should never have waited so long, should not have listened to Robb-‘_ _

__‘You cannot change that now.’_ _

__‘It's my fault, I should've delivered the oathbreaker personally, should've thrown him down at Cersei’s feet, both hands attached to his wrists and-‘_ _

__‘It is done now,’ she says, ‘and it is what it is.’_ _

__‘I made him swear it to me.’ Jon says, ‘He swore to me he'd give me both of them, I made him swear it, I promised him mercy for all he did to my family, forgiveness for all the oaths he broke… he swore it. I _trusted_ him.’ _ _

__‘This is Tywin’s work.’ Catelyn says, she takes his lower-arm in her hand, ‘Come with me, you must eat.’_ _

__‘And Tyrion… Cersei. All Cersei’s work. This is her revenge. She hates me, always hated me for what I was, always knew what I'd become. She hated me for my mother.’ He shakes his head and rambles on as she escorts him to the kitchens, ‘When she married my father she believed he'd love her. Can you believe it? Once she realizes he'd never love her she started detesting him. And she detested my mother even more. He loved her you see? My mother. He told me he loved her. Cersei hates me because my father loved my mother. How nonsensical is that?’_ _

__She pushes him down on a chair by the wooden kitchen table and she has to agree. That is quite preposterous._ _

__‘She used to be in love with the idea of him once, long ago. When they were just married.’ Jon goes on and Catelyn realizes she has not heard him talk like this ever before, he rambles as if he's talking to himself, ‘They say she told everyone who wanted to hear it that prince Rhaegar was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Lots of men and women alike all thought him beautiful. I'm not so sure, I can't really imagine it but that must be for obvious reasons.’_ _

__Catelyn hands him a warm cup of broth, ‘Your father was indeed a very handsome young man.’ She tells him, ‘Every maiden in the Seven Kingdoms was swept off her feet by the mere sight of him.’_ _

__Jon takes a sip, ‘I'm sure he looked breathtakingly handsome in his black armor, decorated with rubies and all.’_ _

__‘He was exotic mostly, with his Valyrian appearance. His eyes were quite mesmerizing if I remember correctly.’_ _

__Jon sighs and stares ahead of himself for a while until he admits, ‘I wish he were here.’_ _

__‘You're not the only one who wishes that.’_ _

__‘Not for political benefits… I wish I could talk to him. There are so many things I…’_ _

__‘I'm sure there were many things he still wanted to tell you too.’_ _

__‘I'm afraid you must be right.’ Jon takes another sip, ‘Maybe it’s better he never said them, maybe I would not have looked up to him the way I do if he had.’_ _

__‘I'm sure it would not have mattered.’_ _

__'I'm sorry for how I've treated you, lately.’ Jon says._ _

__‘Don't apologize for that.’_ _

__‘I must, you did not deserve it.’_ _

__‘You were frustrated.’_ _

__‘I doubt it will subdue in the future but I shall not take it out on you again.’_ _

__‘Will you take it out on Robb?’ She asks. He places the cup to his mouth and leans his head backwards._ _

__‘Robb deserves it.’ He simply says._ _

__‘I understand your feelings.’_ _

__‘But you wish him and I could be friends again all the same.’_ _

__‘You've never been friends.’ She says as she has told him before._ _

__‘Brothers? Not even Aegon would’ve asked of me to leave Sansa in the hands of Cersei fucking Lannister… All my life I've only had one brother and that one unleashed all this madness by poisoning himself. Brothers aren't my favorite things.’_ _

__‘Aegon is-‘_ _

__‘Dead? Don't I know it. The asshole died and left us in a mess he himself could've solved with a wave of his hand. And yet… he was my brother. I hated him and he hated me even more but we were unmistakably brothers, sometimes it's not about being fond of each other.’_ _

__‘You're wrong.’ She says, ‘You and my son share blood, I raised you together, side by side. Robb loves you.’_ _

__‘As much as he loves Sansa and Arya? If he does it means nothing to me.’_ _

__‘Jon…’ she sighs, takes his cup from him and fills it with broth again._ _

__‘Sansa will hate me.’ Jon says, ‘She'll never forgive me.’_ _

__‘She would want you to do this. She is a smart woman.’_ _

__‘She would've loved to hear you say that once- a long time ago.’ He says and that makes her feel guilty again._ _

__‘She would've done the same.’ Catelyn tries._ _

__‘If that is true you know her better than I do, which you do not.’_ _

__'You're doing this to protect your daughter.’_ _

__‘That is what I'll tell myself when I lay awake at night.’ He stares down at his broth as if it’s Cersei’s face._ _

__‘Sansa will understand. She'll want you to do this, Jon.’ She hands him his second broth and he places it in front of him on the table._ _

__'I'll never forgive myself.’ He says again, ‘I want wine.’_ _

__‘I don't think that is a very good idea.’_ _

__‘I've made too many good decisions, I need wine.’_ _

__She pushes him back in his chair as he wants to come up, ‘You'll have Freia. Think of that. You'll finally be able to protect her.’_ _

__He only shakes his head and starts crying again, ‘You understand why they do this, don't you? Freia is a girl, she is not a proper heir to the Iron Throne. If they give me Sansa she may bare a son within a year. we could attack King’s Landing today and have a fair chance. They are losing this war and they know it. If they were winning they'd give me Sansa.’_ _

__‘You can't know that-‘_ _

__‘If I had sworn my fealty… I could’ve gone to the wall or to the free cities or somewhere else where I wouldn't be a bother to him but I didn't I… I couldn't let him sit on _father's_ throne. If only… Maybe I made all the wrong decisions.’_ _

__‘Today you made the _right_ decision.’ _ _

__‘Then why does it feel like I ripped my own chest open and let Bran and Rickon have a snowball fight with my guts?’_ _

__‘Because… Because we are only getting Freia. Not Sansa, not Arya, and it hurts. You're worried, desperate and afraid and that is normal, but you cannot and must not give up… Promise it to me.’_ _

__‘Don't worry about that Cat, I've given up hope ten years ago and somehow I still drag myself out of bed every morning.’ Jon wipes his own cheeks with his sleeves_ _

__‘Don't lie to me.’ She says, ‘You have faith still. The gods are with you and you are too much of a weakling to let them go.’_ _

__He gives her an ugly grin, one she has never seen before, ‘I am a bastard, Catelyn, my father may have written his name below an official document and changed my name but he couldn’t change the true facts. My father was not wedded to my mother when he squeezed his seeds into her womb. I am born from lust and betrayal. Perhaps that makes me weak.’_ _

__‘You are not weak and you are not… you’re a _good_ husband. You love Sansa with all your heart.’ She picks up his broth and presses it in his hand, ‘You’re a good man and you’ll be a good father.’ _ _

__‘I always said I never wanted to be like him but I think… lately I've been wondering if I ever truly knew him at all, maybe I am just like him.’_ _

__‘Does it matter?’ She asks and at least it wipes away that horrible grin, ‘He is gone. Whatever he did or thought or wanted… he is gone.’_ _

__Jon stares at her blankly before he shakes his head, ‘He is not gone.’ He says and he finally takes a sip from his broth again._ _

__Catelyn sighs and grabs the chair in front of him and sits down, ‘You will see her, can you imagine? I cannot. We can see and hold her, keep her from harm. Think of that, be grateful of that.’_ _

__He shakes his head, ‘It's not enough.’_ _

__‘Of course not. But perhaps it will make it hurt less. She is your daughter… children tend to take away some of the pain.’_ _

__‘Thinking of her hurts.’ Jon says, ‘The mere idea of her-‘_ _

__‘All you've ever had is the idea of her. But soon… she'll be real. She'll exist for you, you can talk to her, see her, touch her and listen to her. Two year olds can speak you know. You can tell her you love her and she’ll understand.’_ _

__A tear rolls down his cheek, ‘She won't know who I am.’ He says._ _

__‘You can tell her who you are.’ She says, ‘You can tell her anything you want.’_ _

__He doesn't look like he believes her but she doesn't need him to. She’ll give up hope if he still doesn't believe there is good left in the world once he holds his child for the first time, three years too late._ _

__‘She must be so beautiful.’ Catelyn says and she grabs his shoulders, ‘You must be strong for her, Jon.’_ _

__He doesn't say anything, only finishes his broth._ _

__‘Sansa is giving you her daughter. Protect and love Sansa's daughter. She's your child too. She's a responsibility you must take.’_ _

__‘Of course I will, Catelyn!’ He says and he angrily pushes her hands away, ‘I'll never walk away from my responsibilities, why else would I be here? In this fucking castle. I'm not Robb, I didn't throw myself in this situation because I believed it would all be exiting and heroic. I'm not a stupid fool, I know what's at stake. I've told you we’ll never be safe if I don't win this war. I've explained to you why that is haven't I?’_ _

__She nods and he still explains it again._ _

__‘Cersei has a queer taste for odd and self-destructive tendencies. She bore Jaime’s bastards not because she loved him but because she desired to humiliate my father, as my presence humiliated her.’_ _

__‘Jon it is-‘_ _

__‘She always knew… long before I did. She _knew_ Aegon would never have a son, that Rhaenys wanted my children to sit on the throne after him and she knew my father planned on legalizing me if Aegon proved the disappointment he was promising to be ever since he started bedding his squire.’ _ _

__‘Is that why she wanted to kill you?’_ _

__‘She has wanted me, the constant reminder of Lyanna Stark, dead for many years.’_ _

__‘You are right to get your daughter away from these people.’_ _

__He looks at her so cool and careful he nearly reminds her of his sister, ‘I wouldn't _do_ this if I wasn't sure-‘_ _

__‘Then stop punishing yourself! You have been punishing yourself for the past two years! Sansa wrote to you did she not? She told you she forgives you-‘_ _

__‘Don't talk about that!’ He gets up and the empty cup rolls down the floor, the sound nearly scares her, ‘Don't you mention that.’_ _

__‘You're torturing yourself for the sole purpose of-‘_ _

__‘Maybe I need that.’ He says and he grabs his cloak, ‘To torture myself, maybe I do it to keep my mind awake.’_ _

__She shakes her head, ‘Don't you go all Targaryen on me, Jon Snow. You may be your father's son but I am the one who raised you. Don't disappoint me.’_ _

__‘I am a Targaryen.’ He says._ _

__‘You're a Stark too.’_ _

__He shakes his head, ‘No, I'm not.’_ _

__‘Yes, you are. I'm saying so. You're both. You're Jon Snow. Don’t you dare forget it. This is a setback and it hurts and it's hard, but I didn't raise you to give up when it's hard. You're not a... not a give-upper. If Sansa were here she'd tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Don't disappoint her, she had such great faith in you.’_ _

__‘She did.’ Tears slid down his cheeks again, ‘I wish she were here telling me not to feel sorry for myself.’_ _

__She moves towards him and wraps her arms around him to hug him as if he's still that little brown-haired boy with these grey eyes and that rare shy smile, ‘Oh Jon…’_ _

__‘You'll help me, won't you?’ He asks after a while, as she strokes his hair from his face like every mother does, ‘With her? I don't know anything about children-‘_ _

__‘Of course I’ll help you.’ She says and he moves a bit away from her to look her in the eye, ‘She is my grandchild, the only one I have.’_ _

__He nods, ‘Thank you.’_ _

__‘Thank me when it's done.’ She says with a smile, ‘Two year olds are quite terrible, I remember you at the age, you were slow with speech but you mastered the word ‘no’ like a genius.’_ _

__That makes him smile finally, ‘She'll probably be just like Sansa. A lady at the age of three, wasn't she?’_ _

__‘You remember? She really was, always so eager to please.’_ _

__‘I don't remember really, I wasn't so interested in Sansa back then and later the adult Sansa managed to push away the memories. Though I remember her being a little flushed and chubby-cheeked.’_ _

__‘She was a healthy fat child.’ Catelyn agrees, the memory of her little girl makes her happy._ _

__‘Maybe Freia is fat too.’_ _

__‘Maybe she looks like you.’_ _

__‘I hope not, Sansa’s much prettier.’_ _

__‘I disagree,’ she says, ‘You were a lovely and handsome thing. With your curls and all. Mostly you were just so very kind.’_ _

__‘I don't really mind who she looks like.’ Jon admits, ‘So long as she's she. And healthy and not… I don't want anyone to hurt her.’_ _

__‘Once she's with you no one will ever be able to touch her.’ Catelyn says, she lets go of him and then starts, ‘I was wondering, perhaps we could give her Bran and Rickon’s old room? The boys used to share but Bran needed his own after the accident. It's rather small, but then, I doubt we'd please her with a bedchamber the seize of a ballroom. I'd cozy it up and we could have toys made. It's been a while since Arya played with dolls… she never did, now I think of it, but it might be good to have some. Books and dolls, stuffed animals and other things two year olds enjoy. Crayons if she likes to draw and blocks and everything, they love to stack at that age. Clothes too, of course, I don't know her seizes but mayhaps I still have some things of the girls… else I could try to guess it, it won't matter if it's a little too big, you have no idea how fast they grow at that age. Of course, the clothes she might bring will be too cold, she should have fur-lined dresses, warm socks, gloves and hats, mustn't forget the hats! And the bed… she must be sleeping in a crib still but two is a good age to start sleeping in a bed. So I think just a normal bed, but smaller of course, we can use Rickon’s old bed, maybe find some brightly colored blankets somewhere to make it a little girly and friendly. I could hang something on the wall, something bright and happy. We must make her feel at home, that is the outmost important thing.’ He just stares at her as she rambles, ‘What do you think?’_ _

__He didn't need to ask her to help him, she already has been, ‘Nothing just… whatever you say.’_ _

__She nods, ‘Rickon’s old bed it is.’_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for all the love, as always, please let me know what you think and have a super lovely rest of the week!X
> 
> PS  
> I was going to do this next chapter, but I think it might be better to do it now:  
> Spoiler alert- hopefully to make you feel better- Sansa won't be without Freia for long. They'll be together again soon. real soon.
> 
> I'll shortly explain why I found this ‘necessary’;  
> 1\. I want Jon to get to know his kid without Sansa around- don't ask me why, but the process of growing to love your child two years too late 'exited' me, it was something I really wanted to write, and doing it with Sansa away seemed more... fun? more challenging.  
> 2\. Really wanted to find out if I could pull this off, skills wise.  
> 3\. I wrote the reunion scene and Jon meeting Freia scene maybe a year ago? I've been creating the rest of this around it, so it was a plot point I wasn't going to set aside.  
> 4\. Again, well, mostly, I was just trying to challenge myself. Fanfiction is a nice way to do that.  
> 5\. Cersei is a bitch, I think she'd totally do this.  
> Would the Lannisters ever just let Sansa go? Jon's right, as is Tyrion, Sansa as her prisoner is Cersei’s last card. Robb, Rhaenys and Jon are knocking down the Lannister defenses in the Riverlands and soon they'll attack and crush the Westerlands.
> 
> I think I'm trying to say... please don't hate me?


	36. Ugly Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I've always been merely a chess piece on a board in this game all of you play. You have played it with my life and today you play it with my sanity. Strip me of my child and I will lose my wits.’

**Tyrion**

He has seen quite some terrifying things during his life, blood and bones sticking out of limbs, a man burning alive in front of his eyes. Never mind growing up with Cersei for an older sister. 

Yet the look in Sansa Stark’s eyes when he informs her that the trade of hostages has been accepted is a whole new kind of horrible.

She shakes her head, moves over to the child to hold her. Freia doesn't understand why her mother cries and she's too young to ask so all she does is stare up at Sansa with these wide blue Tully eyes, a certain fear in them that one wouldn't guess two-year-olds are capable of. 

Sansa hides her face in Freia's curly brown hair, the Stark hair, and starts sobbing softly as she holds her child close. She bows forwards under the heavy burden of her grief, clutching the child. 

‘I want you to go.’ 

The direwolf growls and has never before looked so dangerous. The red weirwood eyes are spiteful and aggressive. 

‘I'm sorry, my lady.’

‘ _No_.’ Sansa sits Freia back down and turns towards him, looking like she has just risen from the death, ‘This is all your fault.’ 

‘I have tried to-‘

'Get out!' She grabs a golden candleholder in her hand and raises it. 

‘Sansa, you must-‘

She yanks the large, golden object to his head.

He avoids it though nearly stumbles, ‘Lady Stark I-‘

‘Get out!’ She screams, ‘Get out, get out, _get out_!’

So he leaves. Before he walks through the door she sinks through her knees, her head in her hands, grabbing her hair with her fingers, pulling on it as if she desires herself bald. 

Her screams are as bad as dying men begging for their mother. _Mother_ … cruel. Unthinkably cruel and he tried… he tried to change their minds. He even tried to make Jaime stop them but Jaime only shook his head, aware of his guilt. Breaking his vows once more, you'd think he'd gotten used to it by now. His father didn't allow the conversation to take place, Cersei smiled, pleased with herself, pleased with her successful scheme. Tyrion knows this is her doing. Her revenge. Why in the name of the Gods a small, innocent child must be the victim of her plans, he doesn't know. Cersei doesn't care. About no one but her children. That is what he told her too, ‘You have children of your own. Can you not sympathize?’

Clearly, she can't. He doesn't understand why he asked, there are so many things she'll never be able to do, sympathy is a feeling, and Cersei cannot feel a thing. He used to think that was because she doesn't understand but now… surely, she must be able to comprehend what it is to lose a child, to have it snatched from your arms.

‘Maybe she'll never see her again.’ 

‘Maybe she won't, why should that concern me?’

Tyrion knows it concerns him too much, he knows everyone around him knows it, despite his best efforts. It's why Cersei was so eager to give him the honors of informing her. He gladly did it, if only to stop Joffrey from bringing the news. Joffrey was already on his way to Sansa’s chambers when Tywin stopped him. 

Furious was Cersei when she heard of Rhaenys’s new marriage. Tyrion was mostly upset because he didn't see it coming. It was Rhaegar’s trump card; the alliance with the North. Breaking that up would make the war a lost cause for them. It already appeared a lost cause when half the Stark army turned around and returned home. Tyrion was confident his father won his last war but then… It appears Rhaegar’s son managed to keep his father’s efforts intact and as tight as ever. 

The worst was… when half the Reach joined their side as well. How did he not see _that_ coming? Why did he not notice the rules changing? Is it because Rhaenys became a contester? Is this the way women play the game? Or is it the way the Dornish fare war? It might be, considering they never allowed any dragon to conquer them. And now, they seem eager not to use dragons of their own to conquer on their own. 

The Florents, the Caswells, the Goldengroves, the Fossoways of Cider Hall, the Oakhearts of Old Oak, the four shields of the shield islands, the Ashfords, even the Hightowers… none of them want Joffrey as their king, none of them want Margeary Tyrell as their queen consort. They all want Rhaegar’s son. 

Have they underestimated how loved Rhaegar was? How deep the desire for a son of Rhaegar's on the throne? How eager the realm would be to follow his last wish? Did he underestimate How respected his Dornish daughter is? People don't all like Rhaenys Targaryen but he never met a man who doesn't respect her. 

Rhaenys sees Cersei as her personal enemy, her one obstacle to achieve her goals, worst of all Cersei believes Rhaenys is her equal, both kneeling under the heavy burden of being a woman. But it's not true. Cersei is not as smart as she thinks she is while Rhaenys… Rhaenys is exactly what she thinks she is. 

Tyrion never, not for one moment, believed Jon would ever desire the throne, and perhaps, he now wonders, is that why Rhaegar wanted him to succeed him. 

At Bitterbridge they all came together, the Dornish, the Riverland Lords, the Northeners and half of the Reach bannermen. 

One of their spies send a letter that Tyrion shall remember until the last day of his life, he shall forever remember the look on Joffrey’s face as they read it to him, the screams of undying anger that came from Cersei’s mouth, his father, speechless for what might've been the first time… 

_‘Jon Snow stood up, looked at all those who carefully watched him and for some reason the room was filled with fear. The amount of expectations that they have placed on the man’s shoulders is remarkable, exceptional as well as unprecedented, the threat of a disappointment was visible on a hundred faces. Then, Rhaegar’s bastard spoke and said:_

_I know that I cannot ask men to die for me without a promise and therefore I swear to you, to all of you, this day, that I stand here, not with hope nor despair, not because it is power that I want, for I believe power is a calling of the heaviest weight. I stand here because fate has placed me, my father’s only living son, in a position of responsibility and I have accepted the burden to do my duty as I understand it. I vow to play my part with courage and dedication the way my self-respect and my honor require and you shall never know betrayal nor injustice from me._

_When Jon Snow said all the words he desired to say, the bastard was dead and all the lords swore their fealty to what they believe is their true and rightful king.’_

‘Those Northern savages!’ Cersei yelled. 

Northerners were an odd kind, but no savages. Sansa Stark certainly isn't. She always smells so sweet and is as gentle and kind as anyone he has ever met. She can be fierce too, as fierce as the queen she rightfully is, a queen to more than half the realm. 

The hate in her eyes when she looks at him now is as fierce as anything he has ever seen. 

When he returns to her, later that day, when the sun has gone down and she has brought her child to bed, she is dressed in nothing but her nightdress and a robe, her long auburn hair flowing down her shoulders. She sits on a sofa in front of the fire, her eyes all wide, red, staring out into the flames as her knees hop and her hands tremble while she bites her nails. 

‘You must help me.’ She tells him, ‘ _Please_ , my lord.’ 

He moves his hand to cover hers as it lays on her knee, ‘I am so sorry…’

‘You were Hand once, you... you just speak to your father, please, _please_... surely there must be something you could do? You must try! Try, for me, help me, _please_ …’

‘I have tried my lady, truly, tried all I could but-‘

‘They cannot…’ she shakes her head and pulls her hand from his to cover her mouth, opened in the gasp of her silent crying, ‘They can't… I can't… they can't take her from me. _Please_ … she is... she is… she is all I h-have!’ Sansa hiccups when she cries, she sounds like a child, a miserable, lonely child. Soon she'll be all alone, truly with no friends. 

‘I’m sorry.’ 

'I’m innocent, my daughter too… You must release us, we have never harmed the king never… we are innocent of any crime.’

‘I know Sansa, I do, but there is nothing I can do for you.’

She shakes her head, ‘W-why should I believe you?’ She asks, ‘You’re one of them.’

‘I and Jon were always-‘

‘Friends? Have you been helping me because you were f-fond of my h-husband?’ She asks.

She knows. He knows she knows. Everyone knows. He has not been helping her because he and Jon were once good at sharing a laugh, ‘He is a good and honorable man.’

‘More honorable than you can ever dream of being.’ Sansa spits at him. 

She has been kind to him these past few moons, she smiled and blinked her eyelashes at him, she pretended to not only trust him, but she also pretended to like him, enjoy his company. She mesmerized him and used him without even a faint promise of spreading her legs. He let her, he liked the idea of it. He liked her smile and her sweetness. She is as sweet as a green fresh apple from the trees at Casterly Rock he used to see Jaime climb in when they were young. Jaime will never climb a tree again. 

‘She's my… she's my baby.’ Sansa whimpers, ‘She's my baby girl. She's mine, she belongs with m-me I cannot… you cannot do this to me.’ 

‘I am not-‘

‘She's my child, my daughter, I cannot… I cannot _live_ without her.’

‘You must, Sansa.’ He tells her, ‘You must live for her, even when it's without her.’

Sansa shakes her head and pulls on her hair again, ‘I can't.’

‘Of course you can. You did not think you could live without Jon either, did you? And here you are, you are still breathing. You can take care of yourself quite well.’

‘That is different!’ Sansa yells suddenly, ‘She is all I have! My only… the only goodness in my world. I do not want to live without her.’

‘You must. She is… she is safer with Jon.’

‘She belongs with me!’

‘She does.’ He agrees, ‘And it is cruel. But you must realize that it is safer for her to be-‘

‘I'll kill myself.’ Sansa says and the horrible truth is that she sounds as if she means it, ‘I will. If I must. I'll throw myself from a tower.’ 

‘You will not.’ Tyrion says, ‘You will definitely never see her again if you do that. You won't be able to take care of her when you're dead.’

‘How can I take care of her when she's not with me?’

‘The same way Jon has been taking care of you while being thousands of miles away.’

Sansa shakes her head, hides her face behind her hands and leans back in her seat. She whimpers and her cries of hopelessness make his world spin around him like someone moves him around and no matter how badly he needs it to stop it continues, only gets worse. 

‘Sansa…’ he places his hand to her knee again, ‘Let me help you. I can bring you something that will help you sleep-‘

‘Don't touch me.’

He pulls his hand back, ‘You must make the most of your time with her. They'll take her away on her second nameday, that is two moonturns from now. You must-‘

‘Jon will kill you all.’ She whispers as she lowers her hands and shows him her red and puffy face. Even like this, with her bloodshot eyes and the scratches of her nails in her cheeks, some of them bloody, she is still the most beautiful thing. 

‘I’m sure he'll try.’ Tyrion says. 

‘He'll make you suffer for this.’

Tyrion presses his lips together, ‘Jon agreed to the trade.’ He says, ‘We offered him our conditions, and he accepted.’ 

She shakes her head, ‘ _Liar_.’ She whispers. 

‘He could've left her with you if he wanted but he chose not to because he knows, as well as you know, that Freia will be better off with him. King’s Landing is a dangerous place, especially for a trueborn Targaryen Princess who-‘

‘You're an ugly liar.’ She says, her hiccupping is over but silent tears continue to fall, ‘Your lies are as ugly as your face.’

That stings. He's sure she meant to make it sting. People talk badly of his appearance every day, all his life, as long as he can remember and yet… yet it still stings, maybe because it comes from her, and she has never done it before, leaving the way open for him to imagine that perhaps, as the only one, she actually did not find him as ugly as everyone else- a foolish thought, but addicting all the same. 

She watches him carefully to see how he'll respond, whether he'll get up angrily and leave her there, or maybe he'll scream or hit her or do something else he never could. 

‘You are upset. I understand.’

‘You do not understand.’ She says and she leans her head sideways, ‘No one understands. You don't know. No one knows. What it's been like. Alone. With only her. She is the only light in my dark, _lonely_ world.’ 

‘Sansa I-‘

‘I am a hostage, a play thing for Joffrey to torture or Cersei to torment. A _prisoner_ , with my only crime… I am guilty of being loved by him.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘They have beaten me, they have robbed me of my pride, humiliated me, insulted me, he stripped me _bare_ for all the court to see!’

‘I remember.’

‘He took me with him to the castle walls and forced me to look at my lord father’s head on a spike, promised me to serve Jon’s for supper. He declared my lord husband a traitor to the realm, demanded him to join the Night’s Watch, All while Joffrey is the bastard. _He_ is the illborn one… and everyone, smallfolk and the highest lords, they know it.’

‘He won't kill Jon.’ He doesn't know why he says it, all he knows is that he speaks the truth. Joffrey is not Rhaegar’s son and he'll never defeat his true heir. Tyrion doesn't have faith in much but he truly believes that. King Jon has a nice ring to it and Tyrion can't keep pretending anymore. 

‘Jon will kill him!’ Her voice is hoarse, cold and covered in misery, ‘They'll kill you all, you too.’

Tyrion chooses to ignore that, ‘There is nothing I could do to stop it. I have tried but it is done. Jon promised a healthy Ser Jaime and has not met those-‘

‘The kingslayer must pray to the Seven all day all night to say thanks for his life! He was only spared to safe mine.’ 

‘That is true, but the trade says-‘

‘They do this to break me, they want to destroy me.’

He cannot deny that to be true, at least not when it concerns Cersei. Cersei loves Sansa’s tears more than anything. She makes Sansa suffer for being Jon’s wife, indulges herself to let all her frustration and humiliation over the existence of Rhaegar’s bastard go on the woman he loves, to torture him from afar. 

‘They have taken everything, all of it, only my life remains and she… she was… Now they take the only thing that has kept me alive. They are murderers and they will burn for this. They will burn in all the Seven Hells, you too.’ 

If Tyrion believed in the Seven Hells he’d agree. Fortunately, he does not. 

‘She is my baby… _my baby_ …’ Sansa shakes her head, hides her face behind her hands again and her sobs turn into gasps for air.

‘Sansa you must drink some wa-‘

‘Don't touch me!’ She shrieks and pulls herself up from the chair, shaking her head, ‘No, no, no, no…’

He glides off his own chair too and turns to watch her as she icebergs through the room. Her robe is so long she drags it with her across the floor, magically managing not to slip over it. 

‘I can't sleep.’ She says, ‘I can't _think_. If I don’t think I'll lose my mind and if I lose my mind I'll die. It's what they want.’

‘It is what they want.’

She stops and turns to him.

‘You are his lady wife. He… I believe he loves you. They can have a hold on him if they have you. Your husband has a big army and a strong claim. He could attack us tomorrow but he won't.’ 

Her mouth is opened but she says nothing. 

‘He could attack us and defeat us moons ago but he hasn't. He will not because he knows, as well as I know, and my father and Cersei… that he'll never risk your safety. They are dragging this war out, hoping for our surrender only because an attack on the capital will bring you to danger. The trade was a harmless way of getting you back but he lost his bet.’

‘So now I must rot away?’

‘You must stay alive.’ Tyrion says, ‘If you don't Cersei wins.’

‘I've always been merely a chess piece on a board in this game all of you play. You have played it with my life and today you play it with my sanity. Strip me of my child and I will lose my wits.’ 

‘Sansa…’ he sighs, ‘You have not been a chess piece for a fairly long time.’

‘Haven't I?’

He shakes his head, ‘You have been playing your part impressively.’

‘How?’

‘By refusing to a be piece, all have tried, but you didn’t let them, in the meantime… you have waited and waited some more, during which you became the most valuable ally in all of King’s Landing. There are parts in Westeros where you are queen.’ 

‘I have not made any move.’ Sansa says, ‘You say it yourself, all I do is wait.’

‘You have played with me too.’

‘I've not been playing very impressively if you noticed.’ 

‘On the contrary. I noticed and still let you play with me. You have used me and I let you. That is quite startling. I'd call it spectacular.’

She hugs herself with her arms, ‘I’ve not played it well enough to make you fight for me.’

‘I don't fight lost battles.’

‘You wouldn't.’ She says, ‘You are not a parent. You don't know what that's like. I'd fight a lost battle till the end of my days only to-‘

‘Your battle is not lost. You lost this move but the pieces stand in your favor.’

‘I have not the slightest idea where the pieces stand.’ 

‘Jon is going to win this war, he has the North, Dorne, the Riverlands, half the Reach and the Stormlands to his side along with the right blood and name.’

‘My husband is a bastard.’ 

‘No more. Rhaegar wanted him as his successor and Rhaegar was loved enough to have his lords do as he bid. Joffrey is merely acting in a cheap and failed play. Soon the show will be over.’

‘Not without a fight.’ Sansa says, ‘Cersei she'll… she won't give up so easily.’

‘I'm afraid that's true.’

‘If you think my husband will win this war… if you speak truly when you say you were his friend… then why are you here?’

‘I don't really know.’ That is a lie. He is a Lannister. That is the only true answer. He knows they're losing… perhaps helping Sansa was his way of winning Jon’s favor, because they both know he'll need it when the war is over, and they both know Jon can be forgiving if he sees reason to, ‘Sansa, you must be strong. You are clever, you must understand that for Freia’s safety-‘

'I cried so much when father told me I had to marry him.’ She tells him suddenly, from nowhere and for a moment he doesn't know what she means, ‘I cried and begged and I…’ a smile spreads across her face, the ugliest smile he has ever seen, ‘I threatened to run away.’ She laughs humorlessly at that, her own youthful foolishness, ‘Can you imagine what that would've looked like? I'd killed myself before starvation could even try and find me.’

‘You were a child.’

‘Was I? Not much longer.’ She takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes as if she tries to feel it again, ‘He made me a woman soon after. I loved his touch. From the start really, I liked it. I remember his trembling hands. I remember… the way he looked at me.’

Tyrion can only begin to imagine what Jon may have been feeling. He was the bastard back then. He was never meant to have great things… then he got her, the daughter of the most powerful man in the North and suddenly… from nowhere it seemed, it was as if he had it all. From nothing to everything. Only fools dream of that. Fools and dwarfs.

‘I miss him most at night. It's funny… you'd think I'd miss his smile most or his laugh, his words, voice or the mere sight of him or something else… something less _simple_. The truth is… what I miss most is his skin pressed to mine, his warm body in my bed, holding me, moving… m-moving inside me, making a child. I was never alone then, I miss feeling safe.’ She's torturing him with these tales, with her words, her memories of her love, she's torturing him and doing it on purpose, she's punishing him, ‘His lips everywhere, you must know, you go to whorehouses more often than not, don't you? The Gods gave you only whores.’

He knows all too well, and yet, he doesn't know at all. Jon has never had to toss a coin at Sansa Stark to get to kiss her everywhere. He didn't even need to ask. She spread her legs for him willingly and enjoyed it. The thought of her writhing below her husband, moaning and gasping makes him want to scream. 

‘I miss the ache.’ She goes on and knowing she has not been able to speak of this to anyone for the past two years can be the only explanation for her to seem unable to stop, ‘The feeling of… the confidence that nothing could ever befall me so long as I lay in his arms. I miss his tenderness, his roughness and his love.’ 

He still doesn't know what to say. She wants him like that, he understands, she wants him silent. She purposely embarrassed him so he'd stop telling her this is for the better. She doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want him to tell her how this is right. It's not right, not to her. It's unnatural, barbarous, monstrous, excruciating, atrocious. And it hurts. He sees her pain, the endless suffering and torment in those big blue eyes. 

‘I always thought you to be so clever.’ Sansa says and it surprises him as much as he loves hearing her say it, her of all people, ‘But really… now I know you're just a dumb dwarf eager for love.’ 

That stings a thousand times more than when she called him ugly, ‘I shall leave you now, you don't know what you're saying.’

‘I know perfectly well what I'm saying. My mind is telling my lips to form these words. I feel liberated saying them, finally, after thinking them for all these moons... mayhaps years.’ 

‘Good night, lady Stark.’

‘I curse you.’ She says, taking a step towards him as he stands sewed to the floor beneath his feet, ‘I curse the day you were born and the day you shall die, I curse every day you still live. I… I will make you pay for this. I will make you pay and you will suffer- all will turn to ashes, losing all you love and still l… still you'll only feel barely a part of the pain I feel now.’ 

He nods, not looking at her. He can't. He cannot bare it. He closes the door behind him and the moment it locks he hears how a heavy object it thrown against the wood. It's probably the candleholder, he tells himself. She lifted it up and meant to throw it at him again because all she said… all of it. She'd meant it.

###### 

The child screams loudly as if she knows, she feels it surely, tenses it in her mother’s tears and wails. Freia screams, cries and sobs loudly as she aggressively protests when the Septa tries to take her from Sansa. 

Sansa clutches her only closer to her body, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you so, so much, I do, don't forget it Freia, your mother loves you.’ 

Freia cannot possibly hear it over the sounds of her own wailing. She kicks and slams and screams some more, so much and so hard that Tyrion is certain she'll have no voice left at the end of the day. 

‘Freia… Freia I love you.’ The Septa takes Freia from her mother, the child squeals some more and Sansa lifts a hand to maybe wave, maybe pull it through her hair… it hangs in the air, no movement nor a purpose. Her arms are empty now. Where once was her child, there is now only blankness. It's hollow and senseless. As senseless as this separation. 

Her maids mean to help her back inside but they have to hold her up because there is no power in her legs as her eyes flutter. She grabs the arm of one of them as she sinks through her knees. 

Cersei isn't there to witness it, nor Joffrey. His father's work, Tyrion thinks. Perhaps he believes too that when Sansa’s shaky voice threatens to them that they will all burn for this… there is a great deal of truth in it. 

Sansa hits Joffrey in the face that same evening. Tyrion doesn't know what he said to her, he couldn't hear, wasn't close enough, but he still heard the slap of her hand to his cheek and he knows the idiot deserved it. She should've done it two years ago. Joff’s nose bleeds and he stares at the blood on his hands. 

There is this moment Sansa realizes that it doesn't matter anymore, and right after that moment she yanks the glass of wine in her hand to his head as well, ‘You are a sick monster!’ she tells him, for all the court to see, ‘You’ll burn in hell for this!’

‘Kill her!’ Joffrey screams and though ser Meryn hits her often and hard, he doesn't kill her. Joffrey has a smile of insanity on his face as he watches Sansa lay on the floor, she cringes and makes no sound, not one scream, no cry for forgiveness, her hands fists and Tyrion wonders, as he watches his father order the knight to stop the beating, if she longed for it, the physical pain. Maybe she wanted them to hit her bloody, to unconsciousness, laying on the floor at their mercy. Maybe she wanted that because at least for a moment perhaps, they'd kick her head so hard it could stop thinking. 

‘She has lost her wits, your grace, better not listen to what she says.’ 

Sansa looks as if she has lost her mind, perhaps she has, but her words are sincere, pure and unfeigned. Cersei may think she has won for now, she may celebrate her avengement, her repayment and ruthlessness, but this may, this _will_ come back and haunt them. 

Jon Snow is his father’s son and they have woken a dragon no one knew existed, one bigger and deadlier than the world has ever seen before. 

 

**Rhaenys**

Rhaenys has not travelled with a wheelhouse ever since she could ride a horse. Her father dragged her, Aegon and Jon through the Seven Kingdoms from the moment Jon came to live with them and she always rode out beside her brothers, on horseback, sitting upright. ‘Seeing what the world is like’, as their father called it, but later on she learned to understand that they had to be seen, to be loved. And to ask people, to die for you, you have to be loved, Jon understands that. ‘Show the people the man in the chair’ or on his horse, in some cases. 

Even when they travelled to Winterfell and Cersei demanded a wheelhouse for Myrcella, Tommen and her, Rhaenys preferred her mare, and not only because the idea of sitting next to Cersei for a moon’s turn or more gave her chills. 

She's not as good on a horse as Jon is, but was always much better than Aegon. She could keep herself upright with her thighs and when her horse galloped and she felt the wind in her hair she wondered if freedom felt anything like that, and she decided she liked it. 

Now she saw no other way but to prominently find herself a seat and as she tries to look through the narrow window she tries to pretend she does not see her mother-in-law’s tears. 

She sits there, crying silently, dries her eyes every now and then with a handkerchief and as she says no word, merely stares out in front of her with her blood-stained eyes, Catelyn Stark reminds Rhaenys of Sansa. 

So many things about Jon’s aunt remind her of Sansa. The hair and the eyes at first sight, but the more she sees of the woman the more little things she spots that are just the way Rhaenys remembers. The smile looks alike and when Catelyn is displeased she crosses her arms and gives everyone a challenging look, the same way Sansa does. When someone's sad she uses her softest voice, squeezes their shoulder and tells them all will be well, even when it won't, just like Sansa. Catelyn looks at her children the same way Sansa looked at Freia. All her children, the youngest, who she belittles perhaps a bit too much, but Robb just the same. 

Catelyn strokes his hair and kisses his cheek as if he is still a little child. Sometimes Rhaenys wonders if he needs it as much as a little child.

Most of the time Rhaenys doesn't mind it that Catelyn reminds her so much of Sansa, but today it irritates her. She doesn't want to be reminded of Sansa as the woman cries, for she can only imagine the tears Sansa has shed. 

When the wheelhouse stops Rhaenys doesn't wait for them to open the door, she throws it open herself and nearly drops out in her eagerness. Nobody sees, the horses are all behind and Catelyn is wiping her face. 

Rhaenys straitens her cloaks and takes a few greedy steps through the mud. She turns her head and spots them instantly. The size of the party they choose to send is impressing and silently she mocks it. As she takes a deep breath she fills her lungs with cold air and it almost makes her gasp. 

For a moment, it is as if she is the only one there, she and them, and all their eyes are on her. She could challenge them all if need be, she thinks, as the wind blows her cloak up and some strands of hair that escaped her hairnet dance in front of her face.

‘Rhaenys.’ 

She turns her head and sees her husband, on his stallion, all dressed up the way she told him to. Next to him is a man on her horse who gets off and hands her the reins.

Robb moves off too and only stares at her, he doesn't say a thing and she wonders if that is because he knows that no matter what he'll come up with, he'll always say the wrong thing. He looks so tense, almost scared and she wonders what it is he has to fear. 

‘Are you ready?’ He asks eventually, and it is, as always, the wrong thing to say. 

‘I have been ready for this for the past two years.’

He doesn't look down, not the way he did when they were just married, lately he doesn't allow her to bite his head off as much as she tries, as much as she would like. It's so easy, mocking him, as if he's begging her for it. 

She doesn't need him to help her in the saddle, she can do it herself.

She doesn't give Robb his instructions, she gave them many times before, repeated them often enough for her to be convinced that if he won't listen, she can and will get angry with him without feeling guilty afterwards. 

She looks over her shoulder and spots her brother. They exchange a look that doesn't ask for words and he nods at her before they all tell their horses to move. 

She didn't repeat the instructions to Jon over and over again, only told him once. As important as this trade is to her, it's a million times more important to him. And the way he looked whenever she mentioned it was enough for her to know that if anyone dares to ruin this, it most certainly will not be him. 

‘We cannot afford to make a mistake.’ She said, told anyone who might listen. 

‘You'll do the talking.’ Jon decided, and she was glad he did. She doesn’t dare leave this to anyone else, especially not to him. She knows Robb would've liked to be the one, if only because it suited his rank, yet they all know rank has nothing to do with this. This is all personal, and when they ride towards the enemy, Jon knows his place in the middle, at the front. Her king is her brother and her brother makes her proud. 

‘I'll be the one to take her from them too.’ She said, ‘I'll let them hand her over to me, take her with me in the wheelhouse.’

‘Just you.’ Jon said, ‘No one else.’

‘No one else.’ She agreed. 

‘Kingslayer.’ She smiles broadly at Jaime Lannister after she holds her horse at the appropriate distance, ‘It surprises me they allow you through the castle gates, after all you went through I presumed her grace would be too terrified to let you out of her sight… or is she here too? I'd love to say hello.’ 

Jaime smiles right back, ‘Cersei decided to pass this time.’

‘I’m so terribly disappointed, truly.’ 

‘She looks forward to seeing you soon.’

‘And she will.’ Rhaenys promises, ‘I swear it to her, vow she won't like it one bit, and I'm not an oathbreaker.’

‘You were always better than the rest of us.’

Rhaenys can't help her smiling, both because she loves mocking him and because she knows how much her smile annoys him, ‘Thank the Gods... Someone had to be.’

‘Tell me, my princess, or should I call you queen? Queen of Dorne. How come so witty?’

‘I've always been.’ 

‘I’m wondering how-‘

‘I'm not afraid of you, Jaime, and I've never been overconfident.’ She says then, ‘Don’t forget I know you very well.’ 

‘Do you?’

‘Better than you know me, thankfully.’

‘I don’t believe-‘

‘I know Cersei very well, too.’ Rhaenys says, ‘My believes in your honor have not been damaged, I promise you. Me being here today, is a result of that.’

‘Don't bore me with insults, please.’ 

‘ _Insults_? I speak only the truth.’ Rhaenys feels Jon’s eyes burning in the back of her head and she senses his nervousness, ‘For I cannot imagine being mistaken when I recall my brother telling me he traded you for his lady wife and daughter both.’ 

‘I'm not the one with whom he traded.’

‘Did he not? Perhaps not. So where is the one he traded with? Where is the imp?’

‘We all thought it’d be better if I handled this.’ 

‘Interesting.’ Rhaenys says and she means it, ‘I knew you'd be here. And now I've seen you, I must say, you disappoint me.’ 

‘I did not think you'd-‘

Jon breaks his promise and opens his mouth, ‘Enough with the game, Kingslayer. You promised me my wife and my child, you failed to keep that promise, your excuses do not interest me, you know why we’re here, let us not waste our time in each other’s company. Did you bring my daughter?’

Jaime no longer smiles, ‘I did.’ 

‘Then you must bring her to me.’

‘I will.’ 

Jon’s horse moves on his spot as he senses his rider’s nervousness, ‘See to it that you do.’ 

Rhaenys looks at him sideways and her chest grows with pride. The way he sits there, on his horse, like a king. 

‘I swore nothing to you.’ Jaime says.

'Yes, you did.’ Jon says, his voice so angry Rhaenys barely recognizes it, ‘You did and I could have known, after all you have done, I should have known.’ 

‘I am not the one you traded with.’ Jaime says again.

‘Do you tell yourself that at night? Ser?’ Jon raises his voice rather suddenly, ‘Or does it matter so little to you, after all the oaths you broke, that you no longer feel a need for reassurance?’ 

‘That is not-‘

Rhaenys can’t bear to listen to more of this, ‘That’s enough with the excuses, we won’t change our mind about you, we have always know you to be-‘

‘Your opinion matters very little to me.’

‘Can you imagine it did? You and I might get along- that could have been amusing.’ 

Jaime has not looked at her for some time but stares at Jon. She remembers how Jon never dared look back when he was only a boy. He is a little boy no longer and she knows his knuckles are white around the steers in his hands. 

‘Your brother is right. Let’s not waste our breath on conversation.’ 

‘This is how we’ll do this, kingslayer,’ Rhaenys tells him, ‘We all leave you now and I'll come back by foot, if I, or any of my men get hurt, we’ll kill all of you.’

‘No one will die today.’ Jaime says and he stirs his horse to turn.

Rhaenys makes a head gesture to both men at her left and they gallop back to the wheelhouse. 

‘No Sansa it is.’ She tells Catelyn after she lets herself slide of her horse again. 

‘I'm going to kill them all.’ Jon says, aggressively taking his gloves off. Though it's an empty promise, he means it still. 

‘Another time.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘How dare he.’ Jon stares out at the Lannister men in the far distance and she has truly never seen him look so angry. 

‘The chances of them changing their mind were naturally very small.’ 

‘You can't blame the desire to hope.’ Robb mutters and he and Jon glare their usual glare at each other. 

Rhaenys gives him a look and moves to stand in front of him, so Jon can't see his frown as she tells Jon, ‘We’ll get her eventually, just not today. Today we get Freia, which is a good thing.’ 

Jon is as white as a cloth and she takes his face between her cold hands, ‘Rhaenys I-‘

‘You stay here, I'm going to get your daughter for you.’

He nods hastily and then awkwardly hugs her before Catelyn grabs his sleeve and pulls him away, ‘Come with me Jon, we’ll wait inside the wheelhouse.’

He doesn't hesitate but Rhaenys thinks that's mostly because he can't bring the power to his muscles to resist. 

Rhaenys pads the neck of her horse until Robb takes the reins and she turns to look at him. 

‘Don't let anything happen to you.’ He says. 

‘I'm not afraid of him.’ She says again, ‘I wasn't bluffing, I meant it, he could never scare me.’ 

‘You better be right.’ 

She raises her eyebrows at him, ‘I am always right.’

‘Are you?’

‘When was the last time, I was wrong?’ 

He shrugs, ‘I can think of some times.’

She lowers her eyebrows again, ‘I’m sure all of these cases do not count.’ 

He'd smile at her if he was only a little more pleased with this situation but of course that is not quite the case, instead he gives her his displeased and worried look, which scares her nearly as much as the prospect of walking by foot to a host of Lannisters, and then takes her head between his two big hands so he can hold it as he kisses her forehead. It's not a peck, it lasts too long, and it's meant to reassure her, she knows that, she has seen other lord husbands kiss their lady wives on their forehead. It doesn't reassure her, only confuses her, and she can't use that right now. He doesn't immediately let go of her head and looks in her eyes as if he means to check how she's feeling. He won't know, he can't see it, no one ever can and she’s never been so grateful for it as she is in that moment.

‘I wish I could do it.’ 

‘I must.’ She says, this is her duty, her task, to get the child back they lost because of her failures in the first place. 

He only nods, then drops his hands and walks around her to take her horse back to the original rider. 

Rhaenys straightens her back, looks at the ten guards that she'll bring, and starts walking through the muddy field, right into the eye of the enemy. 

She wondered at first what they'd do when it turned out to be the wrong child. Would they know? Could they tell? Would they send it back? She realized there is no way for them to know. They'll have to rely on their honor. Which is maddening. 

These thoughts fade when a Septa steps out of their wheelhouse with a screaming two-year old in her arms. 

That's her. Rhaenys can tell, she's sure. She not only senses it, she can see it too. That is most certainly Jon’s child. And she looks well. She certainly has a healthy set of lungs. The poor thing sounds absolutely, utterly terrified. But she looks healthy, she looks well-fed, in proper clothes, washed and energetic too.

Though she screams she doesn’t fight, she doesn't aggressively wriggle to loosen herself from the arms of her Septa. 

It's her, it's Freia. She has some impressive head of dark curls and her wide blue eyes are filled with tears. She's all chubby and small, ten times bigger than she was the last time Rhaenys held her, yet still, so absurdly vulnerable. 

From the corner of her eye she sees the Kingslayer as he turns his back on her. Coward. Weak, pathetic man. Traitor. 

Rhaenys stretches her arms out to the Septa, who hands her Rhaenys’ niece and Freia’s cries grow louder. 

Rhaenys wipes her curly hair and feels the child tremble as she hushes her, tries to. 

‘The Septa is willing to come with the child.’ A man says. 

Rhaenys eyes the Septa, ‘No.’ she says, ‘Only the child.’ How stupid exactly do they think she is?

The man shrugs and Rhaenys turns to take one last look at Jaime Lannister. Perhaps this will be the last time she'll see him, if it is she'll remember him exactly the way he wishes she wouldn't. Coward, weak and a traitor. An enemy to her house. 

She turns around and with the weeping girl in her arms she makes herself a way back. The walk from foe to friend is the longest she has ever forced herself to make. She nearly sinks away in holes in the grass that she cannot remember being there before and Freia won't stop crying. 

She tries to talk to her, reassure her with hushing but she knows it won't help. She is a complete stranger to her own niece and she is bringing her to more strangers. New faces, new voices, new places- the child’s entire environment changes without her understanding why. She has been ripped from her mother, and it's as cruel as cruel can be. 

‘It's her.’ She says. They did not discuss the possibility of it not being her, but she knows that they all thought of it. None of them have ever seen her before, not like this. They all knew she was going to be completely unrecognizable, and yet, somehow, she's not. It cannot possibly not be her. It is as if Rhaenys has known her all her life, and the cries break her heart. 

Jon is as pale as his former namesake and his eyes so wide she fears they'll roll from their cases. 

‘Freia, hush, Freia you're safe, I promise.’ She doesn't know how well the child can speak or understand what she's saying, but the crying continues, if only she knew how much all these new people love her.

‘Give her to me.’

And then she hands her to Jon. Freia sobs soften as she is handed over to the protecting arms of her father for the first time. Two years too late. 

Sad though beautiful, mostly, tragic and so heartbreaking. Rhaenys is glad she does not keep a diary of her memoirs or anything of the sort for what she sees in that moment is something she'll never be able to describe. 

As loudly as she screamed when they handed her to Rhaenys, so softly does she sob when Jon holds her. He has never looked so big before, and yet, so terribly gentle.

Catelyn is crying again, her hand covering her mouth as she tries to calm herself. Robb… Robb’s eyes are as wide as Jon’s. She swears to even see emotion on the face of ser Malckom Hauls. 

Freia stares up at her father through her watery eyes and though she may be only two, Rhaenys wonders if she still knows. Maybe Freia recognizes her father the same way Rhaenys recognizes her. Or maybe she is so scared she does not dare to cry, maybe she is frightened and thinks they'll hurt her. How can she possibly know? How can she understand that, in her father's arms, she is finally in the place where she belongs, with her family.

The child holds a wooden unicorn in her hand, clutches it closely to her chest as if it will protect her from any harm. In that moment Rhaenys remembers her kitten, what was it named again? It escaped and she never saw it return. She got it when she was about the same age as Freia is now, and she loved that beast so much. 

Rhaenys doesn't recognize Jon’s voice when he speaks and she senses the way everyone holds their breath, ‘I’m so s-sorry.’ 

Apparently two year olds have a speech that is developed enough to understand basic sentences, or so Rhaenys has been told. Freia has to understand what he means. Freia looks at him and suddenly she moves up her hand to rub her eyes with her knuckles. 

‘Are you alright?’

She doesn't respond. For a moment Rhaenys wonders if they cut her tongue out but then she remembers the squealing. There is definitely a tongue in that throat, Gods she must be scared out of her mind, the poor thing. 

‘We’ll bring you home.’ Jon tells her and Freia lowers her hand to clutch her toy with both hands again, ‘You’re safe now, don’t be scared, I'll protect you.’ 

A moment later a white animal runs their way. Robb moves to stand in front of her, Catelyn cries out and their men unshed their swords but Jon takes a step towards it. 

It's a wolf. Rhaenys recognizes the beast. It's Jon's wolf, his direwolf, the albino one with its red eyes the color of weirdwood leaves. The wolf slows down when he reaches his destination and pads over to Jon, where he rubs his nose to Freia’s feet. 

Freia looks down, ‘Ghost.’ She whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that was for now Tyrion's last pov- glad to get it out of the way. I wanted to do that scene through someone else's eyes and Tyrion gave me the opportunity to also give some backstory about who decided this was a splendid idea and all, if it was in Sansa's pov it would've been only emotion and heartbreak and it might've lacked some information necessary to get a clearer view of what the hell is going on, anyway, I think Sansa manages to express her emotions into words rather well here and Tyrion is clever enough and knows her well enough to know what it is she means. The next Sansa pov is going to be pretty much the last extremely angsty Sansa pov of this story (wait what?), yeah truly. can you smell the Jonsa reunion? I can.  
> Next chapter is called Humble Pieces and has some more Rhaenys and Sansa, though no Jon unfortunately, you'll have to wait till next week to actually see some father-daughter bonding, I'm sorry, but I felt I needed an entire chapter dedicated to that and there were still some things left unsaid before I could start with that chapter (which is called Unicorn btw and I wrote it maybe six months ago). 
> 
> Anyway, I'm done with the rambling, going to bed, wishing you all (as usual) a nice week, thanks for reading and do let me know what you think!XX


	37. The Humblest Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘We are in the Godswood my lord, only the old gods will judge you and they are kinder than what is out there.’ Sansa says.

**Rhaenys**

Rhaenys puts Freia down so she can sit in the wheelhouse on her own, to give her a sense of security, and makes sure she's the one who sits beside her, not Catelyn.   
   
‘She's so beautiful.’ Catelyn whispers through her sobs, she wipes her nose and sniffles, ‘She looks like Jon, don't you think?’  
   
Rhaenys ignores her, mostly because she knows Freia understands all they're saying and the child is confused enough as it is. She nods and then turn back to the little girl. 

‘My name is Rhaenys, what is your name?’  
   
Freia only stares at her.   
   
‘Is that a unicorn?’  
   
Freia looks down at her toy, wraps her hands around it more tightly and again, doesn't respond.   
   
‘It's very nice. I wish I had a unicorn like that.’  
   
Not the right thing to say at all, Freia tightens her arms around the wooden thing and pulls it closer to herself.   
   
Rhaenys bites her lip, ‘I didn't mean I… it's yours! I'm only saying I am a little jealous, that is all. I won't ever take it from you, of course, I would never.’  
   
Freia ignores her still and doesn't loosen the grip.   
   
‘Do you like horses?’ Catelyn asks and Freia moves her eyes from Rhaenys to Cat, who tries to smile at her granddaughter through her tears.   
   
‘Have you ever ridden a horse in your life?’ Rhaenys asks when there’s no answer.  
   
‘Don't be silly!’ Catelyn tells her, ‘She's two, she can't even properly jump yet.’ She clears her throat and leans forward, moves her fingers to lay them on Freia’s small hand. Freia looks down at the touch with widened, angsty eyes, ‘My name is Catelyn, I am your grandmother. Do you know what a grandmother is, Freia?’  
   
Freia doesn't give them the impression that she has any idea, and if she does, she doesn't seem to fancy the prospect.   
   
‘It means I am your mama’s mother, and I love you very much.’ She can’t say that last thing without breaking down in tears again and she hides her face behind her hand, which visibly scares Freia only more as she moves deeper into the cushions of the wheelhouse, away from Catelyn’s touch.   
   
Rhaenys purses her lips and tries to smile too, ‘We’re going to Winterfell, has your mother ever talked to you about Winterfell?’  
   
Freia glares at them as if they'll attack her the minute she'll stop looking at them, she doesn't even blink. A silence arises during which Freia seems to clench her teeth.  
   
Catelyn calms down and re-finds herself, ‘She's smaller than I thought she would be.’ She mutters as if in that way, Freia won't hear her, ‘And I always expected her to have auburn hair, somehow.’   
   
She really doesn't. Though she has Sansa’s eyes, her hair is definitely and unmistakably Jon’s hair. She has his brooding look too, or so it seems. And she's beautiful. As beautiful as she was when she was born but different, less surreal. She's such a _person_ now.   
   
‘Freia,’ Rhaenys says as she turns towards her, ‘I know you are scared and it’s alright, I would be scared too. I think you are a clever girl, are you not? We are your family, I think you know what that means. It means… it means we'll protect you, I promise we will. You don't have to be scared, you're safe.’  
   
Freia buries her face half in the arms that hug her horse and herself.   
   
‘Do you understand? It’s very important to me that you do.’  
   
Freia ignores her still.   
   
‘You can nod if you want, you don't have to say anything, you don't have to do anything you don’t want.’  
   
Freia doesn't nod.  
   
‘We are your family. Do you know what family is?’  
   
Freia seems to hesitate, she looks from Rhaenys to Catelyn and back to Rhaenys, then she finally blinks a couple of times, and nods.  
   
 She is all quiet and silent when they arrive back at the castle and doesn't open her mouth nor cry as they escort her inside, though she gives her small hand to Catelyn when it’s offered support to help her up a flight of stairs. 

Rhaenys orders a septa to put her in a bath she doesn't really seem to need, to give her a medical check and put her in new clothes. 

Taking away the one last thing she recognizes- the clothes on her back- doesn't seem right to Jon, so he complains about it to her with trembling hands as she repeatedly explains to him the measter must have a look to confirm her health and she needs the warmer fur-lined dress.  
   
If something about Freia is only a slight bit unhealthy, they can challenge the trade. A healthy kingslayer for two healthy Targaryen women. One one-handed kingslayer for one Targaryen woman… if they have received an unhealthy Targaryen woman… they may be able to get the other one when they press on. Or at least shame them for it. Unfortunately, or fortunately, measter Luwin claims he has never seen such a ‘healthy babe’, which makes Jon sigh in relief and Rhaenys clench her jaw. Good news, yes, but _still_...  
   
Freia cries for the rest of the day, kicking everyone who tries to touch her. She's quite feisty and though she's scared, she doesn't shy away from letting them know she's not scared enough to bite off their fingers if they come too near. Catelyn weeps in frustration and desperation as Jon stares ahead of himself, his hands turned to pale fists. Rhaenys keeps telling everyone that it is only ‘very normal’ for her to be scared, and though she knows she's right she still feels like she's lying.  
   
As she and Jon stand outside her niece’s new bedchamber, listening to her wailing, waiting for Catelyn to come back out, Jon looks like he feels the urge to hit his fist against the wall.   
   
‘We shouldn't have let any measter near her, it was a bad idea.’  
   
‘We had to.’ Rhaenys says, ‘We need to be sure she's healthy.’  
   
‘It could've waited.’  
   
‘It really couldn't have.’   
   
'It wasn’t your decision to make.’  
   
‘She was a trade of hostages, it’s of importance to know.’ Rhaenys tries not to back away, to not take his anger personally, she wants to understand his frustration, but she refuses to let him take it out on her, ‘They promised us your healthy daughter.’  
   
‘She’s upset. You won't do something like this again, don't you dare, Rhaenys-‘  
   
‘Of course she's upset, you could've known that.’  
   
‘There is no need to make it worse.’   
   
‘Maybe she misses Sansa-‘  
   
‘ _Maybe_ she misses Sansa?’ Jon looks like he could cry with Freia. He misses Sansa too. Rhaenys nearly as much as well. They all feel miserable about this.    
   
‘She must be exhausted, everything that went on today, she must be drained.’  
   
‘Rhaenys just…’ he rubs his hands against each other, ‘Please don't.’   
   
‘Don't what?’  
   
Jon rolls his eyes, ‘I know you're trying to help, but I want you to stay out of it.’ He’s as angry with her as he’s ever been, and Rhaenys is not used to his anger anymore, not like this.

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘She's _two_. She doesn't know any of us but she'll grow to trust us. You must give it some time.’   
   
‘I don't need you to tell me that!’  
   
‘I'm trying to reassure you!’   
   
‘You don't have to!’  
   
‘We better get the unpleasant part over with, we had no time to postpone it and-’

‘The _unpleasant_ part? Do you think this is _unpleasant_ for me?’

‘Stop looking at me like that!’ He looks at her as if she committed a crime, she understands the emotional baggage, but she did nothing wrong, ‘I understand that you-‘

‘You do not understand, you have no idea! I never asked for your help.’

‘She was a trade, we have to-‘

‘She’s not a trade!’ he screams then and Rhaenys can’t help herself when she looks away, his eyes are a combination of anger, frustration and misery and she can’t bear to see it, ‘She’s my daughter, a _person_ , not a political chess piece on your board game, what happens to her is not for you to decide!’ 

Rhaneys bites her lip, ‘You have to understand that-‘

‘ _You_ have to understand! She cries as if he hurt her, if he hurt her-’  
   
Catelyn opens the door and comes out, ‘We should've taken the Septa too, now there is not one recognizable face for her.’   
   
Rhaenys wants to scream in frustration. she knew Catelyn would say it, someone would, plenty of others will too. Is she the only one who understands? She's glad Jon hasn't mentioned it yet and Rhaenys doesn't need Catelyn to place ideas in his head.

‘We couldn't, we’re not taking an enemy with us to the heart of our home. That was a Lannister Septa.’  
   
‘Septas are Godsworn.’   
   
‘And therefore, skilled liars. I used some for my own purposes once.’   
   
‘Rhaenys, shut up!’ She can't remember frustrating Jon this much since before their father died, but now, she's clearly making his head boil, ‘Stop pretending you know what's going on, or what we should do, you don't know a fig about children.’  
   
‘Oh, you do?’  
   
‘I'm not pretending!’  
   
‘Well, you’re certainly pretending you know I'm doing it all wrong!’  
   
‘I don't need you to do anything! She's my daughter, this was my trade, I don't want your interference, I never asked for you to tell everyone what to do, you’re making it worse!’  
   
‘I'm making it _worse_? Someone had to-‘  
   
‘That's enough!’ Catelyn glares at them both with narrowed eyes, ‘There is a little girl in there who’s _mortified_. Screaming at each other won't make her feel better which is the only thing we should strive for now.’  
   
‘I don't want the measter near her again.’ Jon tells them both.   
   
‘We had no choice, there was-‘  
   
‘She's _my_ child, you have absolutely not say.’   
   
‘No measter near her unless she's ill.’ Catelyn agrees, ‘Now, she seems to feel secure around the direwolf so I suggest we let the beast stay with her. We have to tell her she's safe here, and that we'll protect her and mean well. She doesn't speak but I think she understands most of what you say to her.’  
   
Jon nods and Rhaenys glares at the both of them, ‘He's ten times her size, it’s a _wild beast_.’  
   
‘He's something she recognizes.’ Catelyn says, ‘She's been ripped from her environment, ripped from her mother, we have to make her feel as safe as we possibly can.’ 

Rhaenys has to stop herself from rolling her eyes, ‘I just think-‘

‘Nobody has asked you to tell us what you think!’ Jon raises his voice once more and Rhaenys feels her cheeks burn.  
   
‘The wolf should stay with her.’ Catelyn says and she smiles at Jon, squeezes his shoulder to reassure him though it helps very little. Freia's crying seems to fade slowly away and it turns to whimpered sobs, ‘She is safe now, with us, she’s where she belongs. But she's two, she can't possibly understand what is going on.’  
   
Rhaenys turns her back to the both of them, ‘We should have someone keep an eye on her.’ She says, ‘Make sure the direwolf doesn't-‘  
   
‘Ghost would never hurt her.’ Jon says, ‘He’s my wolf, he'd never- he won't.’   
   
‘Of course he won't.’ Catelyn says and she turns her face to the door, ‘I'm going to ask her if she wants something to eat and then hope she'll fall asleep.’  
   
‘I'll help.’ Jon tries but Catelyn shakes her head and pushes some of his hair behind his ear the way she often does with Robb’s.   
   
‘Better avoid too many new people at once. You can see her tomorrow, she's so tired now, she's had a horrible experience, she needs to feel secure enough to finally fall asleep, it really won't help anyone to force it now.’  
   
He wants to object but he seems to accept she's right so he turns his back to the thick walls that separate him from his daughter and though Rhaenys feels the urge to comfort him, she knows he won't let her, so instead she walks away, to leave them there.   
   
She slams the door of her room behind her forcefully and for a moment she's too frustrated to notice her mopy husband sitting on her bedside.  
   
‘Your complaints don't interest me.’ She tells him loudly and crosses her arms, ‘If you're here to-‘  
   
‘Safe your breath Rhaenys, I won’t listen to it.’  
   
she raises her eyebrows at him, ‘Then why are you here?’  
   
He shrugs stupidly.   
   
She sighs and walks further into the room, ‘I'm not in the mood for conversing.’   
   
‘I'm not here to converse.’   
   
She wants to remind him that when they have nothing to say to each other there is no reason to be in each other’s company but then she sees his sad little smile and he manages to make her feel guilty.  
   
‘Rhaenys I-‘  
   
‘I’m sorry.’   
   
His sad smile turns into a pleased one and her guilt disappears again, ‘You don't have to say that.’  
   
‘In that case, I'll take it back.’  
   
He gets up and walks over towards her, takes her hands in his, ‘I was so scared today.’ He breathes.  
   
‘You didn't seem so scared.’ She says and eyes him suspiciously.   
   
‘I was.’  
   
‘For what? You have made it obviously clear how little you care about this trade, I’m sure-‘  
   
‘Next time we meet them in the field I want to be the one who does the talking.’   
   
She pulls her hands back, ‘That’s not going to happen.’   
   
‘Rhaenys-‘  
   
‘Why are you here?’  
   
He suddenly looks a little angry, ‘I don’t need a bloody excuse to visit my lady wife in her bedchamber.’   
   
‘Then why am I asking?’  
   
He turns away from her, shakes his head and walks over to the door to leave her but she feels some undying need to stop him that she cannot control.   
   
‘Robb stop.’ She says and he holds but doesn't turn to face her, ‘I’m sorry.’  
   
‘You don't need to say that.’ He says again and this time it doesn't annoy her.   
   
‘I’ve had quite the stressful day.’   
   
He finally turns around and she needs to look away because he is so terribly handsome in that light and the gleam in his eyes makes her feel nervous.   
   
‘I… Why were you scared?’  
   
‘Weren’t you?’ He asks and he takes a few steps towards her again.   
   
‘No.’   
   
‘I hate the way he looked at you.’ Robb says and he takes another step towards her. She wants to move away from him but her knees seem locked.   
   
‘Jaime Lannister doesn't scare me.’ She says.  
   
He looks at her thoroughly, seems to consider her words, then bites his lower lip and asks, ‘What scares you, Rhaenys?’  
   
She wants to tell him that's a stupid question but she doesn't want to be mean to him again. He has done nothing wrong after all, perhaps she should tell him he did well today, how he did exactly as she told him, but something stops her and maybe it's because telling him will make her sound like his mother. She is not and doesn't feel a desire to be, frankly, she's so tired of being constantly angry with him.   
   
‘Doesn't anything scare you?’  
   
A small smile creeps in on her face, she doesn't put it there, it just suddenly appears, ‘So much.’ She says, ‘So much scares me, you have no idea.’  
   
He takes her hand again and she looks down at the way it looks, ‘I do, don't I?’ 

She hates how sad that thought seems to make him. Why is making him feel sad the only thing she’s good at lately?  
   
Maybe he knows, Rhaenys then wonders, could he know? Maybe he knows that it's not him as a person, it's men in general. Would he understand if she explained? How could she explain? He'd ask so many questions and she could never answer these, not to him.   
   
‘No.’ she says though she wouldn't believe herself if she were him, so she adds, ‘Truly.’ She fears it's all she feels that scares her. But not him. How could he possibly ever scare her? The realization that he doesn't and never could, however, terrifies her.   
   
He smiles his sad smile and Rhaenys looks down at their intertwined hands again as he nods, ‘I’m going back to the front tomorrow.’  
   
‘Tomorrow? Why?’ She pulls her hand from his, ‘That’s not as we discussed.’  
   
‘I received a letter from my uncle, if we want to continue the planned attack on Casterly Rock we'll have to start marching as soon as we can. There is no harm in joining my men, I have been away from the front for too long, if Jon plans on staying here for a while, at least I must go.’  
   
‘You’ve been away for barely six days!’  
   
‘And now I have to return, we can’t leave it all to Prince Oberyn and lord Florent, soon they'll start arguing and lord Glover will never forgive me if I'm not there to do something about it. The Reach and Dorne are natural foes, as you know.’   
   
‘Well, I'll come with you.’ She says.   
   
He shakes his head, 'No, I'm going to join the Northern army, you and Jon will launch the attack with the Dornish army, remember?’  
   
‘Of course, I remember!’ Again, she has to stop herself from telling him not to ask stupid questions, ‘I won't let you go there on your own.’  
   
‘It's as we planned.’ He says and finally he raises his voice.   
   
‘Plans change.’  
   
'There is no reason for it to change now.’  
   
‘Plenty of reason. I don't-‘  
   
‘Seven hells, what is wrong _now_?’ He moves away from her the way she wanted to do and it makes her feel as frustrated as he sounds, ‘You made quite a thing of wanting to stay with Jon!’  
   
‘You weren't supposed to leave so soon and I wasn't supposed to stay behind in Winterfell, I refuse to stay behind in this damn castle while you ride out with our men!’  
    
He shakes his head at her again, ‘I’ll leave you be.’ He says and he wants to move towards the door again but she grabs his arm.  
   
‘You came here to me to inform me of this?’ She asks, ‘You do not even care to discuss it, do you?’  
   
‘I didn't think there would be anything to discuss, what could possibly be your objection?‘  
   
‘I refuse to stay behind!’  
   
‘You won't!’ He pushes her hand away, ‘You'll go with Jon when the time comes, _as we planned_ , it is what you wanted!’  
   
‘Is this because of Freia?’  
   
‘ _Freia_? No! This is not about-‘  
   
‘I want to understand how you can object, but it’s done now Robb, there’s no-‘  
   
‘It’s not about Freia!’  
   
‘Don't lie to me! You want to get away from Jon, as soon-‘  
   
‘I can't listen to this!’ He wants to walks away again and once more she grabs his arm.   
   
‘What did your uncle write you? Have you discussed it with Jon?’  
   
He pushes her off him, ‘I’m sure he won't object to my leave.’  
   
‘So, it is about Jon?’  
   
‘Jon is merely no reason for me to stay, let's leave it at that, please.’   
   
‘Fine.’ She says and she turns her back to him, ‘We shall leave it at that, you better go.’  
   
‘I will.’  
   
‘You should stop feeling so sorry for yourself.’ She tells him before he even manages to walk towards the door.   
   
‘I don't feel sorry for myself.’  
   
‘Yes, you do.’  
   
‘Stop telling me what I feel and think, I do _not_ feel sorry for myself.’   
   
She scuffs, ‘I see the way you look at Jon. You can't stand it that he doesn't trust you anymore.’   
   
‘Why would that make me feel sorry for myself?’  
   
‘So, you admit it?’ If he does, she wonders if it'll please her.   
   
‘I have nothing to admit, you know everything, don't you? You think you do, but even you can't look inside my head. If you want to know what I'm feeling, you'll have to ask me.’   
   
‘Is that what you want? For me to ask you what you're _feeling_?’  
   
Robb shakes his head, ‘No, I want you to tell me what is it _you_ are feeling.’   
   
Rhaenys glares at him and turns her back on him, ‘That does not concern you.’  
   
‘Are you ever going to forgive me?’  
   
She turns only enough to give him a spiteful glare, ‘It's not my forgiveness you need.’  
   
‘Then why are you acting as if I do? I know I have wronged him, my own sister may never forgive me for what my actions have caused, I know that Jon has every reason not to trust me, I know all of it, you remind me of them every day, you tell me all it is that I have and do wrong, but I can't recall you ever telling me what it is that I could perhaps do to make it better.’   
   
She tries to keep her glaring eyes up, her frown and her pursed lips, but it's so hard, ‘Sometimes feeling sorry is not enough, Robb.’   
   
‘I know that too. I just… what _do_ you want me to do, Rhaenys? Tell me what it is and I'll do it, I swear, no matter what it is, if it makes you hate me less, I'll do anything.’   
   
‘What makes you think I hate you?’  
   
‘There is nothing you've ever done or said that proves me otherwise.’  
   
‘You do feel sorry for yourself.’  
   
‘What do you want?’ He asks again.   
   
‘That's a stupid question!’  
   
‘Not it's not! I don't know, you have to tell me, _what do you want_?’  
   
'Stop asking that!’  
   
‘You are the most infuriating woman I have _ever_ met!’  
   
That hurts far more than it should and she loses her self-control when she tells him, ‘Fuck you.’   
   
His eyes widen for a moment, because he's still that person who is shocked whenever a princess of the blood uses such vile language, no matter how often he has heard her do it lately. Or perhaps he merely hates it that she speaks to him with these sorts of words.   
   
She glares at him challengingly, and the realization that she can still get him speechless, despite his newfound boldness, pleases her, even when she needed swearwords to achieve that. Her please disappears instantly when he raises his eyebrows.  
   
‘Is that what you want?’  
   
She hits his face with her flat hand and he doesn't move his head back to look at her for far too long while during which she starts feeling only slightly guilty. She would hit him again, though still, she hopes it didn't hurt so much.  
   
‘I deserved that.’ He then says, after a while during which he has obviously given himself time to count to ten and breathe, ‘I'm sorry, it was an inappropriate thing to say.’   
   
When he finally turns his head to look at her again she needs to move her eyes off him, she'll cry if she won't.   
   
‘Rhaenys…’ he tries to grab her arm but she shrieks away, ‘I mean it, I need you to tell me what you want me to do, if there is anything I can do, I can’t… we cannot go on like this.’  
   
She wants to tell him she'll be able to do it, but that's not the truth, the truth is that they have to keep going on like his, whether they'll like it or not. But she cannot tell him the truth and perhaps that is why she cannot tell him what she wants.  
   
‘What do you want?’  
   
‘I mean it, stop asking that, I'm not telling you, it's a useless question.’  
   
He shakes his head, ‘I'm only trying to-‘  
   
‘Just go!’ she raises her voice again and she sees his face redden with anger.   
   
‘Fine!’ He wants to turn around to march away like an angry child but without telling her hand to do it, it moves to grab him by his wrist.  
   
‘I'm sorry.’ Why is she always apologizing to him? When did that happen between now and these three moons ago when that red comet was up in the sky?   
   
They stand there for a while, glaring at each other and the fire in his eyes does weird things to her.  Her husband is not stupid and he is not weak either. Rhaenys fears that her lord husband is not at all as impressed with her unfeeling cunningness as most people are, not anymore, perhaps he never truly was. Most of all she fears he's breaking through her layers of walls, all carefully raised up in all these years. He's not intimidated by her, far from it. He allows her to push him around but when it comes to it… she's worried to slowly find out he's not afraid of biting back, he does that more and more with every passing day.   
   
She walks away from him, behind her dressing screen and starts roughly pulling her silks from her body. Perhaps he'll go and she'll let him leave when she gets undressed. It's a stupid thought, but weirdly, she feels rather desperate.   
   
Rhaenys feels the urge to ask him to help her, because she has trouble doing it herself as much as she'd like to feel his cold hands through the fabrics, but she is too angry to open her mouth again. She stands there in her smallclothes, taking her stockings off, when he walks around the corner and shamelessly looks at her.   
   
'Don't you need the help of a maid for that?’   
   
‘I don't need anyone's help.’  
   
He just snorts which annoys her though not as much as the amused gleam in his eyes.  
   
‘Don’t look at me.’ She tells him, refusing to give him a single glance. She feels her face heat up. He can't look at her when she's dressed in so little, he can see her now, and she doesn't want him to. She doesn't want anyone to.   
   
‘Rhaenys-‘  
   
‘ _Please_ , don’t look at me.’ She looks up and sees something that might be pity and then she feels angry again, ‘Just go!’ She throws the stocking she just took off at him and he catches it with his hands.   
   
‘I was going.’ He says, ‘but every time I leave you grab my arm and start yelling at me.’   
   
‘I won't now.’   
   
He nods, lays the silky stockings on a small table and turns to finally leave her room but he is right. She knows he thinks she doesn't want him to go and she hates to proof him right.   
   
‘I shouldn't take it out on you.’ She says as she appears from behind the screen again.   
   
‘It would have been nice for you to tell me you'll miss me.’ He says, ‘To give other reasons to not want me to go other than fearing being left behind.’   
   
She holds the rim of the screen to steady herself and bites her lip bloody, ‘That’s not very much my style.’   
   
‘I don't fucking care, Rhaenys.’   
   
‘You won't miss me either, will you?’  
   
‘Is that truly what you believe?’ He asks, ‘Because if you do, mayhaps I should not return to you once the war is over.’  
   
A shiver goes through her body and it’s not because of the cold air on her skin, ‘Mayhaps you shouldn't.’ She whispers.   
   
He nods, ‘Mayhaps I won't.’   
   
‘Robb.’ She says again, why is his name the only thing she can say? Names are so meaningless. 

‘I'll see you in the morrow.’ He says.   
   
‘Won't you leave at sunrise?’  
   
He shakes his head, ‘I mean to say goodbye to mother first.’  
   
‘That's nice of you.’ She says, ‘Robb I… You did well today. It went well.’   
   
‘Did it?’  
   
‘Yes, don't you think?’  
   
‘I suppose it did.’   
   
She nods and plasters a smile on her face, ‘I you leave tomorrow you need a good night’s rest.’  
   
He nods, as if he wants her to think he understands, and then randomly says, ‘Freia looks so much like Jon, don't you think?’   
   
Rhaenys gulps. There is an acid feeling in her lower belly and she places her hand over it. On her stomach, her worthless, flat stomach that will never grow, never bear a child, never make her a mother, ‘Does she?’  
   
‘Aye, with the curly hair. All pretty.’  
   
‘She is pretty.’ Rhaenys agrees.  
   
He drops his hand from the door handle and sits down on her bed again, as if she invited him to do that, ‘She looks like a Stark.’  
   
‘She’s a Targaryen.’  
   
He grins and his grin makes her smile, she can't help it, ‘Don't worry, I won't steal her from you.’  
   
‘Jon is angry with me.’ She admits then, blurts it out, she doesn't know why, she's never confided in him before, especially not about Jon.  
   
‘That's not among the things he usually does.’ Robb says and she knows he doesn't really mean it, she and Jon have their regular disagreements.  
   
‘Because I let the measter investigate the child without discussing it with him first, He said I should’ve asked his permission, and your mother thinks we should've kept the Septa.’  
   
He doesn't tell her they’re utterly wrong to accuse her of these things but sighs instead and tells her, ‘It's his child, he hasn't had much of a say in her life up until now, please do it the way he wants, I don't think you should lecture him.’  
   
‘I don't lecture him.’   
   
‘You always lecture everyone.’ He says, eyebrows raised, and when she opens her mouth to tell him that’s utter bullshit he adds, ‘Just stay out of it, you don't know anything about children,   
this is not exactly your field of expertize.’   
   
She can't stand it that he says that, if only because Jon said exactly the same, ‘I don't see why that means -‘  
   
‘You shouldn't take anything he says personal,’ Robb says and she realizes he knows exactly how it went, sometimes she has to remind herself that Robb probably knows Jon better than she does, ‘The Gods know how horrible he must be feeling.’   
   
She could make some nasty comment now, but she chooses not to. Instead she moves over and sits down next to him, at careful distance, still half dressed in her red gown, ‘I want to help him.’  
   
‘You can't, not with this, nobody can.’  
   
She nods and they fall into some silence for a while until he makes a hand gesture to her dress.   
   
‘Why are you always dressed in red or black?’  
   
‘These are the colors of my house.’ She says, raising her eyebrows, she used to wear Martell yellow before, but unlike what she prefers to make people believe, she’d rather not feed the ‘Dornish Queen’ nickname.   
   
He raises his eyebrows too, though not in annoyance, ‘I know they are, it's just that, I think you'd look better in blue.’ Rhaenys opens her mouth but he doesn't let her speak, ‘I'm sorry, but I've been thinking it for moons.’   
   
‘Why do you care what I wear?’   
   
He only shrugs, and then, after another moment of silence he admits, avoiding her piercing eyes, ‘You're the only one I'll miss when I'm gone.’   
   
Rhaenys doesn't know what else to say but, ‘Don't let your mother hear you say that.’ Why on earth would he miss her? And won't he miss his little brothers? Perhaps he doesn't truly mean it, perhaps he's trying to flatter her.  
   
He grins, ‘I won't, don’t worry.’   
   
‘I don't worry.’ She says, ‘Not about your mother, at least.’   
   
That makes him laugh and his laugh makes her smile, even though there is a sour feeling of shame in her abdomen.   
   
He gets up and holds his hand out towards her, which she takes, ‘Shall I get you a maid? She can get you out of your dress.’  
   
‘I can do it myself.’   
   
‘No you can't.’ He says and pulls on her heavy silk sleeve, ‘Sometimes we can't do everything on our own, I know you hate that, but it's true.’   
   
‘I do know that.’ She says, pulling her sleeve away from his hand.   
   
‘Fine, then turn around so I can open the laces cause you look like you have trouble breathing in that thing- you shouldn't wear your corset so tight when we're traveling, you might drop of your horse, gasping for air, fainting and all.’  
   
‘Don't be ridiculous.’ She says though she turns around to give him access to the laces of her corset.   
   
Robb moves his hand to push her hair over her shoulder and his fingers brush her bare neck which give her shivers, his hands are so cold, and she hates what her skin does underneath them. He’s an asshole and he always does it on purpose, to make her life all difficult and more complicated as if it isn't already.   
   
‘Rhaenys?’   
   
‘Hmm?’ Her muscles hurt because she tightens them so much.   
   
The corset falls to the floor as he doesn't catch it when it loosens and Rhaenys hugs her arms around herself in the vague hope of hiding some of the curves that are far too visible through the thin fabrics of her smallclothes. She hates her body for being the way it is, she can't stand him seeing any of it.   
   
He gently tucks on her upper arm to turn her back towards him and as she avoids to look at him he tells her, ‘I'm sorry I yelled, you can tell me what it is you want whenever you feel like it.’  
   
‘Stop it.’ She can’t look up in his eyes, just can’t.  
   
‘With what?’  
   
‘With being nice, you're always far too nice, I don't deserve that, all I ever do is be rude to you.’   
   
He laughs and that surprises her so much she looks up, ‘I can handle you.’ Robb says.

‘Do you?’ She raises one eyebrow, ‘You must be the only one who believes that.’   
   
‘You cannot help it, can you?’ He asks, ‘You need to mock me, it's an irresistible desire.’  
   
‘You make it so easy.’   
   
He lets go of her upper arm and she feels lonely, suddenly, the idea of him leaving makes her feel lonely too, ‘I’ll remind myself of that when I miss you.’   
   
‘Me, mocking you?’  
   
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘You're beautiful when you do.’   
   
‘You’ve lost your mind.’ She breathes.   
   
He shrugs as if he doesn't really care about that.   
   
‘You’re an idiot.’ She says, her voice clearer now and she looks down to her bare feet on the wooden floor.   
   
‘If you say so.’  
   
Jon always says the same, he sounds a little like Jon, ‘You should go.’ She says

If only he knew how important it is that he does.   
   
Then, he moves his face towards her and presses his forehead to hers, 'What are you doing?’ she asks, her voice all soft, high and nervous, she can't even hear it over the loud beating of her heart in her ear.  
   
‘I thought I'd kiss you.’ He says.   
   
‘I… I d-don’t think I want you to.’ She says though she can't pull herself away.   
   
He doesn't kiss her, but instead asks, 'You'll miss me too, won't you?’ His face is so close he breathes it to her lips the moment they speak and she's not sure what annoys her most, the question or the fact that he stopped talking about kissing her.   
   
‘I’ll tell you when you come back to me.’  
   
‘I'll come back to you.’ He promises and he closes his eyes.   
   
‘You don't need to if you don't really want to.’  
   
He drops his hands, moves away and walks over to the door, ‘I can stay if you want.’ He says, hand on the door handle.   
   
‘I'm glad it matters what I want.’  
   
He shrugs again, she’s still trying to figure out why he’s always shrugging.   
   
She knows she wants him to stay, she knows he wants to stay too.   
   
He drops the door handle again and takes some steps towards her, ‘Rhaenys I-’  
   
‘I can’t.’ The way he looks at her makes her feel like crying. Screaming as loudly as Freia did.  
   
‘It’s-‘  
   
‘I’m sorry.’  
   
‘Don't be.’  
   
‘It's not you.’   
   
He doesn't seem to believe that and she hates it. 

‘I could still stay.’ He says, ‘If you… I could stay.’  
   
Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I think you should go. You need your rest.’   
   
He smiles at her and then he leaves the room.   
   
When he is gone and she's lying in bed she feels guilty, so terribly guilty, it completely seems to eat her alive and all she can do is wonder about how much longer she’ll be able to keep it up.

 _The annulment_ , she tells herself, _you need the damn annulment_. Robb needs it more than she does. 

Rhaenys never believed she'd ever dread the ending of this war.   
   
   
   
**Sansa**  
   
In Jon’s old room at the heart of Magor's Holdfast, Sansa gives herself to the darkness. She draws the curtains around Jon’s bed, sleeps, wakes weeping and sleeps again. When she cannot sleep she lays under the blankets shivering with anger. Servants come and go, bringing meals, but the sight is more than she can bear. The dishes pile up on the table beneath the window, untouched and spoiling, until the servants take them away again. Sometimes, her sleep is leaden and dreamless, and she wakes from it more tired than when she closed her eyes. Yet those are the best times, for when she dreams, she dreams of people she loves.  
   
_I’m dying, I'm dying, Jon, I'm dying…_  
   
Like her father. Like Aegon. Like Jon’s father. She wonders what dying feels like. Will it be painless, like falling asleep? Will everything just vanish away? The pain and the suffering? Will she be able to do it?  
   
Awake or asleep, she always sees her.   
   
_Perhaps I ought to be dead_ , she tells herself, _the way I should have been_ , and the thought does not scare her.  
   
_Freia, Freia... Where are you? I miss you so much._  
   
If she throws herself from the window, she can put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers will write songs of her grief. She will be like Arthur Dayne’s sister. Her body will lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who have betrayed and wronged her.  
   
Sansa goes so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters but then, when she tries to find the courage, she can't.  
   
_I'm weak_ , she thinks. She can't even end her own life. It's the only power she has left, to end it all. But no matter how much she wants to... she can't.   
   
She cannot get out of this bed, out if this room. She pretends the bed smells of him, and then when she wraps the blankets around herself it's like his arms pull her close, she drags a pillow to her chest and it's like she can almost feel the protectiveness, the safety of his body. She needs it so badly, now more than ever.   
   
Freia slept in her bed every night since the day Sansa brought her into this world with blood, sweat, tears and screams. Now, she is laying all alone in it again, all alone like she hasn't been since that one time… when her bed was covered in blood. The Gods took her baby from her then too, ripped it away, it died. Back then she believed she'd never feel so sick or miserable again. She was wrong. When she lost her first baby she believed she was dying, now, Sansa knows she is.   
   
The serving girls try to talk to her when they bring her meals but she never answers them. Once Grand Maester Pycelle comes with a box of flasks and bottles, to ask if she is ill. She tells him that, of course she's not, but he still makes her undress and though she kicks and screams he still touches her all over while her bedmaidens hold her down. Before he leaves he gives her a potion of honeywater and herbs and tells her to drink a swallow every night. She throws it all away and lays wide awake all night.   
   
No one comes for her. No one tries to help her or strokes her hair. No one tells her everything will be alright… because nobody cares. They feel nothing towards her, she is an object, an obstacle to them. All those who love her ar far away or dead.  
   
How could she ever have believed in knights? In honorable princes? In _songs_? Life is not a song. Life hurts, life knows no heroes only monsters and only the villains win.   
   
For the first time in her life, ever, she begins to doubt the Gods. What are sins? What is their guidance? How can they let this happen? Sansa never feared their judgement, but what if their appraisal is now? What if the seven hells are the seven kingdoms? And the stranger doesn't listen to prayers? Sansa doesn't pray anymore. If she wants to go to the sept she’ll have to leave this bed.   
   
Sometimes her dreams are sweet, strangely, most are. She’s back at winterfell and Lady is with her. She’s a child again, sixteen and innocent, as foolish as a maid. Arya pulls her hair and Bran and Rickon are laughing, running, _both of them_ , her mother brushes her hair and father...  
   
_Father, forgive me, please, for all my sins, forgive me..._  
   
Everyone is warm and safe. Snow falls down in her hair and as she grabs it it lays in her hand and she stares at it. _Snow_.   
   
Her torments will soon end, one way or the other.   
   
When Sansa wakes up she sometimes forgets. For a rare moment, she doesn't know where she is. Sometimes… sometimes she even stretches her arm to feel if he's there. She always used to do that. Even back in the days her hand found only cold air. 

Jon was never a good sleeper. He'd often wake up before the sun did to go down to the bakery to get the first loafs of bread or he'd walk to the top of the castle and see the rose and gold of morning around him. She always wondered what went through his mind then. She wonders if he still does it. She wonders if he thinks of her.  She wonders if Freia is with him.  
   
What will he think of her? Will he love her? Will he be able to? After two years she may not feel like a child of his own. Freia is a stranger to him and he a stranger to Freia. The moment that realization hits her she throws up all the food she barely managed to eat.   
   
She can see Freia’s first crib from the corner of her eye when she lays on her back in the bed. At one point the tears have dried and she can't bring it up to cry much more. She only stares. At the crib. The empty crib of her child.   
   
She must be so scared. Freia hates strangers. Freia must feel so betrayed, maybe she thinks Sansa gave her away. Maybe she has forgotten how Sansa repeated every day and the whole day for two moons how much she loved her. Maybe she will forget and never remember.   
   
They force her to take a bath and the lack of food in her belly makes her too dizzy to push their pulling hands away.  
   
The color of the bath surprises her. It's so dark. Has it been so long since she washed herself? Mayhaps it has been.   
   
She lets them clad her in silks but when they try to braid her hair she hits them and frees herself from the grips. She walks over towards the windows and stares out at the sky. She always used to look out at the window with Freia and they'd pretend to see things, movements or animals in the clouds. If she leaned her head she could see a castle, with thick walls and high towers. She'd point at it and say, ‘Look Freia, it's a castle!’  
   
‘kas-uhl?’ Freia asked and Sansa would explain what a castle is. Maybe she'd tell her about Winterfell too, about her home.   
   
‘It's your home too, Freia. One day your father is going to come and get us away from this place, very far away, and he'll bring us home.’  
   
‘Ohm?’  
   
‘Yes home. Winterfell.’  
   
They're all at Winterell now. She knows that. Jon, Freia, her mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon... Arya too? Maybe by now she’s arrived. Maybe she’s sewing and dancing. Maybe Freia squeals and calls her ‘Aba’.   
   
They’re all together and Sansa is all alone. No one is coming for her. Not even Jon. Especially not Jon. He isn’t a brave knight ready to rescue her from this high tower she hides in all day. He wouldn't dare come near King’s Landing. They'll chop his head off the way they chopped off father’s and Joffrey… what will Joffrey do to his corpse? He'll force her to look at it again. Maybe she wants that. Maybe that will be the only chance she'll ever have to look at him again.  
   
She drags her legs forward and they move her to the docks. 

Jon told her a story once of how he threw Joffrey off them. Sansa wishes she could threw him off it too. If he'd not drown he might break his neck. They have postponed his wedding to Margaery Tyrell, though nobody has told Sansa why, and she hasn’t cared to ask.  
   
The sea is so pretty but it doesn't make her feel anything. She never came here, she was always afraid Freia would tumble over and sink into the deepness of Blackwater Bay. She doesn't need to be scared of that no more. She fears nothing. It's easy to fear nothing when you have nothing to lose. Only her own life remains to her. It's valuable to people who are so far away from her. Perhaps she can't kill herself because she cannot do that to them. He asked her did he not? He wrote her a letter that told her how much he needs her.   
   
How? She doesn't know. She has not done anything for him in so long. Except live. Live and love his child. Love him too. Does she love him still? All she feels when she thinks of him is pain and heartache. Not love. Mayhaps that is because she has forgotten what love feels like. Maybe it's just a faint memory in her heart. Maybe he took it with him when he left and now… now all she remembers is the careless happiness.   
   
‘Lady Stark?’  
   
Sansa looks up and nods her head, ‘Lord Baelish… you must forgive me I-‘  
   
‘Do stay.’ He is bold in touching her, the way he wraps his hand around her wrist. She looks at it, he sees her look at it, and he lets go.   
   
‘I will visit the Godswood.’ She says.   
   
‘Prayer is good.’  
   
Sansa doesn't tell him she prays no more, she says nothing. Saying nothing is often best.   
   
‘May I escort you there?’  
   
‘If you insist, my lord.’  
   
‘I'm afraid I do.’  

Once she may have looked at him and wondered what he wanted, wondered what he needed from her, if his intentions are sincere, she would have tried to test his honor the way Rhaenys told her she always must, but she just doesn't care anymore.  
   
‘I felt terrible when I heard what occurred to you.’  
   
Sansa doesn’t respond, she should tell him how Joffrey was merciful and good to give Jon Freia still, but she can't bear to say it, more importantly, she refuses to.   
   
‘I knew your mother very well.’ He suddenly says.  
   
Sansa has not conversed with him ever before, not once. Jon told her to stay away from him and Rhaenys said once that ‘Littlefinger would see the whole realm burn if he could rule over the ashes’, naturally that made him one of Sansa’s sister-in-law’s least favorite people. She always used to say powerhunger is a man’s most nasty habit, ‘ _Be careful of those Sansa_.’ She said, ‘ _Of those who want power, and those who want pretty ladies like yourself, these are the most dangerous._ ’    
   
‘Has she ever told you?’  
   
‘No.’ Sansa says, ‘But my lord husband told me, you fought for her love once. My uncle Brandon cut you open from collarbone to-‘  
   
‘I didn't think your lord husband would share such stories with you!’   
   
‘My lord husband didn't hold back.’ She says and somehow that makes him laugh. Sansa doesn't understand, nothing is funny.

‘You look much like her, like your mother. But I'm afraid… I'm afraid you're much more beautiful. More beautiful than she ever was.’

Sansa looked at herself in the mirror this morning, her hair is greasy, her face puffy and bruised, her nose and lips swollen, her eyes red, the skin around them blue and circled by bags. He is a blind oaf to call her beautiful, that she is sure of, ‘You are too kind, my lord.’

‘Do you want to go home, lady Stark?’

She doesn't respond. 

‘I always wondered about Winterfell… I've never been there but the stories always made me believe it was a grey and cold place.’

‘It's not.’ Sansa says, ‘It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer.’

‘You make it sound very pleasant.’

‘It is. It… I was happy there, once.’

‘Does it feel like decades ago?’

Sansa doesn't respond again. They reach the Godswood. She always favored her mother’s faith, with the beautiful statues, the poems, the smell of candles and incense. She cannot deny now that the Godswood has its own charm. The breeze is kind to her cheeks and the leaves that blow softly in the wind whisper secrets to her she cannot understand, the different shades of green are so terribly beautiful she wishes suddenly she paid attention to it back when she still cared for beauty. 

‘What do you pray for, lady Stark?’

‘I don't pray anymore.’ She admits, ‘This is the only place I can go to where people leave me alone.’ 

He smiles at her and she hates it. She hates him. She hates everyone.

‘I have wanted to speak to you for a very long time, Sansa.’ He says and it annoys him that he calls her Sansa, as if they're friends.

‘Have you?’

‘You were hard to reach. For your husband kept me at distance and then there was-‘

‘Jon told me not to trust you.’ She blatantly tells him and again he laughs. Especially now she wonders what it is that amuses him. 

‘Your lord husband understands how King’s Landing works.’

‘Does he?’

‘He certainly did.’ 

‘If you say so, my lord.’ Sansa says. Jon always used to say that, she now understands he did when he needed the conversation to end without being too impolite. She looks away again and hopes he may leave if she stops responding. 

‘In King's Landing, there are two sorts of people, the players and the pieces.’ He tells her and the change of subject stirs her to look up, ‘I am a player and so, lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, are you.’

‘You’re wrong.’ She always tried to be a piece in the vague hope of being left undisturbed if she removed herself from the board. She was doomed from the start. 

He smiles some more and Sansa decides that she finds him terribly unattractive, ‘You have fooled many to believe so, but not me, alas.’

‘Alas? I wish not to disappoint you my lord, but I don't care what you think of me.’

‘In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them. Mark that well, Lady Sansa. It's a lesson that Cersei Lannister still has yet to learn.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, lord Baelish?’

‘I can help you.’

She looks at her hands, ‘I’m past help.’

‘Are you? I don't believe you are.’ His breath is fresh and smells of mint and the scent tells her he is standing to close.

‘I will go back inside, I have a terrible headache suddenly.’

He grabs her by her wrist again and this time he doesn't let go when she looks at it, ‘Let me help you, lady Stark, it is my wish to help you.’

‘Why?’ She figures it won't harm to ask. 

‘I cared deeply for your mother. I feel it is my duty to do this for you.’

‘You did not strike me as an honorable man.’ 

He laughs again, but the laugh doesn't reach his greenish eyes, ‘You are nearly as witty as his sister, did she teach you well?’

‘I do not know who you speak of.’

‘Of course you do. The Dornish Queen.’

‘What do you want, lord Baelish?’ She asks, ‘Do you want him to reward you?’

He only smiles, ‘I wish to give you your heart’s desire.’ 

‘Why would you want to help me?’ Sansa glares at him, ‘You’re in the King’s council, they have richly rewarded you for your service.’

‘It's always wise to be one step ahead.’ 

‘King Rhaegar wanted to be one step ahead.’

Can I tell you a secret lady Stark?’

‘We are in the Godswood my lord, only the old gods will judge you and they are kinder than what is out there.’ Sansa says.

He still smiles when he says, ‘Your lord husband is winning this war. He could have won it already, but he has more patience than the queen mother, everyone will admit to that.’ 

‘I won't. I know nothing.’

Again, he laughs, she wishes he'd stop, ‘You do not trust me, do you? You'd be a fool to trust me.’

‘You seem to have some self-knowledge, that can be valuable in life, lord Baelish. Or so I've been told.’ 

‘What else did Jon tell you about me? Why did he want you to stay away from me?’

‘He said you were too ambitious.’ 

He grins at that, which is worse than the smiling, ‘It is funny to think of it now, how he said that then, when he ended up being the one to claim to be the rightful heir to the iron throne.’

Sansa looks away. She needs to tell him Jon is a bastard, a traitor, she should not speak of her traitorous husband. But she's tired. She's so tired of doing all that, she can't bring it up no more. 

‘I’m offering you a way out, away from here, I could bring you home. Or do you wish to still wait for him to come and get you… after two years?’

Sansa bites her lower lip to keep herself from speaking. Refusing to say the right thing is not at all the same as being foolish enough to say the wrong. 

‘I'll give you what you want most.’

‘Going home.’ She whispers.

‘No.’ he says, ‘I'll give you revenge.’ 

Sansa nods once. 

Hours later, when he's gone Sansa suddenly realizes she sank through her knees. She does not remember falling. Suddenly the sky seems a lighter shade of blue.  _Dawn_ , she thinks.  _Another day. Another new day_. It is the old days she hungers for. Prays for. But who can she pray to? The garden was meant for a godswood once, she knows, but the soil is too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root.  _A godswood without gods, as empty as me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually managed to squeeze in some of my favorite Sansa quotes in this chapter, call it stealing, call it appreciating some GRRM extreme goodness... book readers will probably (definitely) notice and I hope it's okay, I just think they're so significant for Sansa, and I just love Sansa.  
> Anyway, next chapter is all Jon pov and I'm equally nervous and exited to share it cause man, I've been writing that chapter for months.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Have a lovely week, and do let me know what you think!X


	38. Unicorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he isn't really a father, not truly. How can he be a father when he has never been there for her? How can he be a father when she doesn’t even know him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know how anticipated this chapter is and all I can say is that I really really hope it doesn't disappoint, I started writing it about half a year ago and I can truly say this is as good as it's ever going to get.

**Jon**

They stole this from him, his relationship with her, he cannot help but realize it every time he sees her. How he should've seen her grow from that thing that pushed to his hand from Sansa’s belly to what she is now. More than ever he promises himself that he’ll make them suffer for it, revenge them for what they took away, nearly destroyed. 

He is a stranger to his own child, and she is to him. He feels his chest grow with love and affection at the mere idea of her and as he hears her heartbreaking sobs and her cries for her mother all he wants to do is burst through that freaking door and hold her in his arms and swear to her that he'll make it better, that they'll be together again soon, the three of them, the way they always were supposed to be. They'll be together again like they once were as Sansa lay in his arms and he'd place his hand on her bump and Freia would press her fist to his touch. 

As much as she is his daughter, she is as much a stranger to him as he is to her. He can't hold her, he'll scare her. He doesn't know what to say to her to make it better, because he has never said anything to her before. He can't stroke through her hair and peck the top of her head because she'll maybe think he only means to hurt her. He doesn't know what story to tell her to bring her comfort, he doesn't know if she likes it when someone sings to her and he doesn't know if that wooden unicorn she clasps in her hands has a name.

He wishes Rhaenys would just go, he wishes Ser Melckom would stop looking at him like that, he wishes Bran and Rickon wouldn't appear as nervous as they do and mostly he wishes Catelyn would stop telling him how beautiful his daughter is. 

She's his, unmistakably his, and she's _real_ , she's here, with him. Where she belonged from the start. She's also terrified, and doesn’t trust anyone or anything. All she does is scream and wail. So often and loudly Jon thinks she'll die screaming, but then it fades, and suddenly, it's all quit and the silence makes him feel like he doesn't have her back at all. 

He doesn't sleep a wink that night, only lies in bed for a moment and then drags himself out of it when the moon is high up in the sky. He goes down to the kitchens where there is only a mouse to keep him company and he warms up some milk.

Then he can't help himself but walk to the small room that they have given to her. He opens the door, knowing exactly how to do that without allowing it to creak, and peeks into her bedchamber. She is sleeping. Her face lies on her little hand and her breathing is calm and rhythmic. The blankets all curled up around her in her sleep and even though the bed is far too big for her, it’s still cramped because she’s not lying in it alone. Her other hand rests on Ghost’s fur as she lays curled again the wolf. 

Ghost opens his eyes and it’s almost as if they’re two red lights that stare back at Jon, warningly at first, then, the wolf seems to realize it’s him and as soundlessly and slowly as his namesake, he gets up from the bed, as if he carefully makes sure not to wake her, and moves over to Jon, who holds his breath, in fear it’ll wake her if he exhales. 

Ghost presses his nose to Jon’s leg and Jon kneels to take the wolf’s head between his hands. He’s far bigger than he was when Jon last saw him, he has the seize of a pony now, though he’s still pearly white, with the eyes of weirdwood tree leaves. 

‘Ghost…’ Jon whispers, ‘I missed you… you took take care of them, didn’t you?’

Ghost can’t answer but he licks Jon’s hand and Jon feels the urge to kiss or hug him but then the wolf turns away and walks back to where he came from to lie back down in the exact same spot. 

Jon gets up and the way he stands there makes him oddly remember that one time he stood in the door opening of another room in this castle, a bedchamber too. He felt just as nervous, but not as anxious nor as much love.

His whole body fills with affection and an all-consuming need to protect that little girl in that bed. He wants to walk over towards her, pull the blankets over her shoulders, kiss the top of her head and tell her he loves her but he manages to contain himself. He can stand there and look at her, how can he ask for more? It's what he dreamed of so often in the past two years. Seeing her. Just seeing her and finding out what she looks like. He can see her now, she is right there, only a few feet away, with him, right in his grasp where he can keep her safe the way he should've done ever since she came into this world. 

He failed her, but he will not fail her again. How can he do that? She's so precious and small. He remembers what she felt like when he lifted her up, all warm against his chest, her weight pleasant in his arms. He remembers the way she looked at him, her wide blue eyes pierced right through him like no one has ever done before. Except only her mother. In that moment, it was as if he knew her, as if they have never been parted, as if she loves him too, recognizes him even. 

He is not sure how long he stands there but when he finally goes back to his own bedchamber, the sky is already turning into all sorts of pinks and orange mixed up in the blue. And his head hurts so much. 

The next two days are the same. She cries and they try to talk to her. At first, she only wails, but then, eventually, she starts begging for her mother, and Jon doesn't believe he has ever heard such a heartbreaking sound in his ears before. 

She screams and cries so much that she falls asleep right on the spot, after stamping her feet and pulling her own hair. Her screams are impressively loud, and it's so high it makes his head turn. 

Though she screams and yells she never speaks, not a single word. She only nods or shakes her head and whenever she asks for ‘Mama?’ And her big fat tears roll down her cheeks Jon feels the urge to run away and throw up all his food.

What has he done? He never should've, it's wrong, completely wrong. Utterly cruel and a mistake. He'll hate himself for this for the rest of his life. Sansa will hate him, and if not one thing changes, his daughter will hate him too. She may hate him already; the way she suspiciously glares at him every time he catches her eye and tries to smile. He feels like running, and that is what he does.

He only asks her stupid practical questions, whether she's hungry or tired or needs anything and she never answers. He can't stop looking at her, from a distance, the corner of the room or through a peek of the door, even through a window, but he always tries to not let her notice and usually he manages.

Everyone keeps repeating to him how it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, but he can't stand it. It doesn't help him that they repeat it so often. All he wants to do is scream.

He wonders what he thought this would be like. He never expected her to fall in his arms and instantly know him to be her father. Yet, he doesn't believe he was prepared for this either. Maybe that was a foolish thing, maybe he is stupid and an idiot and maybe he really does know nothing. Maybe he isn't really a father, not truly, how can he be a father when he has never been there for her? How can he be a father when she doesn’t even know him? 

At night or during her nap time he peeks at her through the half-opened door, he even lifts the blankets over her shoulders to make sure she's warm, but when she's awake he's a coward, too afraid to speak to her and make it worse. He cannot stand the way she looks at him, he can't bare her big blue eyes that look so much like Sansa’s. He can't let Sansa’s eyes look at him like that, he simply cannot. 

It's Catelyn that he relies on the most, because it's her who seems to know best what to do. She uses the right voice, asks the right questions, knows what words she'll understand and gives Freia the trustworthy smile. She's the kind lady who has mama’s hair, soft hands, smells nice and sings pretty songs she seems to recognize. 

With Cat’s push, her reassurance, instructions and crafted advice, he opens the door to Freia’s own little bedchamber and walks in. 

She's sitting on the rug, brushing the hair of one of her three dolls and when she notices him, she gets up and stands there on her wobbly feet, unicorn in hand, all tense and nervous and he hates it. 

‘Do you like cake?’ He asks when he kneels down to bring his face on the same level to hers as much as he possibly can. 

She ignores him though she carefully makes sure to never turn her eyes away.

‘I don't think it's as good as what they have in King’s Landing but maybe you’ll still like it.’

He moves his hand to hers and though she doesn't help him, she allows him to place the piece in her palm. She looks down at it though she doesn't eat it. 

‘I promise it's no poison, I just had a bit myself.’ 

There’s no emotion in her eyes as she watches him ramble and it makes him breathless because wonderfully and awfully, it reminds him of Sansa. 

‘I always eat too much. Do you know who always told me to stop eating? Sansa. I think you know Sansa. She told me she knows you, she sent me letters that told me all about you. She’s very sad that she cannot be here, but she promises to come soon, in the meantime we’ll talk about her, we'll write letters to her, and when she writes one back I'll read it to you, would you like that?’

Freia nods eagerly and Jon feels tears well up in his eyes. She hasn't before given him the impression that she has any idea what he's saying, but clearly, she knows far too well. 

‘Sansa is your mama, isn't she?’

Freia nods again. 

‘I knew her very well, all these people here know her, and they love her, and they l-love you too. I do t-too, and I... and I… I hope you'll like it here. Mama always liked it here. Do you know where we are?’

Freia doesn't nod nor shake her head. 

‘Winterfell. This is where your mama is from, it's your home Freia. Your name is Freia, isn't it?’

She nods.

‘It's a very pretty name. When you were born, your mama wrote me a letter to tell me your name.’

Freia frowns, then opens her mouth and closes it again. 

‘Are you tired?’

Freia shakes her head. 

‘Do you like this room? It's yours.’

She doesn't respond. At least she doesn't shake her head again. 

‘Ghost is always with you. You like him, don't you?’

She nods.

‘He was mine once, but I left him with mama to look after her, and to look after you too.’

If she understands what he's saying she doesn't let him know. 

‘Over there is a box with books, you already know that, don't you? Do you like books?’

She doesn't respond. 

‘Maybe… maybe I could read one to you... one day, maybe, if you'd like.’

Freia looks down at her wooden unicorn, the way her fingers are wrapped around its neck.

‘I'd really like it if I could read or t-tell you a story, one day, but only if you want.’

Freia doesn't look up.

‘Are you hungry?’

Freia looks at the cake in her hand, then shakes her head again.

‘Can I have the cake back then?’

She frowns deeper now, looks up, and uses her voice to him for the very first time when she asks, ‘Cake is nice?’

‘Yes! Well, I don't like it, I thought maybe you would, but if you don't eat it I thought maybe I should take it back so you won't have to hold it anymore.’ 

_Seven hells_ , her voice is the most adorable thing he has ever heard, ‘Back?’ 

She holds the cake up and he wants to take it back from her hand. 

‘No!’ She pulls the cake away from his hand, to her chest, ‘Cake.’ She takes a small bite from the sweet substance and seems to think carefully about the taste in her mouth as she nibbles. 

‘Is it good?’

Freia nods and eagerly takes another bite. 

His heartbeat fastens when their eyes meet and she doesn't seem so scared anymore. She's so pretty and perfect. Her eyes are blue, her cheeks all full and her nose so small, like her ears and her hands- they have the tiniest fingers that are all sticky now because of the sugary cake.

‘Ghost?’ She points at Ghost who raises his head at his name. 

‘Yes, t-that’s Ghost.’

‘Ghost?’

‘Ghost is staying here.’ He says, hoping that is what she means, ‘He's not going anywhere.’ 

Ghost raises his head at the mention of his name and gets up to waggle over to Jon, nudges him in his shoulder with the side of his head and Jon moves his hand to scratch his direwolf behind his ear.

Freia watches the way he takes his time to pet the wolf, her frown grows and he wonders why. Ghost is Jon’s direwolf, having him back feels surreal and right. Freia loving Ghost feels surreal and right too. If she can trust his direwolf, she can trust him too. 

She moves her finger to her chest and points at herself, ‘Freia.’ She tells him. 

‘T-that’s your name, yes.’ 

She nods a couple of times now, and she seems almost a little bright, though it's a glimmer and maybe that's only because he gave her a very sugary cake. 

‘Freia, listen…’ he takes his time to find the right words, ‘I’m so sorry about what happened, about how they brought you here. I'm sorry if you were scared, you don't have to be scared. You are safe here now and no one is going to hurt you. No one will ever hurt you, I'll protect you, I'll… I'll always protect you, I promise.’ 

‘Yoo-wi-corn.’ She tells her unicorn. 

‘Does it have a name?’ 

She shakes her head, ‘You say the name.’ She looks at her unicorn as she talks to him. 

‘What?’

‘Your name.’ 

‘My name? Oh… oh, my name is Jon. Has mama told you about me?’

She shakes her head and she can't possibly know how much that stings.

‘Well… I am your father. Maybe your mama told you that you were going to me, did she say that? Did she tell you, that- that you were going to your father?’

Freia shakes her head again.

‘Did she tell you where you were going? At all?’

Freia raises her unicorn up at him, ‘Yoo-wi-corn.’ She tells him.

‘Yes, that is erm… you're right.’

She still holds it out for him and he thinks she means for him to take it but when he tries she immediately pulls it back to her chest again, ‘No.’ 

‘Do you want me to read you a story?’

She shakes her head. 

‘Do you… do you want me to leave you alone?’

‘Ghost?’

‘Ghost will stay here with you.’ He tells her, ‘I promise.’

‘Pro-wis?’ 

‘Yes, I promise.’ 

‘Jon?’ She points at him again.

‘No.’ he says, ‘Papa.’

‘Paba.’ She says and it is then that Jon can't help but shed a tear that rolls down his cheek and ends on his smiling lips, ‘Sad?’

‘No, I'm not sad.’ He says, ‘I'm v-very happy.’

‘Hab-ee?’

‘Yes, very, super happy.’ 

'Why?'

‘B-because you are here. I'm s-so happy you're here.’ 

She finishes her cake and walks over to him. For a moment, his heart stops beating but she only leans over to Ghost and pads his head, ‘Nite nite, sweet Ghosty.’ She whispers in the wolf’s ear. 

Ghost growls, lifts his pawn and licks her sugary hand which makes her giggle. She giggles almost like Sansa, all high, happy, bright and perfect. 

He leaves her there because he knows he'll break down in sobs if he stays for much longer, thinking that, at least, she's not scared anymore, or doesn't seem to be.

Three days later Catelyn wraps her up in a warm cloak, ‘Freia,’ She says, ‘Why don't you come out with me and play in the snow?’

Freia shakes her head but Catelyn stretches her hand out towards her, which is accepted, and mushes her hair. 

‘It’ll be nice, Rickon is coming too.’

Rickon nervously gives Freia a blue winter rose that she takes from him and holds in her palm. She looks at it in enchantment, pulls out a petal and squashes it in her fist.

‘Thang-you.’ She says without looking at him. 

Rickon beams at her and takes a step forward to wrap his arms around his niece. She even lets him. Maybe it's because he's seven, maybe it helps that he is a child too, not a big tall adult towering over her using difficult words she doesn't understand. 

‘It's for you, Freia!’ Rickon tells her, ‘You’ll come outside? There’s _snow_! It’s fun.’ He leans forward and whispers in her ears, ‘Don't be scared!’

She covers the ear Rickon whispered in with her free hand and his excitement seems to radiate to her because she nods. She lets Rickon take her hand and he helps her outside, enthusiastically talking to her. 

Rickon builds a snow knight and Freia reaches her finger out to stick it in the snow. She immediately pulls it back and stares at her finger in wonder.

‘That's cold!’ Rickon tells her as if it needs explaining. 

'Cold?’

Freia rubs it dry to her furry cloak and when Rickon hands her a snowball she immediately drops it once she feels the cold wetness and it makes her yelp and jump backwards.

‘Come here,’ Catelyn beckons and Freia waggles over to her on her wobbly little feet. She stands steady but Jon can’t shake the feeling that a dust of wind could blow her over. 

Catelyn puts some gloves on the tiny hands as Freia stares at her grandmother’s face in both surprise and confusion.

‘I knew they'd fit!’ Catelyn happily tells Jon, ‘They belonged to Arya during the last winter.’

Freia stares at her gloved hands and then runs back to Rickon, who beckons her. 

'Look Freia, we make a knight! A _snow_ knight! Branches are arms and we have a carrot as his nose!’

‘Ka-ruht…’ 

‘Yes carrot, look!’ Rickon hands her the carrot and kneels down to roll over some more snow towards his slowly appearing doll, ‘We need to find him a helmet so he'll be a _knight_!’ 

Freia drops the carrot down on the ground and grabs snow in her gloved hands, stares at it and then throws it in the air.

‘We’re making a knight.’ Rickon says again as she waggles over to him, looking at her feet as they make prints in the snow. 

‘Nite-nite!’ She tells the pile of snow, a smile on her face. She walks around some more, just to make prints in the snow, then she jumps, though it looks more like a hop or a frisk. She turns around and kicks against a pile of ice, stamps forcibly with her boots and her amazement about something as simple as leaving footprints in snow is the most adorable and enchanting thing. 

‘Where's the carrot?’ Rickon asks.

Her smile disappears and she looks back at where she stood a moment ago and points at it, ‘Ka-ruht?’

‘It's his nose.’

‘Nose?’

‘Yes, wait, I’ll get it.’ Rickon runs away from her, grabs the carrot from the ground, and returns, pressing it back in her hand, ‘Don't drop it again, we need it for his nose.’ 

‘So-whee.’ Freia whispers. 

Rickon laughs and pats her head, ‘Don’t apologize! Here, you can help, come.’ 

Jon leans against a castle wall as Catelyn grabs his upper-arm and they both stare at the two of them, playing innocently in the snow. Rickon continues to talk to her, tells her his stories and explains to her what he's doing. She can't do the same of course, her fingers can’t make the same movements and she ruins more than she makes but for some reason Rickon is careful with her in a way Jon didn't expect him to be capable of. 

‘Freia look!’ He says and, ‘Freia, don’t, it's cold.’ He points at things and tells her all about it, ‘Wait, I'll show you.’ He says and he warns her too, ‘Be careful! Don't trip.’ She watches him every move and at one point starts to imitate all he does. 

Rickon shows her how to form a snowball and though she tries her best her hands are too small and the snow drops through the holes between her fingers. She watches it fall down and squats down to stick her fingers in the snow, then leans forward so far, she rolls over, which doesn’t seem to bother her because she gets up immediately with the help of Rickon’s hand before she grabs the snow and throws it in the air again. She tries to grab the falling snowflakes that come down and when Rickon shows her how to let the flakes drop on your tongue she giggles though when he urges her to do the same she shakes her head and looks all shy again. 

‘It’s beautiful, isn't it?’ Catelyn asks him, ‘Children. I can watch them for hours on end, the first time out in the snow is always magical.’

He can't find the power to breathe in enough air to form words so he only nods, not taking his eyes of Rickon who pads the top of Freia’s curly head again.

'You have curly hair, like me!’ He tells her and Freia moves her gloved hand to pull on her own hair as if she'd never before noticed she can do that. 

‘Everything will be alright, Jon.’ Catelyn tells him, ‘She's two, she's so young, she’ll love you if you don't give up.’

‘I won't give up.’

'If you love her now she won't be able to remember and you can still be there for her all her life, if you want to.’

‘I-I want to.’

‘Then go to her.’ She urges him, ‘Teach her how to make a snowball.’

So, he does. And she still can't do it but it matters not because she loves it. Rickon throws a perfectly shaped one to the side of his face and she hides her smile behind her hand. Her smile is the best thing he's ever seen. Every time she does something he thinks it's the best thing he's ever seen. When she hops on one leg, or eats or babbles or sings. 

She _sings_. 

Catelyn sings to her and she knows the words. Sansa must sing to her all the time. She must miss Sansa’s singing so much. 

She's been at Winterfell for two whole weeks when he reads a story to her. She listens breathlessly and after he finishes she points at the one picture that's in it at the end, ‘Bird.’ She says.

‘Yes, that's right! That is a bird.’

‘Woooosh!’ She says, moves her arms as wings, ‘You fly?’

‘No I can't, you?’

She nods proudly, ‘Wooosh!’ 

‘I'm so jealous.’ He says, ‘I wish I could.’

Catelyn puts her in a bath and as she sits in the tub with only a small layer of water in it, she fills cups with water, splashes it with her hands and sometimes she smiles at Catelyn. She loves Catelyn. He loves how much she loves Catelyn. He loves how much Catelyn loves Freia. 

‘Look at your pretty hair, we’ll wash it and make it shiny again.’

Freia points at her eye, ‘Ow?’

‘No, we won't let it near your eyes!’ Catelyn says, ‘I promise.’

‘Pro-wis?’

‘Promise.’ Catelyn says, hand to her heart, and Freia lets her wash her hair. 

‘Yoo-wi-corn!’ Freia says and her toy dives in to discover to wondrous world of the bottom of the tub. 

She still doesn't say so very much to anyone, but she talks to Ghost a lot, and to her unicorn, and she sings all the time. Her own songs, it seems, she makes them up herself and she sings about flying birds, about Ghost, mama, dogs and cats, the sun, the sky and snow. 

At one point Catelyn sings a song to her and she finishes it herself. 

_Take my hand, my hand, I'll hold you tight,_  
_The moon shines its light,_  
_There is always that roof, that roof of stars,_  
_And you, you are, not alone at night,_  
_I am here, I’ll be your bravest knight._

‘Sleeb tibe.’ Freia tells her grandmother and Catelyn pecks the top of her head with tears in her eyes. After that Cat keeps singing it to her and Freia starts signing along from beginning to end. Jon hears her sing it to herself all the time, it's the only song she sings that doesn't seem made up on the spot.

‘Snow!’ She says and she throws her arms in the air to grasp it before it falls down in her hair. She loves snow. She loves playing in the snow, running around in it, laying down in it, kicking it, stroking it gently and jumping through it. Rickon shows her how to make a lady figure in the by laying down on your back and moving your arms and legs. Afterwards she never goes outside without making at least one snow lady. Jon can’t stop remembering how Sansa used to make snow ladies all the time when she was a child.

Freia loves stories, and he finds out how she can never hear too many of them. She loves fruit too, especially strawberries, vegetables not so much. She doesn't like sleeping either, though she seems to need so much of it. Once she falls asleep on Ghost’s back, and he doesn’t stir until she wakes up. She falls asleep lying on the floor, surrounded by her dolls, thumb in her mouth. She likes her dolls too. She has three and sometimes they have names but they change all the time so he never remembers and it seems to annoy her a little when he forgets so he tries his best not to.

Freia is an energetic girl, with an endless amount of enthusiasm and curiosity. It's hard to keep her busy, because she never seems to get tired. The longer she is at Winterfell the more she shows them all who she is. The more she talks too. She babbles and it's so precious, most of the time he has no idea what she's talking about but he doesn't even care, he can listen to it all day. 

‘It's all Sansa.’ Catelyn says, ‘The way she looks. She’s going to have Sansa’s cheekbones, I can see it. I mean, she has your hair and your… but she reminds me so much of Sansa.’ Though she constantly tells him how Sansa was always so eager to please. 

Freia is not always eager to please. She is a charming little thing and at times he wonders if she is already using that to her advantage. She likes to do what she feels like. She's funny, fearless and adventurous. She's determined too, to get what she wants, clever and stubborn in achieving it. She's loud, loves music and is a quick and eager learner. She's also affectionate and kind, worries when Rickon falls down stairs and hurts his knee, ‘You ow?’ She asks him and when he shakes his head and jumps up to show her how fierce he is she giggles as if she’s not much impressed, ‘Uh oh!’ she tells him, holding up her arms as if he’s being silly.

Freia’s voice is high-pitched and soft and when she talks to him he feels like the happiest man in the world. He feels even happier when she smiles, and she smiles more and more every day. She's so good-natured and her bright cheerfulness is the most infectious thing. 

‘Paba.’ She calls him suddenly, and she keeps doing it. She hands him one of her dolls or shows him a drawing she made. She draws a lot, with the crayon in her fist. squares and circles. She tells him she draws him and he tells her he can't possibly be so handsome even though it seems like just a stain on the paper. However, most of the time, she draws mama and sometimes when she does, she starts crying and he hates himself for not knowing what to say to make it better when that happens. 

She loves animals and though she's messy and clumsy, Ghost lets her hug him, pat him and kiss him until he's blue in the face. She runs after the kitchen cats, waves at kettle, calls the mice in the kitchens ‘sweet mouses’ and horses… she loves horses most of all. She runs off to the stables and the stable boy lifts her up so she can pat a mare and he gives her apples but she’s not brave enough to feed them to the big ‘horseys’ so she eats them herself instead, humming while she chews.

Jon shows her his stallion and she stretches out her small hand to place it to his warm, black coat.

‘He's big, isn't he?’

She nods with her mouth opened in complete stun and he grins up at her as he holds her steady in his arms. 

‘Name?’ She asks. 

‘Afterglow.’ He says and he can't hear what she mutters but he's confident she tries to repeat the name. 

‘Sit?’ She asks.

‘No!’ Jon says and he smirks, ‘Too big for you! Look how big he is and how small you are.’ He moves down a little with her in his arms to show her how much bigger the horse is and the movement makes her giggle.

‘Sit!’ She demands.

‘No Freia, not for a great many years. We’ll get you a pony when you're a little older. I'll teach you how to ride myself, would you like that?’

She takes his face in her hands, ‘Ride!’ She gasps and he nods.

‘Yes!’

Rhaenys proposes a kitten for her and it's the best idea ever. The sheer fascination with animals is enchanting and adorable and needs to be fed. 

‘A white one.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And you must let her pick out the name on her own.’

‘Maybe the wolves won't like it, what about Ghost?’ Catelyn worriedly mentions but Jon waves it away.

‘They don’t have any problem with the kitchen cats either.’ 

So, Freia gets a perfectly white little kitten that Rhaenys hand-picked out for her.

Freia wants to call it bird at first but thankfully they manage to make her change her mind. She calls it Bell instead, after the Bell tower she’s not allowed to go to because it’s too dangerous. She utterly loves it, sings to it and strokes and hugs and thankfully the thing lets her. They picked out a kitten of forbearance that undergoes her long-suffering with grace and dignity. 

Ghost doesn't like it much but when it all gets too much he leaves the castle and goes out for a hunt in the woods he belongs in and returns two days later, checking to find his favorite owner as the first thing to do.

One time, he's in the stables and she runs in, tears streaming down her face, wailing as loud as he’s ever heard her wail, and he thinks it’s because she misses Sansa, but he soon realizes it’s not that. He kneels and as she drops against his chest, burrows her wet face in his doublet, he wraps his arms around her shaking shoulders, ‘Shhhh, what happened? Freia, it’s alright! Don’t cry…’ 

‘PABA! Paba they not nice!’

‘Ssssshhhh, are you hurt?’

‘They all do all the ow!’

‘Who did?’

Freia shakes her head, rubs her eyes with her knuckles and hiccups a little as she continues to sob, ‘The piggy is all ow! They n-not nice and piggy al _screamy_!’ 

It takes him far too long to realize she may have witnessed some pig being brought to slaughter and he fears she’ll be haunted for life until Catelyn tells her some ridiculous story of how these men were very nice and only trying to make piggy the pig better and Freia actually believes her.

‘Piggy sad?’ She asks and he shakes his head and mushes her hair. 

‘Piggy is fine! Don’t worry about him, he was ow, but not anymore.’

Freia continues to sing sad, self-made songs about the pig for the next two or three days, but after that it seems to have disappeared from her mind, as if it never happened. 

Freia learns new words every day, mainly by repeating everything everyone says and she constantly points at things and demands to know what or who it is. She gets bigger every day too and she lets Catelyn braid her hair, though only when she's in an exceptionally good mood, since she hates it when anyone brushes it. 

Catelyn says she still smells like a baby, ‘all fresh, new and soapy’ and though Jon has no idea what babies smell like he agrees that she smells fresh, new and soapy, it's the best smell, and when she jumps in his arms he kisses the top of her head and the smell of her hair smells like home. 

Freia lets him kiss her head and even her cheek, though she rubs it with the back of her hand afterwards. She's extremely cuddly, actually, especially when's she's being shy or needs a nap and when she's tired she wants to be lifted up and she wraps her arms around his neck, lays her head on his shoulder and manages to fall asleep right there. She sits in his lap when he reads to her now and she doesn't let him just read to her anymore. She touches his face with her hand to make him look at a certain picture, tells him proudly how she knows what's in them and even when she's wrong he tells her she's right. 

Freia always beams happily and jumps up when she sees him, runs towards him and hugs his leg, hides behind them too when there's someone she's never seen before, she's all shy and she lays her cheek to the fabric of his breaches until he moves his hand to stroke her curls, tells her there's nothing to be scared of and she'll pull on his cloak to let him know she wants to be lifted up. She always pulls on his cloak when she wants his attention too. 

‘You spoil her too much.’ Catelyn says but she lets him and he doesn't stop because he has so much to make up for, so much to catch up on. 

It's so surreal, he wonders if the feeling that she can't possibly be his daughter will ever fade. Yet, she's unmistakably his and he's never been so proud of anything in his life before. 

She is the best creature the Gods ever put on this world, and he made that. How did he ever manage to make something so pure and good? She's so innocent and her heart is made of gold, glitters, shiny stars, rainbows and unicorns. She really is all Sansa. 

He tries to teach her different colors and how to count even though Cat tells him it's too early. He tells Freia about her mama all the time and he tells her he loves her mama and he loves her too. It's not too late for that, and definitely not too early. 

'Mama, mama, mama…’ she sings, ‘Mama?’

‘Mama misses you too.’

He wishes Ned could have seen her, Ned could have told her about the age of heroes, she would’ve loved Ned, Ned would’ve been the best grandfather ever. 

And his father... Somehow, Jon thinks Rhaegar could have used some Freia in his life. And his mother. He wishes his mother and father could see him be a father. Even Aegon really, maybe Aegon could've used some Freia as well. Jon needed Freia. She gives him hope and faith in justness in the world. If the Gods are good enough to give her to him, maybe he did something right after all. 

He shows her drawings to Rhaenys as if it's an utter masterpiece and she grins at him but stops herself from making fun out of it. It can't be long until she won't be able to keep that up anymore, especially since she’s bored out of her skull at Winterfell, he doesn’t understand why she won’t go to Robb, but he doesn’t press the matter cause all she’ll do is bite his head off when he tries. 

He picks Freia up and throws her across the room and she laughs and squeals and has the best time of her life when she runs away from him and makes him come after her, hides behind the draw-well and he'll pretend he can't see. He puts her on his shoulders, holds her steady by her legs and she holds his head with her hands and tells him she can fly.

When Arya comes home, he doesn't instantly recognize her. The way she's dressed, and the way her hair looks, there's something in her face too that seems so utterly different. 

Catelyn recognizes her, however, instantly and the sobs she cries when she holds her youngest daughter reach Jon’s bones. 

Freia doesn't recognize Arya either, which seems to make her feel sad. 

‘It's definitely Freils. Unmistakably.’ She tells Jon, but he doesn't need her to tell him that, he already knew. Rhaenys likes the confirmation, however, and she has enough questions ready for Jon’s cousin that make it seem like she prepared them years ago. 

Arya tells them everything, including all Jon already knew and all he didn't want to hear confirmed. 

‘They made us watch them chop father's head off.’ She says and Catelyn hides her face behind her hand, tears rolling down her face rapidly, ‘Joffrey said it was a painless death, called that mercy and then afterwards he took Sansa with him up to the city walls and forced her to look at the pikes.’ 

‘They hit you?’ Jon asks. 

‘The king’s guard.’ Arya nods, ‘Some liked it, others didn't. It stopped when the imp came to the capital. He saved Sansa when… he saved Sansa once. The punching stopped after he became Hand.’

After that Catelyn leaves the room because she can't take much more and it is just Jon, Rhaenys and Arya. 

‘The hound brought me here.’ She goes on, ‘He wanted to take us all but Freia was barely one so Sansa didn't think… I didn't want to leave her behind but she told me to go. I thought… they would've killed me if I'd stayed.’

‘Why did Clegane bring you here? Did you promise him a reward?’

Arya bites her lip, looks down and then shakes her head, ‘No, I mean _yes_ , I did, but he offered to bring us home before.’

‘Then why?’ Rhaenys asks, ‘You have to tell us, did Sansa do-‘

‘No! Sansa did nothing he… I don't know why. He offered to bring Sansa home.’

Rhaenys looks away from Arya's red face and glances at Jon, who feels a dread take over his body, ‘He hurt her?’ he asks. 

Arya still looks down, her hands shake a little, ‘He said she promised him a song once.’ 

‘A song?’

Arya shrugs, ‘I don't know.’ She sees the disbelieved look on Rhaenys’s face, ‘Truly! He was there, suddenly, in Jon's rooms-‘

‘My rooms?’

‘During the battle. We went to Jon’s rooms because Cersei got drunk and-‘

‘Did Cersei hurt you?’ Jon asks. 

Arya shakes her head, ‘No but she was drunk and all and we didn't know… we didn't know what would happen or if… Sansa wanted to go there, and he was waiting for her.’ 

‘ _Why_?’

Arya shrugs, ‘He said he knew she'd go there.’ 

Jon feels so sick suddenly, ‘Do you think he and Sansa… do you think he helped her?’

Arya shakes her head, ‘She would've told me, she was scared of him and he said-‘

‘Why was she scared?’

‘Jon let the girl finish!’ Rhaenys shoves him but he pushes her away and sinks down to be at Arya’s eyelevel.

‘Listen, Arya, I get this is an unpleasant conversation but you have to tell me if- if I have reason to rip his head off with my bare hands, despite him bringing you home.’ 

Arya seems to consider it for a moment, ‘You… he brought me here but you have reason to rip his head off with your bare hands.’ 

Jon nods and he feels the urge to throw up, ‘He touched her, then?’

‘He tried to I think- then she told him to rape her if he dared, but I don't think she believed he'd do it.’ 

‘He forced himself on her?’ Rhaenys asks. 

‘Freia was crying, she was sitting on the same bed and I threw things at him, a candleholder and a-a vase but he wouldn't let her go. He pressed her down in the bed and he held a dagger to her throat, he-‘

‘A _dagger_?’ Now he really is about to lose his mind, he feels no urge to kill the man, he feels an urge to rip his skin from his bones and let him bleed to death. 

Arya nods, ‘It bled a little-‘

‘It _bled_?’ 

‘Jon you have-‘ Rhaenys can't start her diplomacy right now.

‘Shut up Rhaenys!’ Jon grabs Arya’s hand, ‘He didn't rape her?’ 

‘He said he could rape her if he wanted, he said she was… he said she was foolish for believing you’d come and safe her after all that time, said you were letting her rot away in the capital.’ 

‘So he forced himself on her but he never raped her?’ Rhaenys asks and Jon feels blood in his mouth there where he has been biting on the inside of his cheek. 

‘No. Just pushed her down and he moved on top and… when he was waiting for us he was drunk, he pushed Sansa into the bed, pressed himself against her and pushed her skirts up and-‘

Arya and Rhaenys both look up at Jon who shakes his head, ‘I don't need details, I really d-don't.’ He can't listen to her describing to him how the man pressed his wife down in a bed, pushed her skirts up, a dagger to her throat, with his child sitting there, on the same bed, crying. _Freia_. He wonders if she remembers any of it, _Please don't remember_. 

‘Sansa hit him.’ Arya says then, ‘She struggled but he only got off her when she challenged him to actually do it. Then she hit him when he told her she was a fool to wait for you. She told him you would kill her when you found out how he treated her.’ 

‘What did he say, when she told him that?’

Arya shrugs and looks down again, ‘He said you wouldn't because you are as weak as king Rhaegar.’ 

At that Rhaenys’ serious look turns to a hard glare, ‘He said that, did he?’

‘Sansa wanted me to tell you…’ Arya waits. 

‘ _What_? What did she want you to tell me?’

‘I don't remember exactly but- she told me to remind you that she forgives you anything always and that she'll love you no matter what has happened. She said it's unconditional… or something.’ 

Jon can't listen to more, doesn't believe he needs to hear more of it and he leaves the room when Rhaenys continues her questioning that lasts until the sun is long down. He supposes she can inform him of all he needs to know later, without having to listen to it firsthand. 

Jon walks over to Freia's bedchamber and reads all the stories to her she likes best, as many as she likes and as often as she likes. 

After staying with her long after she’s fallen asleep he goes to lay in his own bed, waiting for the sun to come up, and the moment it does he grabs his longsword and drags himself downstairs to do what he has been dreaming of doing. 

_Sansa told him you'd kill her once you found out_. He can't stand failing her still, he has been failing her for two years, it has got to stop, he didn't deserve this, she definitely didn't and he can't be strong without her anymore. He is going to be weak. Jon is weak enough to want blood. His father was right of course, he always was, Jon is a Targaryen and the idea of killing this man pleases him so much he nearly scares himself. _Nearly_. 

Jon listens to Rhaenys tell him all the reasons not to do it, decides that he doesn't think any of these weight as heavy as that one reason he has to definitely do it and all her words barely reach him, ‘Show them you will be merciful, he brought the Stark girl home he has-‘

‘He pressed a dagger to my wife's throat. I'll show them no one presses my wife down in a bed with a dagger to her throat. _No one_.’

‘ _Jon_ , this is madness, you have to-‘ 

‘This is my choice. You want me to be the king, don't you? I'll be a king, then. I decide if he lives or dies, not you. I’ve listened to your council and now you'll accept my decision. Joffrey’s petdog dies and I'm doing it myself.’ 

Rhaenys widens her eyes for a moment but then nods, ‘Very well. Joffrey’s petdog dies.’ 

Rhaenys tries to question Sandor Clegane for a while but when he asks her, ‘The bastard is going to kill me, isn't he?’ She is not the person to lie and instead she nods before she tells him, 

‘My brother is no bastard- he is the rightful king.’ 

Jon orders his squire to bring him his sword and it's dead silent in the courtyard of Winterfell as many people watch him look down at the bowing man. 

‘Do you have any last words, Ser?’

‘I am no Ser.’ Clegane says and Jon clenches his jaw when he raises his longsword and kills the man swiftly and painlessly, his eyes wide open. 

After Sandor Clegane’s death Jon feels angry with the whole world again much like he did before he went to Rhaenys, back when Robb refused to trade the Kingslayer. He wishes he could kill the hound over and over again, doing it once was not enough. 

He wants to kill them all, hurt them ten times more than they hurt her. How dare they? Do they think they can do this? That he'll let them? He'll punish them for this- killing the hound is only one man- he'll kill them all. Kill all those who ever dared pain her. Nobody gets to hurt Sansa and live. Nobody. And he'll get his revenge, he'll revenge not only his father, but her most of all. All those who believed they could hurt her, they'll all die. 

Catelyn mushes his curls the same way she does with Bran, Rickon and Freia, ‘Do you need anything to help you sleep?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I'm fine.’ It's not the lack of sleep that haunts him. It's the _anger_ , he has never felt so angry in his life, nor frustrated. All he feels all day is pure rage and there's nothing he can do to ease it. He wants to squash skulls, see blood, hit his fist against their skin the way they did with hers… 

Her skin. Her pretty, soft, pale and innocent skin. All blue and purple. The mere idea causes him to shiver in his bed at night. Who can hurt someone like Sansa? Only monsters. 

He's never met anyone so good, pure, innocent, kind and lovely. All he ever did was kiss her skin for that is all it deserves. She is as innocent as their daughter. Freia is so much like her mother and it hurts as much as it heals. 

Sansa's all alone now. The gods know how much that must hurt, it must hurt more than all those fists combined and it's not Joffrey who did that to her- it was Jon. That's another person he's angry with. Perhaps he's mostly angry with himself. 

‘You don't seem fine.’

He isn't. Never, not at night nor during the day, but the last thing he needs is anything to numb his head. It's numb enough as it is. He prefers it numb, really, if he thinks he'll start imagining, and when he starts imagining he'll throw his food up. 

Freia seems so unaware of all that goes on. It takes her a couple of days to forget she forgot Arya and Freia’s company visibly lightens Arya’s mood the way Freia manages to do with everyone. 

Jon tries to play with her and spend as much time with her as he can, now he still can, because it won't be long before he'll have to leave her and he means to make the most it, because she is the only one who can still make him feel like there is goodness in the world, in that, she is, again, so much like her mother. Only the gods know how much time they'll have together, he realizes that more and more every day. He used to think he and Sansa had the time of the world- but they didn't even get two years before they were violently ripped apart. They have been apart longer than they were together. 

Freia is with them for over two moonturns when she falls asleep in his lap, her body in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest. He moves his forefinger over her cheek and presses his nose in her hair, sits there for hours, just taking in the feeling of her presence.

He hates himself, for how can he be happy when Sansa is not here? When they took her child away from her? She should be here too, they shouldn’t let this all go and do nothing, sit and wait and don't make a move. 

In the south, they have taken Deep Den, Hornvale, and even Silverhill. But it's not enough, not at all enough. It's too little, too late, too _slow_. Jon knows he needs to go south, but he can't. He can't go now, not so soon. 

It's wrong, utterly wrong and he can't stand it. He hates himself more than ever before, more than he ever thought he could. And as he sits there in that chair and holds his daughter in his arms, tears stream down his face. He feels like a weak fool and he curses his tears. He has cried enough to last a lifetime. 

The first two something moons of his life that he gets to spend with his daughter are the most heart wrenching and unforgettable, amazing and breathtaking moons of his life. He has never worried so much ever before, not even about Sansa. Every time she coughs he fears she'll die, every time she slips and screams ‘OW!’ He is terrified she'll be harmed for life. He cannot stand nor bare the idea of being parted from her, losing her, not seeing her every day.

He told Catelyn that he doesn't fight to kill his foes, he fights because he wants to protect those he leaves behind. He has never loved anyone as much as he loves Freia. 

When the letter from castle black comes, it feels like the stranger laughs at him in his face for underestimating life, forgetting it is always ready to stab him in his back.

‘You will have to do it.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I can't, I’m a woman.’ Saying that hurts her clearly as much as the prospect of leaving hurts him. 

‘They’re asking for ground support?’

‘Cavalry would be nice.’ She says, she pointed the letter out to him but he feels little urge to read it himself. Rhaenys is always the one he leaves these sorts of things to. She proved herself most capable of that years ago and he knows how much she likes it when he trusts her with things, preferably big things. 

‘Can we spare that?’

She shrugs, ‘Two thousand is more than enough. Wildlings generally don't ride horses, horses don't fare well north of the wall.’ 

‘We have to help them.’ Jon says through gritted teeth, ‘If the wall falls there will be chaos way up north and we don't have time to-‘

‘I know. And you must do it, I can't, I am a woman and Robb has to remain south to support the troops in the Westerlands, making the way to Casterly Rock free before we can even think of attacking it from the sea.’

‘Any word from-‘

‘My uncle and cousin are preparing the troops to march north and attack Cornfield, and Crakehall. By the time you come back from the unmapped world we can make our way to defeat the undefeatable.’ 

‘Everything is undefeatable until it's defeated.’

‘Father always used to say that.’ She says. 

‘No, father always said unbeatable until it's beaten. He said… _ships are unsinkable until they sink_.’

‘There has never been a woman at the wall until there is a woman at the wall.’ Rhaenys smiles her humorless smile. 

‘So, I have to do it.’ Jon repeats, ‘Because there will never be a woman at the wall.’ 

‘You always had a soft spot for the watch.’ She says, her eyebrows frowned, ‘I think you'll manage.’

‘It's not about managing.’

She sighs, ‘I know that Jon, but you'll be back before you know it.’

‘So I can ride south with you to continue this worthless war once I return.’

‘It's not a worthless war, we’re winning it, we have to continue winning it, and we may not if Mance Raider’s savage army reaves Robb’s lands.’

‘Don't call them savages. They were born at the wrong side of the wall and they are descendants of the first men, as am I.’

She ignores that and simply tells him, ‘The few Northern bannermen my lord husband has left will lose their minds and there will be chaos. We cannot afford chaos.’

He wants to ask what they can afford but he decides not to, instead he nods, ‘So, I'll do it.’

‘I'm sure lord commander Mormont is eager to see you. You should've read the letter he sent to father, and old Aemon too, you impressed them.’

‘I know I did.’

She frowns at that, ‘Do you?’

‘Aye, father told me.’

‘Talk to them of father,’ she says, ‘Remind them who he was, who you are.’

‘They're the Night’s Watch, their support means very little.’ 

‘They're the watchers on the wall, they defend the realm. It's freezing here, winter is coming, their support means everything.’ 

‘If you say so.’

‘I'm trusting you not to ruin this.’

‘I can handle a host of wildlings, thank you.’

‘Of course you can,’ she says, ‘You wouldn't dream of disappointing me.’ 

He ignores that comment and she loudly sighs.

‘Do pity me, I'll be left here with your aunt, gods protect my sanity.’

This will be the first time he'll lead a host all on his own, when he fought at the Crag he was with Oberyn. Jon expected the day would come yet not so soon and he didn't think he'd dread it as much as he does. He knows what the watch is like, he has been there, he hates it, and worse, it's a distraction. It won't help their war effort no matter what Rhaenys says and it definitely won't bring Sansa back to them. 

'Freia, I am going tomorrow.’ He says as he watches her brush Ghost’s coat while singing. She freezes at the mention though she doesn’t look at him. 

‘You go?’

He nods, ‘I’ll be back so very soon.’ He promises, ‘But I have something to do.’ 

‘Some-ding?’

He nods.

‘Is what?’

He doesn’t really know how to explain to her that an army of what Rhaenys calls ‘savage madmen’ is marching south with whispered mammoths and giants, threatening to burst through a really high wall of ice, about to spur great chaos in an area they call the Gift, not with words and sentences she’ll understand, nor does he really want her to know all that. She lives in a bubble of kindness and smiles and he doesn't want it to burst for many years to come. Those big perfectly blue eyes have seen enough horror as it is. 

He takes her hand in his and pulls her in his lap, sits her down on his knee, and looks at her small fingers wrapped around his thumb, ‘I'll be back real soon, before you know it and I'll bring you a gift.’

She shakes her head angrily, ‘No gift!’

‘Only if you want one.’

‘You stay.’ She demands. 

He cannot help but smile at the way she glares at him, as if he's betraying her, maybe she feels that way. Maybe she feels everyone’s going, ‘I'll come back.’ He says again, ‘I'll… I'll come back so soon you won't even notice I left. I'll wake you up in the morning and maybe… maybe we can go ride a pony?’

‘Pony?’ Pony sounds so much better than a gift. 

He nods, ‘Maybe!’

She eyes him suspiciously and with her fingers she grabs his doublet, ‘Soon?’

‘When I come back.’

She nods though the suspicion doesn't fade away, ‘Mama?’

‘Mama will… I'll write mama to tell her you miss her.’

She ignores what he says and wraps her small arms around his neck to hug him.

‘I'll miss you, Freia.’ He tells her, she has no idea how much he'll miss her. 

‘Miss you.’ She tells him and she doesn't even let go of him, usually she wriggles herself loose and runs off to something far more exciting than cuddling her father. 

‘I love you.’ He says and he cups her head in his hand. He still can, she's so small, so innocent and tiny and the most precious thing he's ever held in his arms.

‘Miss you too, papa.’ She says and when he kisses her cheek she doesn't wipe it with the back of her hand, ‘Stoh-ry?’ She asks, her eyes all wide.

‘Sure.’ He says and finally she wriggles herself free. 

She runs to her box with books, takes her time to find the right one and runs back, jumps in his arms again and presses the book under his nose, ‘Dog!’ She says and points at the cover, ‘Papa, dog!’ 

‘That’s a dog.’ He agrees.

She points at Ghost, ‘Dog?’

He shakes his head, ‘Ghost is a direwolf.’

‘Ghost.’ She whispers, ‘Wolf.’

‘Yes, wolf, that's right, you're so clever.’

She grins at him, ‘Papa!’ She calls, ‘Read.’ She takes his head in her hands and makes him look at the book in his hands, ‘Read, read, read!’ She sings. 

‘I'll read.’ He says, he kisses her hair as she leans against him, comfortable and content in his lap, her head against his chest and her thumb in her mouth. Jon clears his throat and reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have once told one of you that this story is going to have three parts, next chapter is the last chapter of part two.  
> It's a very messy chapter, with a SansaxJonxRhaenysxJon pov, originally Sansa's pov was the ending of this chapter but I moved it over cause this chapter was not supposed to be 12,000 words long and I wasn't going to cut parts from Jon's pov here.  
> So yeah, there's that, I hope to see you next time and do let me know what you think! <3


	39. Field of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe feeling sorry for yourself is a Targaryen trait. Jon was excellent at it, as was Rhaegar, the way he drowned himself in his sorrows for the rest of his life after Lyanna Stark died. Never mind Viserys. Viserys was always discontent with the treatment he received from the world. They were all so eager for love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry to those I promised the reunion in chapter 39! this chapter is already over 10,000 words long and that's why I decided to split it. I hope this chapter will still be enjoyable enough!

**Sansa**

Sansa's heart is beating rapidly. With her hand, she clutches the silky fabric of her pillow. She feels her blood pump through her veins, hears it behind her ear and the muscles in her neck are tight and ache. 

She doesn't dare get up or move. She only knows someone is there, someone who woke her intentionally. She feels oddly angry about that. She likes sleeping. When she sleeps, the world suddenly disappears, she sees faces that smile, faces she wants to see. When she sees those people in her dreams… she knows she hasn't forgotten. 

Sansa hears the muffling sounds of feet on the floor, a breathing of someone big, someone not her maid. 

Sansa closes her eyes again. If this is it, then she doesn't mind. Let her die now, when she still remembers, when there is still some of her left. She'd rather die herself than as the ghost of who she is going to be, the corpse they are turning her into. 

‘Lady Sansa?’

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut and digs her nails in her palms. 

‘Lady Sansa please get up?’

Sansa pulls her legs to her body, moves her head down on the pillow and pretends she doesn't hear.

‘Lady Stark I have come here to get you.’ 

Sansa opens her eyes again and turns her head, stares up at a face that is oddly friendly.

‘My name is Brienne of Tarth.’

‘I don't…’ Sansa gets up, ‘Who… I don't know you.’

‘I have sworn to protect’ The woman says. Is she a woman? She has to be, her name is Brienne. She looks nothing like a woman, taller and broader with a jawline that many men could only pine over. 

'Has... Are we under attack? Has the queen asked for me?’

Brienne of Tarth shakes her head, ‘I promised to bring you home.. to your lord husband.’

‘My- have you?’ Sansa pulls her blankets up. Is this a joke? Is Cersei making fun of her? This seems like something Joffrey would find terribly funny. Giving her a fake feeling of hope, crush it afterwards, ‘Go away.’ 

‘I only-‘

‘Go away or I'll scream. This is not… I cannot- how did you get here?’

‘Ser Jaime.’ 

That makes Sansa laugh. A hoarse and hollow laugh builds up in her lower stomach and it makes her rib case ache. It has been quite some time since she laughed.

‘He swore to give you back to your husband, he means to keep his oath.’

‘Oh really?’ Sansa laughs some more, ‘I must certainly not be the only one finding that hilarious.’

Brienne doesn't think it's funny, ‘Lord Tyrion has arranged a ship for you, North. Please … please get out of bed.’ 

‘Leave me!’ Sansa knows her voice is loud now, ‘Do you mean to make fun of me? I am no fool!’

Brienne takes a step away from her, ‘My- _your grace_....’ she says and she bends down on one knee.

Sansa jumps out of the bed, ‘What are you doing? Stop that!’ She looks around her bedchamber hastily as if there might be someone hiding in the dark who'll see. If Cersei finds out anyone called her _your grace_ … well, no one will survive that. 

‘I was in the princess Rhaenys’s princess guard, she ordered me to protect your husband and as I did… as I did he asked of me to deliver the Kingslayer to his kin in the capital, and to come back with his wife and daughter.’

‘Well, you haven't.’ Sansa walks around her bed to stand in front of the woman, in so many ways the complete opposite of her it somehow makes her feel uncomfortable, she's so small compared to lady Tarth, ‘You have not brought me to my lord husband.’

‘I will.’ She says and she bows her head, ‘I shall, on my duty and honor.’ 

Sansa makes some movements with her mouth that surely resembles the living but dying fish on the grand market Jon once took her to, when he gave her a city tour, ‘On lord Tyrion’s ship?’

‘Ser Jaime will escort you to it. He is waiting for you outside this room, if only you could get dressed, your grace-‘

‘Why should I trust you?’ 

'I swore my fealty to your lord husband; The true king.’

Sansa laughs again, even louder this time and she moves her hand to her side to stop her ribs from making her whimper in pain, ‘Are you an actress?’

Brienne doesn't respond, only stares up at her, blinks, still on her knees, her hand on the pommel of her sword.

‘You are a terrible actress.’ Sansa tells her. 

Brienne purses her lips then says, ‘Your husband freed Ser Jaime and asked me to escort him to King’s Landing- so I did.’

‘Roose Bolton did. After you let Jaime Lannister get captured and allowed his hand to be yanked off. My lady I am sorry, but I don't think you did a much good job. Had Ser Jaime not lost his hand I would not be in this room right now, nor in this castle.’

Brienne looks at her as if she wants to ask her if she believes that herself but she doesn't, she bows her head again and repeats, ‘I have sworn my fealty to my true king.’ 

‘I want you to go.’

‘I will bring you home.’

‘Why would my husband send you? Out of all the men he could… you're a woman.’ 

Brienne looks up again, ‘The only one he could trust at the instance.’

Sansa only frowns, it all sounds like so much nonsense. 

‘I met your husband at Dragonstone.’ 

Sansa knows Jon was there, she doesn't know why, she suspected it was to speak to Viserys, or Daenerys, or both. Maybe he thought he could stop Viserys's from attacking King’s Landing, tried to convince him to choose their side. She knows the man declared his niece and nephew both traitors. Thankfully he and Cersei had one thing in common, both awfully inpatient.

‘He was there to meet with your uncle. I do not know why, only that he was unsuccessful.’

‘I dare say.’ 

‘Viserys Targaryen tried to have him killed that night.’

That news should shock her but somehow, for a reason she doesn't know, it does not, ‘He was unsuccessful too, I presume.’

‘He was, your grace.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘As he wanted to leave, right after of course, his aunt appeared.’

‘Daenerys.’ 

‘The princess Daenerys was with child.’

Sansa did not know that. She has not heard anything of a child born, she was not even aware one was on its way.

‘He decided to take her with him, away from the mad- forgive me your grace, away from his uncle.’

‘But she did not want to?’

‘At first she did my lady but then she realized he'd bring her to the princess Rhaenys and she refused.’

‘Jon dragged her along anyway?’ It doesn't sound like something he would do but it probably would've been the wisest response. Jon was never wise when it came to Daenerys. It is the relationship of his that she understood the least of. Though he avoided her as if she carried the plague, he never allowed Sansa to speak ill words about her. 

‘Whe he said he'd ride for King’s Landing she demanded he wouldn’t.’

‘He wanted to ride for King’s Landing?’ it feels like something got stuck in her throat. 

Brienne nods, ‘She begged him to stay with her.’

‘But he wouldn't?’

‘He tried convincing her to go Princess Rhaenys, but she wouldn't listen.’ 

‘So?’ Sansa still doesn't understand why this story is of importance, Daenerys never knew what was best for her and she always liked to feel sorry for herself. Maybe feeling sorry for yourself is a Targaryen trait. Jon was excellent at it, as was Rhaegar, she supposes, the way he drowned himself in his sorrows for the rest of his life after Lyanna Stark died. Never mind Viserys. Viserys was always discontent with the treatment he received from the world. They were all so eager for love. Jon, Viserys, Aegon, Rhaegar and Daenerys too. 

Daenerys most of all. She remembers how Jon once told her how his aunt longed for a home. Even more so she remembers the way Daenerys used to stare at him, unembarrassed and with no shame. She believed he was the answer she needed to find eternal happiness. Sansa knows she was the one blamed for that dream crushing down. 

Rhaenys really was the only Targaryen who didn't sit and mope but fought her battles fiercely. She never accepted neglect nor rejection. 

‘The princess told him she'd only leave if he'd take her with her and he said he couldn't.’

‘What is the purpose of this story, my lady Brienne?’ even after everything, it is still Sansa’s second nature to arm herself with a lady’s courtesy.

‘She told him there was nothing for him in the capital.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She told him you had died, your grace.’

Sansa can't find the air to ask what the seven hells she means. She only knows her mouth is opened in a silent gasp and her heart can't possibly have not skipped a beat for she feels the urge to grab it.

‘He did not believe her my lady, he did not, not for a moment.’ Brienne waits a moment and then adds, ‘It is why he never went to King’s Landing, he returned to the Stark army, where a letter from you had arrived that told him you lived, and he freed the Kingslayer that same night.

‘W-why…’ Sansa cannot find the words to ask why. Why would Daenerys do that? Why would she think that could… why did she feel the urge to do that to him? Did she hate her that much? What ever did Sansa do to deserve such hate? 

Sansa laughs again. Maybe if she laughs it'll be funny.

‘Did she ask him to take her to the free cities?’

Brienne’s face is all the confirmation she needs.

‘What did my lord husband tell her?’

‘He told her he'd never…’ Brienne seems to not find the right words to repeat, ‘He told her that even if you were dead he'd never love her.’

‘She didn't like hearing that, did she?’

‘She told him his child killed you.’

Sansa suddenly feels so cold. Is it the room? Or is it the betrayal that freezes her? She shivers and goosebumps tickle her skin. When she moves her fingertips over her forearm she feels the hairs stand up. 

With a turn, Sansa shows Brienne her back and she walks over towards the sofa to grab a robe and puts it on. 

‘What did he say?’

‘My lady I-‘

‘What did my lord husband say when she told him this? When she said… what did he say?’

‘I do not remember his exact words but I believe he said… he said she can't possibly have killed you. He said; she is only a baby.’ 

Sansa nods and wraps her arms around herself, feels an ache in her forefinger there where she broke her nail at some point, she didn't notice when, only now she does as she sees how a stream of blood ruined the deep dark orange of her robe’s sleeve. 

'What else did he say?’ Sansa asks, ‘About her, I mean. About my... our daughter?’

‘She asked him why he would go to King’s Landing to have his head chopped off for an infant he'd never seen and he told her that… forgive me, your grace, I do not remember what words he chose precisely, but he told her he would not forsake his duty, said she was his responsibility and he'd always do anything he could to protect her.’

 _I'll protect you Sansa, you're my responsibility now_.

Sansa smiles again and this time it doesn't hurt her ribcage. Nothing hurts suddenly. She feels cold no longer, warm in fact, so warm but not hot. 

‘That sounds like something he would say.’ 

‘Brienne says nothing.

‘Was he well?’

‘Not really, your grace, though in good health he grieved his father and he worried all day and all night.’ 

‘He left my brother after freeing the Kingslayer?’

Brienne nods, ‘Rode for his sister the Princess Rhaenys.’

‘Did he say anything else?’ She asks, ‘Did he ask you to tell me something? Anything?’

Brienne shakes her head once and Sansa bites her lip.

‘What did he do with his aunt?’

‘I'm sorry my lady it is… I should not have heard as much as I did.’

‘It's too late to apologize for that now, better say it aloud.’ 

‘The princess told him she loved him and he said… he said he'd never make her happy because he belonged to someone else.’

‘ _Belongs_.’ Sansa whispers. 

‘Your grace?’

‘He belongs to me.’ She says, ‘ _With_ me.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

‘And you shall bring me to him?’

‘I will, your grace, or die in the attempt.’ 

Sansa can’t believe in any of this when she says, ‘Let’s hope it won't come to that.’ 

 

**Jon**

Jon’s father called for him and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he left his tent. They departed from Casterly Rock merely a few days of riding ago and he was already so tired. He didn't want to come, was so happy to be finally laying in his cot, his back all soar and his mouth dry. 

Ser Barristan called for him then and he dragged himself upright against his wishes but with no complaints. It was windy outside and Rhaenys nagged about how it gave her a headache. She always said that and he never understood what she meant. 

Jon… look at that, can you see that, boy?’

Jon took a few steps further over the hill, went to stand next to his father, and peeked, ‘Your grace?’

‘What are we looking at?’ Rhaegar asked.

‘A field.’ Jon said, frowning because he knew it was a stupid answer to give, but he had no idea, truly, and he was afraid to look up to his father and see disappointment in his eyes.

‘That's right, it's a field.’ Rhaegar said and he moved his hand to point at the distance, ‘Do you know what happened here, Jon?’

Jon shook his head, still afraid to look at his father. 

‘The Field of Fire.’

That Jon had heard of, measter Markle told him about it so often and Rhaenys impressed her Septa by memorizing all the bannermen who took part in it. 

‘You know what happened, don't you?’ Rhaegar asked.

Jon nodded, ‘I do.’ He said, ‘I… There had never before been a bigger army in the history of Westeros.’

‘What army?’

‘Loren I Lannister, king of the Rock and Mern IX Gardiner, king of the Reach… they joined together to defeat Aegon the conqueror.’

‘Yes… do you know how big their army was?’

’55,000 men.’ Jon said, ‘And the Targaryen army… the Targaryen army had only 11,000.’

‘Then what happened?’ Rhaegar asked, still staring out at the field. 

‘They lost. I mean, they won. The Targaryens won but the largest army lost.’

‘The largest army lost?’

Jon nods.

‘So, the army with the most men is the largest, you think?’

That question confused Jon for a moment but then he bit his lip and shook his head, ‘No.’ he said.

‘No?’

‘The Targaryens had dragons.’

‘Three of them. This was the first and last time all three were at the field at once.’ Rhaegar pointed at the blue sky above them, ‘They soared through the sky, their riders fierce and proud… three heads of the dragon. Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya.’ 

Jon looked up too and tried to imagine the picture his father was sketching but he couldn't, all he saw were birds and clouds, ‘They burned the field, did they not, your grace?’

‘Yes.’ Rhaegar dropped his hand, ‘They burned the grass, it was very dry, though it doesn't take dry grass to be set aflame by dragonfire. Upwind the dragons spit their fire, so the Targaryen army was spared, but the largest army of men Westeros has ever seen went up in smoke.’

Rhaegar looks sideways at Jon, but the moment Jon looks back down from the sky and turns his head to his father, Rhaegar moves his eyes back to the field again. 

‘King Mern and all of his sons, grandsons, brothers, cousins, and other kin were killed that day, burned by dragons. Do you know their names?’

‘Marexes, Balerion and Vhager.’ Jon said but he frowned, ‘Not all of Mern’s male kin was killed that day. One nephew of King Mern survived the battle, but he still died of his burns three days later.’

Rhaegar nodded, ‘That is true, very good of you to remember that.’

Jon felt odd at his father’s compliment. He didn’t sound like he meant it and as he continued to stare ahead of himself it was almost as if he was blind, and therefore did not see the necessity to look at Jon as he lectured him. 

‘Do you know what happened after the battle?’

Measter Markle had told Jon how the aftermath was just as, if not more important than the battle itself. Jon didn't tell his father that, however, instead he named the facts they pressed into his brain, ‘The swords of the defeated were sent downriver on the Blackwater Rush to the Aegonfort, what would later be King’s Landing, where they would form part of the Iron Throne.’

‘Yes, that bloody chair.’ Rhaegar nodded, ‘But what happened to those who survived?’ 

Jon’s father always called his throne a ‘bloody chair’, ‘Loren the Last gave up his claim to kingship and became Warden of the West under the rule of House Targaryen.’

‘Why did he do that?’

Jon feels the urge to shrug. _Because he lost_ , he thinks, but it's not what he says, it's not the answer his father wants to hear, ‘Because Aegon gifted him mercy.’

‘In return for what?’

‘His fealty.’ Jon answered.

‘That's what happened with the Tyrells too, you know that, don't you? House Gardener was extinct but the man who bend his knee was rewarded.’ 

Jon nodded and stared up at his father, at the way he stood there, all fierce and yet so calm, his face showed Jon nothing, no emotion, no feeling, not even a blush from the cold wind. 

‘So, what can we learn from the Field of Fire? Has measter Markle told you this too? Or only the numbers and the names?’

Jon didn't want to admit that measter Markle indeed only told him of the numbers and names, he liked the measter, he was old but he didn't smell bad and he called him by his name, not ‘bastard’ as the one he had before did. Measter Markle was kind to him, told him he was clever once. The best thing about the measter was that Jon did not have to share him with Aegon nor Joffrey. 

Jon frowned deeply, hoping it would give him extra insight and then decided, ‘No matter how big your army, you’ll still be defeated if you’re being stupid.’

A faint smile appeared on Rhaegar’s face but it faded before Jon could memorize it, ‘Can you explain that to me in a proper manner?’

‘If… if the Lannisters and Gardiners had realized the dragons were worth more than any army, small or big… if they had cared to look at the field, at the grass, at the men… if they had realized that numbers do not make you invincible, they may have not lost.’ 

‘May have not lost or may have made the better decision?’

‘Better decision?’

‘Bending the knee after defeat is hard, but it will only cost you your pride. Bending your knee without defeat and the faint promise of victory still in the air is far harder.’ 

‘Faint promise?’

‘The Starks married the Dragons, did they not? King Tohrren knelt. He did not fight, he bowed his head and when he lifted it up again he was warden of the North, not king, as Aegon accepted his fealty. Now who was being the clever one there?’

‘Tohrren?’

‘Why?’

‘Because he knelt. He understood he'd lose, he saw what happened at the field of- what happened here and after castle Harrenhall burned… he saved many lives.’ 

‘Yes, but was that clever or was that wise?’

Jon didn't really understand that question and his father decided to clarify. 

‘Wisdom and cleverness are not at all the same, Jon.’ Rhaegar said, ‘Tohrren made the wise decision to spare his men, spare his lands. He knelt in submission to Aegon rather than give combat and lay his crown at our ancestor’s feet. He was wise because he knew… he knew there was no other way.’ 

‘Not clever?’

‘Aegon was clever. He made Tohrren his warden of the North because he knew that if he wanted to live and rule long after the last battle, and his sons after him, and their sons after them, that you can defeat as many foes as you like, it only has use when you befriend them after. Or else they'll come back like weed and you can keep plucking and plucking but they'll burry you beneath the ground in the end no matter how hard you fought back.’ 

In that moment, Jon believed he understood. Befriending your foes. His father once had his fair share of foes… Jon knew he managed to make them bow to him all in their own way. He knew and understood that in that moment, his father was explaining to him, how he managed to still sit on his ‘bloody chair’, years after killing Robert Baratheon at the Trident. The only thing Jon didn't understand in that moment was why. Why would he waste his precious time explaining Jon anything? 

‘Do you understand what I'm saying?’

Jon nodded and so did Rhaegar. 

‘I think you do too. You'll be fifteen soon, will you not?’

‘Yes, your grace.’ 

‘You'll be a man grown.’ Rhaegar said, ‘And when you are… when you are you must look at your ancestors, all of them, Aegon Targaryen and Tohhren Stark, and maybe you can try to be as clever and as wise as they once were- both, since you are a son of both. Maybe you will need it one day… But let’s hope not, let’s hope I won't let that happen, hmm?’

Jon nodded then because he believed it was what his father wanted him to do. 

 

**Rhaenys**

‘Hey there, what are you doing?’

Rhaenys is not very used to having children for company. She stayed away from Myrcella and Tommen and from the moment she knew she would never have any of her own she tried not to see the appeal of children, because not liking children makes it easier knowing you’ll never have any. But Freia is Jon’s, she's kin, Rhaenys saw her come into the world and she vowed to protect her. 

‘Writing mama.’ 

There is nothing on the piece of paper but multiple barely readable ‘ _Freja_ ’s and a drawing of a rainbow. Rhaenys thinks of telling her that drawing a rainbow is not writing, but somehow that doesn't seem like a nice thing to tell a two-and-a-half-year-old so she nods, ‘That is lovely. Who taught you how to write your name?’

‘Rickon!’ Sometimes Freia suddenly says something and it's all loud, as if she screams, Jon thinks it means she's exited but Catelyn insists it's normal, says it's because she's learning how to speak properly, use different tones in her voice. Rhaenys thinks she's doing well enough at talking, she seems to understand most they say and once she starts babbling she doesn't shut up. That depends on the person she babbles to however, Catelyn, Jon and Rickon sometimes seem to have the deepest conversations with her, all while Rhaenys can't even get a proper ‘hello, thank you, how are you doing?’

'That's very gallant of Rickon.’

Freia doesn't respond and it almost feels like she tries to pretend Rhaenys isn't there. 

‘You are very skilled at this.’

Freia continues to ignore her in such a fashion Rhaenys would be impressed was she not frustrated. She has not so easily bonded with the girl as Jon has. She hasn't tried as much, she simply didn't know how. At first Jon didn't seem to either, but suddenly, he just morphed into the father role as if he was born to do it. Catelyn helped him of course and she wasn't so eager to help Rhaenys. Obviously Rhaenys’ relationship with Freia is of less importance and she has been busy looking over maps, writing letters, sending letters, reading books, looking over maps some more, going over their battle plans over and over again in her head…

‘Do you like rainbows?’

Freia doesn't even look up. 

‘What is that?’ Rhaenys points at a green smudge on the paper.

‘Tree.’ Freia says. 

‘I do love trees. Not the ones around here much, they're rather gloomy, but where I'm from they're much brighter, much more color.’ 

Freia still continues to pretend she's not there.

‘Do you always draw trees?’ 

Freia stops drawing for a second, shakes her head once and then fills in the tree with a blueish tone. 

‘I think it's lovely, you must have a talent.’ 

Freia suddenly looks up and Rhaenys is once again stunned by how blue her eyes are, these are the Tully eyes, Sansa’s eyes, except a bit lighter, and they're beautiful, as beautiful as they are sad, ‘You helped?’

‘With what?’

Freia lifts up a crayon and offers it to her to make Rhaenys understand what she means. 

‘Oh well, yes, thank you.’ 

Catelyn watches them and Rhaenys wonders if this is what the woman feels when Rhaenys frowns at her all judgmentally.

Freia remains to not be very talkative and Rhaenys can only begin to comprehend why. Though she hears the girl chat so often. She talks Jon’s ears off his head and sings all the time. She can be quite loud. When she doesn't want something, she screams as if she wants to show the world how loud she can be. Which is really quite loud. 

Jon can get angry with her sometimes. Once she stole Bran’s hat and she refused to give it back. Jon had to peel her little fingers from it, ‘You have your own hat!’

‘I want the hat!’

‘No! See? Here is your hat, this one is Bran’s.’

‘Papa no! Papa! Mine!’

'Freia I'm saying no! Let go, it's enough!’

Freia is clearly an only child. That was an exception though, usually she's the sweetest little thing. She sings and smiles and dances around and Rhaenys has never seen Jon as happy as he was in these past few weeks. All eased up in the role of his lifetime. 

Freia loves him so much, he's so good with her, making her laugh and playing with her, telling her stories and tickling her until she can breathe no more. 

It makes Rhaenys equally sad and happy. Happy because this is what he always wanted, always deserved. Jon only deserves good things and Freia is the epitome of goodness. It makes her sad because something is missing. Someone is. Sansa should be here. 

The thing that makes Rhaenys the saddest is how Jon can finally, two years too late, be the father their father never was, and that stings. It hurts because she knows how badly he wants that, how he promised himself, it stings because their father is dead and will never be able to see it. Rhaegar would have been so proud. If anything, he deserved to have lived to see Jon be a father, there is little that would have made Rhaegar happier. 

Freia starts humming. She hums like a child, yet it reminds Rhaenys of the way Sansa hums when she's embroidering, eating or getting dressed.

‘You know, trees are not usually very blue.’ 

Freia keeps humming and ignores her again and in the corner of her eye Rhaenys can see a smirk creep in on Catelyn’s face. She wants to ask her how she's so naturally good as conversing with a child of two but she keeps it in. She's trying to better her relationship with her mother-in-law. For Robb and Jon too and mostly because she's stuck with the woman’s company until Jon comes back and she means to make her own life a little more bearable. 

Catelyn could easily help her with this, Rhaenys knows that. She knows loads about children and without her Jon may not be so successful in getting Freia to like him.

Catelyn is not helping Rhaenys, she blankly refuses to and Rhaenys knows she refuses because she's not been asked. Rhaenys will be damned when she'll do that, if only because Catelyn seems to want it so badly, for Rhaenys to admit that she's failing at something and needs her help and advice. 

That is not going to happen. Rhaenys knows it, Catelyn knows it, Freia doesn't however as she keeps drawing and Rhaenys ignores the sniggering of her mother-in-law. 

‘Do you like blue?’

Freia nods.

‘You could consider painting the sky blue.’ 

Freia ignores her again and Catelyn’s smirk grows. 

‘Or the trees, whatever you prefer.’

Though Freia handed her a crayon she doesn't seem eager to share her piece of paper. Rhaenys turns the crayon around in her fingers and watches her niece hum and draw. 

‘What are you singing?’ 

Freia stops her humming and bites her lower lip in concentration.

‘Do you like singing?’

Freia nods.

‘So do I!’ a lie, songs are all lies, ‘Do you sing often?’ 

Freia waits a second and then nods. At least the child knows how to speak with her neck, she takes plenty of use out of it.

‘Well, that's nice.’ Rhaenys decides that maybe it's a good idea to ask a question that will demand a multiple-worded answer, ‘What do you do all day? If you're not singing?’ 

Freia shrugs, ‘On the snow.’ She says, ‘Play in the snow.’ 

‘That’s it?’

She shrugs again. 

‘You don't do anything else?’

Freia stops coloring again and looks at Rhaenys with a frown, ‘Books! Doing all the reading. Papa reads the books and Ghost, Yoo-wi-corn, Leaster Lubin and Bell and Gran-mama.’ 

‘Is there anyone who doesn't read books?’

Freia shakes her head. 

‘Do you want me to read a book?’

Freia shakes her head again.

‘What is it you like doing most? Aside from singing and drawing of course, or don't you have a favorite thing to do?’

That question is clearly too complicated because Freia doesn't nod nor shake her head, only frowns and looks down at her crayon. 

‘Do you like Bell? She was a gift from me, do you remember?’

Freia nods though she doesn't look up and continues to draw. 

‘You know, your father always tells me he used to throw snow off the castle walls when he was little, down and on top of other people, do you ever do that?’ 

Freia frowns again. 

‘On the castle walls.’ Rhaenys says, ‘When you go to the bell tower and you can see everything outside the castle.’ 

Not on the tou-ler.’ She says, ‘They say no.’ 

‘You're not allowed to go to the bell tower?’

Freia shakes her head. 

‘Who says you can't?’

Freia looks at her grandmother, who looks away too obviously, pretending not to hear, then Freia leans forward only a little bit, ‘Papa.’ She whispers. 

‘He must have good reason not to.’ 

‘Too dange-trous.’ Freia explains and if she were old enough to know that it could add some extra shade to roll her eyes, she'd totally do it. 

‘It _is_ very high.’

Freia nods in agreement and picks up a different crayon, ‘Hhmmhh.’ 

She starts humming again and continues her drawing with the focus and concentration of a two-year-old. 

It is later that night that Rhaenys turns Freia around, makes her stand in front of the door as she carefully wraps a grey cloak around her shoulders, fastens it and takes her hand in hers.

‘Now you must promise me you won't tell father.’

Freia nods. 

‘You promise?’

Freia nods again.

‘Say it.’

‘I pro-wis.’ Freia says and Rhaenys can't help but grin at her.

‘Very well then.’ 

She picks Freia up. Holding her makes her feel like she finally has the chance to fulfill the promise she made Freia's mother two years ago. 

The stairs visibly scare the girl but if she's too terrified to go on, or regrets coming along, she doesn't show it, though she does wrap her arms tighter around Rhaenys’ neck. 

When they reach the top, however, her fears seem vanished and Rhaenys has to pull on her hand to keep her close.

‘Remember what we agreed?’

‘No edge.’ Freia repeats. 

‘Exactly.’ Rhaenys nods and strokes some curls from Freia’s face, ‘Stay close to me.’

Rhaenys lifts her up so she can stand on the wooden platform and look over the rim of the balustrade to see the outstretched land that lays beyond Winterfell. It's dark of course, but the moonlight is fierce and the world glows in front of them, in all its glory and simple beauty.

Freia grabs the edge of the balustrade, her eyes still wide and her mouth opened in a childish gasp of wonder. 

‘Stars!’ She says and she points her little finger up at the sky, ‘A roof, a roof of stars, they shine bright, all night!’ She sings.

Rhaenys feels the urge to cry at the utter cuteness of her niece. She reminds herself to congratulate her brother on creating such a splendid version of a human being, quite the masterpiece. 

‘Do you see the white one, Freia?’ Rhaenys asks, pointing at a specific one in the sky, ‘That is Nymeria’s star, and that milky band behind her, those are ten thousand ships. She burned as bright as any man. Has anyone ever told you about Nymeria?’

Freia shakes her head.

‘She is my ancestor, a Princess of the Rhoynar, they call her the warrior-queen, many in her army were women. She knew great victories.’ Rhaenys leans closer, ‘Over men mostly… and dragons.’ She adds and when Freia looks at her, an emotionless look in her eyes, Rhaenys tries to smile at her reassuringly. 

Freia looks back up at the sky, ‘Moon.’ She whispers and she points again.

Rhaenys wonders why Freia is so intrigued with the sky above when it's looking down that should be special at the highest tower of Winterfell, ‘Pretty huh?’ 

‘Sky too?’

‘Yes, that's right! You're so clever, aren't you?’

Freia looks at Rhaenys and grabs the fabric of her skirt, ‘Mama?’ She says and she points at the far lands beyond Winterfell, further North. 

‘No.’ Rhaenys says, she's not sure what Freia is asking but the answer is not Sansa. Freia was writing her mother and now she asks if her mother is somewhere in the distance, whatever she may understand of that. Even if Sansa is not at King’s Landing, Rhaenys doubts she's further North than Winterfell. 

What a monstrous tragedy, to rip a child from her mother. Cruel and vicious, unreal and unfair. Rhaenys was three when her mother died, she saw them kill her, she can still hear her screams, if she closes her eyes she can feel the blood on her hands. _Three_ , what a ridiculously young age. She remembers, she may have been only three but she was never for a moment going to forget the way Aegon couldn't stop screaming, the way they laughed at her, at her mother. Her sweet, kind, gentle mother. It has been 23 years and Rhaenys still misses her. 

Many people will never be able to understand, but somehow Freia does, she is not even three but she already knows what it's like to be separated from the person you trust most in your life.

‘I don't know where you mother is, sweet girl.’ 

She wants to tell Freia that wherever Sansa is she must be coming for them, but she can't. Rhaenys knows that Sansa is in King’s Landing, locked behind golden bars, forced to be all alone among their greatest enemies.

There is only one thing she can promise her brother’s daughter, ‘Your mother misses you too.’ 

Freia looks at her for a second, then back at the distance, then up at the sky and eventually down at her hands, ‘Papa?’ She whispers and Rhaenys realizes she made her niece cry and hardly a moment later she feels her own eyes burn too. She should not have said that, she feels embarrassed and ashamed. This trip was meant to be fun, she always imagined herself to be that aunt her little nieces and nephews could go to when they wanted to get rid of their nagging parents every once in a while. 

‘Your papa will be home soon.’ At least she can promise her that, ‘He'll be here and he'll read books to you and you can… you can draw and sing and these things.’ 

Freia doesn't want to get rid of her parents, all she wants is to have them back. One send her away and the other is off doing God knows what. She's two years old and she already feels neglected and lonely.

‘Mama…’ Freia’s is only a child, only a toddler, she doesn't hide her sadness like adults do, she doesn't try to hush herself nor does she wipe away the tears. Freia doesn't feel embarrassed about her feelings, she doesn't associate crying with weakness and even if she would she'd see no harm in it, she wouldn't understand how being sad is something to be ashamed of. 

Just like that Rhaenys becomes that aunt that pulls her little niece in her arms and hugs her tight. 

‘Shh, sweet girl, it is alright...’ she feels so sorry for her, for a two-year-old who has probably seen more and been to more places than most men do all their lives. The Gods know what she lived through before she came here. There is a reason for her to be as afraid of strangers as she is. 

Rhaenys lifts Freia up again and the girl cries silently to her shoulder, almost unlike her age, and somehow that makes it worse.

Rhaenys brings Freia to her room, where she finds the bed that has been her own for over two moons now and Rhaenys helps her out of her dress the way she helped Sansa out of her dress so often, when Freia was still in her belly and the seams were too tight and she couldn't breathe properly. 

The girl has stopped crying but her eyes are all red and puffy and the mere sight of her sadness brings knots to Rhaenys’s stomach. 

‘I'm so sorry.’ Rhaenys tells her, ‘Were you scared? I should not have brought you to the top.’ She never expected her first failure as an aunt to be bringing a two-year-old to the top of the highest tower of Winterfell. 

Freia shakes her head and places her hands to her aunt’s shoulders as Rhaenys helps her take off her dress. 

Freia pulls her nightgown on over her head by herself and stares at Rhaenys who tries to think of what to say.

‘Do you want me to brush your hair?’

Freia shakes her head aggressively, ‘Ow.’ 

Rhaenys sees no reason to force her, she doubts she'll be able to tame the curls anyway, so she allows Freia to pull up the covers as she lays down in the bed. 

'Do you want a story?’ 

Freia shakes her head again as she lays down in the bed and turns to face the wall. 

‘Well… good night then?’ 

‘Thang-you.’ Freia mutters before Rhaenys closes the door behind her. 

Her legs feel heavy as she walks back to the parlor where she finds Catelyn sewing. 

‘Is she asleep?’ Catelyn asks without looking up from her work. 

Rhaenys nods. 

When Catelyn looks sees her standing there it is as if she instantly knows. All her life Rhaenys had praised herself for appearing as cold as she does. No feeling, no emotion, only indifference. There are few people who can pierce through her harness, but Catelyn can. Apparently, this woman who frustrates her so greatly can see what she is feeling with one glance. She walks over, stretches her arms out and before Rhaenys can do anything to hesitate, she pulls her close to her chest. 

All Rhaenys can think is that she's glad she won't have to explain. She wonders how angry Jon will be when he finds out he brought Freia to the bell tower. 

‘She's asleep, I think.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I think- Sansa has to come here, soon, truly, because this is unbearable, it is.’

‘Not as unbearable to you as it is to Jon.’ Catelyn says.

‘I'm going.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I am… I’m going to the front.’ Jon doesn't need her here, he can manage the Wall and Catelyn can manage Winterfell, she's sure of that but Robb… perhaps it's not so much that she believes he can't manage, it's more that she can't manage to have him somewhere where she’s not.

‘The front?’ Catelyn asks, ‘To your cousin in the south?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘No, I must go to my husband.’ 

Catelyn nods, ‘You belong with your husband.’ 

Catelyn Stark is a good woman, with the heart on the right spot in her chest, she can be clever, and she's kind and gentle and Freia and Jon love her. Today Catelyn hugged her and Rhaenys needed it, it was nice to be comforted. Yet truly… She really can't stand to be in her mother-in-law’s sole company for one more day. 

Catelyn wants to walk out but then it's measter Luwin who appears in the door opening and he holds a letter up, ‘It's for his grace.’ 

Rhaenys still needs to get used to people calling Jon that, ‘Oh well, give it to me.’ 

‘It's directed to him.’ 

‘He's not here, is he?’

Rhaenys takes the letter from the man's hand and she can see him exchange a glance with Catelyn- this measter is not much fond of her either and she doesn't even pretend to care, ‘It carries the Lannister seal, not Joffrey’s.’

Rhaenys opens the letter, it's only a short one and when she reads she thinks she can't breathe but in reality, she gasps. 

‘What is it?’ Catelyn's voice is one of utter fear, ‘Is it Sansa? Have they-‘

‘It is Sansa.’ Rhaenys says and she squashes the paper in her hand, ‘Gods… they are real, the Gods are real…’ Rhaenys feels tears drop down, ‘We have to write Jon tonight.’ She says. 

‘What? Rhaenys you must-‘

‘Write him tonight to tell him… tell him he must pick up Sansa in White Harbor.’ 

 

**Jon**

Jon can’t stop thinking about the field of fire as he stares down at what he sees below. 

It's not the same, not at all the same, the burning trees, and no men are going up in flames, no dragons soar through the sky, no king burns alive and yet… yet he cannot stop thinking about the field of fire. 

The thoughts started when Mole’s Town was burning, and they have not ended since. What was it his father told him about the Field of Fire again? Something about wisdom and cleverness. Or perhaps it was duty. Knowing Rhaegar it was probably duty, though he cannot imagine what duty had to do with The Field of Fire- if anything that was his least favorite Aegon the Conqueror story. Rhaenys always loved Visenya’s travel to the Eyrie the most, still does probably, that conquest is something that speaks to her mind, as the failure to conquer Dorne used to be Aegon’s favorite. Jon can imagine Rhaenys will be just like The Yellow Toad of Dorne when she's eighty.

Jon raises his hand to his face. It still stings. Ser Malckom laughed at it and said it made him look less pretty, ‘I mean that as a compliment.’ 

Damn ser Malckom. 

'It's a man’s scar.’ 

Jon has plenty of man scars. His body is scattered with it. An arrow in his leg, a sword cut on his right chest, just below the scar of Sansa’s stitching after he fall from his horse, and plenty of others, of many he's forgotten where they come from. He didn't need another scar in his goddamn face. 

Only three days from castle black they'd been ambushed. Jon's first introduction to the wildlings. 

When he slid a man’s throat his eyes turned white and only a moment later he found himself lying on the ground, the claws of a bird in the skin of his face. 

‘Those savages.’ Everyone keeps saying, ‘They're wild and dangerous and they lay with bears.’ 

Jon doesn't believe that. Who would want to lay with bears? No one, not even a wildling. 

He has not seen his face yet, though the reflection the water of his bath pomises him that it is indeed not going to be much pretty. 

They tried to question them until one bit off his tongue. By himself. His own _tongue_. Jon tried to tell them he'd spare them if they'd speak, but when another tried to bite his tongue off too, he stopped trying. 

‘Do they speak the common tongue?’ He asked. 

‘Oh yes, your grace, they do, don't you let them fool you.’

To trace where they were going it was easy to realize they may have planned to wake and kill the brothers of the watch as they lay sleeping in their beds. When one tried to escape and kill a soldier, they had to make the painful decision. These hostages were as worthless as a furry cloak in Dorne. 

They hanged the wildlings that night. The women too. They have women with bow and arrow, actual women. He can't wait to tell Rhaenys. 

One of them had red hair. Much lighter than Sansa’s, much shorter too, and yet… it made his knees weak to watch her die. Such a waste. All these lives. All so promising, sons and fathers and brothers or _daughters_. Surely there is someone out there who loved them. 

The woman with the red hair spit to the ground in front of his feet and it made him blink. He wanted to tell her that's not a very lady like thing to do but then, there were less lady like things about her than her behavior only. Even more so he felt the urge to tell her, ‘That's not nice!’ He didn't because the woman wasn't two years old and he figured he should leave that comment for Freia only. 

‘We have to, your grace, there is no other way.’ 

He is at the Night’s Watch now. This is their territory. 

The first time he saw Castle Black he wondered why ever it has no walls. But that is it. There is a wall, only one, immense and high and it makes him feel anxious just looking at it. _Walls_. As high and cold and unbreakable as the wall between him and Sansa. Walls hurt, walls make you feel lonely and terrified and they bring you nothing but ruin.

But the Night’s Watch has pledged to take no part in the realm’s quarrels. Jon feels like a quarrel. There are certainly enough people who have, will and wish to shed blood for a king Jon.

Everyone suddenly keeps calling him, _your grace_. 

‘I am no king.’ 

‘I think you are, and therefore I shall address you as one.’ Aemon the measter told him. 

‘I rather wish you wouldn't.’

‘I'm afraid that changes little.’ 

‘Even when I'm king it matters not what I would rather have you do?’ Jon asked, frowning, ‘You are such a Targaryen.’ 

Aemon smiled at that, ‘I hoped to encounter you once more in my lifetime.’ He went on, ‘I’m glad to find you have not disappointed me.’

Jon is not sure what he meant, he remembers not being sure what he meant last time neither. He said so much last time, he doesn't remember all of it and he supposes he's glad. 

‘I am no king, I rule over nothing and sit on no throne. Do you see a crown upon my head?’

‘I see king Rhaegar’s son.’ The man told him, ‘In every way a man could be his son.’ 

'He would hate to hear you say it.’ Jon said.

‘You know that is not true.’ 

Freia would be so scared in this place. All these men, all their stern and angry faces. She'd grab his leg, hug it and hide her face in his cloak. He wonders what she'd think of the wall. Nothing much, probably. She'd grab his face with her hands and ask him, ‘Ice?’ And he'd tell her, ‘Yes, it's a wall, Freia, the highest one in the world.’ And maybe she'd ask him, ‘Name?’ And he'd shrug and say, ‘Just wall, we just call it the wall.’ 

Behind the wall are the only foes the Night’s Watch recognizes. Except some of these have managed to climb over it and will shamelessly prepare to attack it from those other three wall-less sides. 

Jon sees mammoths and giants and all he can think is how his father always swore that these were extinct. Tyrion always went on and on about how the brothers of the Night’s Watch guarded the wall from imaginary grumpkins and snarls. Apparently, he wasn't so very clever after all. Jon can be the father who'll tell his child that he saw these creatures with his own eyes. Maybe, he hopes, when he’s eighty and he'll tell Freia that story again she'll roll her eyes at him and think he's imagining it as well. How old is she when he's eighty? She'll be in her late fifties. _Please Gods, let her grow to her late fifties and beyond, let her be happy and healthy and see no sins nor sorrows, not as I have_.

He misses Freia, thinks of her all the time. Of the way she hops on the floor underneath her small boots, catches snowflakes in her hands and jumps up and down in excitement when Catelyn promises her a biscuit. 

_We do not fight to kill our foes, we fight to protect those we love that are left behind_.

It's true. He understands that now. Jon feels he understands everything his father told him, even the things he never thought he'd understand. 

Love hurts so much it becomes your whole world. Their lives are more important. What was it Rhaegar told Jon again, that day he said he'd die? Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. Yet Jon feels it is the greatest honor to love those he has and always will love. No greater honor will there ever be. 

He told Rhaenys he could handle a couple of wildlings. As it turns out he can handle a whole lot of thousands of them too. 

Not without cost, unfortunately. He hoped they would be able to return south with only under a hundred casualties. They shall return with nearly two-hundred bodies, sending them to their families, wearing Targaryen armor, with the faint promise of a hero’s death. 

They burn the dead wildlings. Pile them up as if their bodies not once belonged to a human with feeling and the capability to love.

The old bear... lord commander Mormont, insists on calling him king too.

'We ought to discuss what shall happen to the king beyond the wall.’

And this they do. They discuss it, for hours it feels but Jon knows it's not. 

'You are the lord commander of the Night’s Watch, I cannot and will not tell you what you shall do.’ Jon says, so he doesn't. He leaves it to the Watch, and the Watch sentences the man to death. 

They hang him and many others and Jon tries to keep looking, the way Ned always told him to, for _if you cannot look a man in the eye as he dies, perhaps he does not deserve the sentence_. It’s hard however, and at one point Jon realizes he is only keeping his eyes on the dying out of respect for the lives they lived. 

Jeor Mormont takes a sword from a closet, lays it in front of Jon on the table. 

‘The Night’s Watch will never fight your battles for you, yet you chose to fight ours. You saved the wall, Jon Snow, and our gratitude will be forever with you.’ 

‘Thank you, my lord.’ 

The horses had done it. As Rhaenys predicted, the horses saved them all, cut through the Wildlings like a knife through cake. Jon knows how to command his cavalry, and his infantry, and when the day comes he'll command his fleet too, but knowing that just a thousand was enough to defeat thousands… he might've known that if he'd known the wildlings had no horses. He didn't know that however. Rhaenys knows these things. She must've read it somewhere, a long time ago perhaps, in a book, about the free folk or the first men or wildlings or whatever you choose to call them. 

‘Only a son of Rhaegar’s shall be a king of mine.’ Lord Mormont says, ‘You are his son, are you not?’

Jon nods once. _I am_. 

‘Good, here, you must take this then.’ 

'My lord?’

‘Take it.’ 

Awkwardly, Jon takes the sword in his right hand, carefully he pulls it from his scabbard and raises it level with his eyes. 

The pommel is a hunk of pale stone, weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It is carved into the likeliness of a dragonhead. Not three heads, only one, and it's white, as white as snow and it has chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip is virgin leather, soft and black, the blade itself is about the size Jon is used to, a bit longer, maybe, though it feels light in his hands. 

‘This is Valyrian steel.’ Jon says.

He recognizes it immediately. The way the ripples in the steel show him how it has folded back on itself again and again. It's not a two-handed great sword, it's a hand-and-halfer and people call these a ‘bastard sword’. 

'It is. It was my father's before me and his father's before him. I do not believe house Targaryen has a Valyrian sword left, I mean to give it one.’ 

‘Your son-‘

‘Has shamed my house. You must have heard the story.’

Jon doesn't deny it. 

‘He had the grace to leave this sword behind when he fled. One of our builders is a fine stone carver. It used to be a bear head, I thought for you, a dragon might be better suited.’

Once Jon had preferred a wolf, but now, as he looks at the dragon, he can only agree. 

‘My lord, you honor me but-‘

‘Spare me your _but_ ’s, I would not be sitting here if it wasn't for you. That is all, I will not listen to you deny it.’ 

‘I didn't want to come.’ Jon admits, ‘I had other things… I believed other things to be more important. But my sister convinced me. It is she you ought to thank. She decided how to-‘

‘She is not here, is she? Send her my regards, truly, but it is you I wish to gift that sword to. A sword is a small payment for all the lives you saved. Take it, and I don't wish to hear more of it.’ 

Lives he saved? Jon saw them pile up the bodies, did he not? He saves no one but those he refused to hang. Wildlings were these, so Mormont can’t possibly speak of them.

'Does it have a name?’

‘It was named Longclaw once.’

‘An apt name.’ Jon decides, ‘Dragons have claws too.’ 

‘I suppose they had, once.’

Jon blinks and realizes he doesn't wish to say, mostly because the face that appears in his head when he thinks of dragons alive, spitting fire and roaring smoke, is not a face he remembers joyfully.

Jon wants to ask after his father suddenly, but then decides not to. He doesn't want to talk, he wants to sleep and rest so he can ride back to Winterfell in the morrow. 

‘Your grace.’ Mormont then says and Jon gulps. 

That night Jon dreams and he stands in Wintefell’s crypts. Ghost is there. _'Ghost! What are you doing here? You should be with Freia!'_

Ghost is his, part of him and a part of him is Ghost. That's why the wolf must stay with Freia. To protect her, to make sure some of Jon is with her at all times. All her life that part of him has been with her, he cannot bare to see it change.

Then Ghost runs away and there she is. He has not dreamed of her in such a long time.

Tears are on her fair cheeks, her brown curls fall in front of her face and she pushes them away. She stretches her hand out to him and he hesitates to grab it. He has tried so often to grab it and she always pulled back right before his fingers touched hers. So, as he tries to fight the urge he turns his head and sees Rhaegar. 

‘Father.’ Jon mutters. 

He never called him father. _Your grace_. Even in his head he named him Rhaegar, _the king_. But he is his father in everything. Name, blood, face, skin, flesh, bone and heart. Perhaps Rhaegar left a part of him with Jon as well, just like Jon does with Freia. Maybe that is what all fathers do. Rhaegar left not a wolf but words. He hears his father speak in his head so often and he no longer calls it lecturing. Maybe he'll call them memories. 

Jon wants to ask him about all he wants to know. But as he stares at his father’s indigo eyes he realizes that he already knows. He has always known. And that grows his heart and fills his body with warmth. 

Lyanna doesn't take Jon’s hand, but she takes Rhaegar’s and then she speaks. 

_Jon_ , her voice is soft, as soft as Sansa’s, _'Jon, you have to go home_.'

He wants to tell her he wants to, there is nothing in the world he wants more, but he can't. He doesn't know how, he’s been trying for so long, he tried everything. He can't say it, there's something that keeps him from saying it. 

_'Go home_.' 

When Jon wakes up he's cold, even though he's still dressed in his breaches and his tunic. The bloody cold, he doesn't remember ever being so cold at night. 

He is immediately gets out of bed and quickly pulls his clothes back on, his fingers tremble a little as he dresses himself and when he leaves his room he finds Ser Malckom already wide awake in the hall. 

‘News came when you had gone to bed already.’ Malckom tell him, ‘I did not think to wake you for you wanted to leave early this morrow.’

‘What news?’ Jon asks.

‘Different news, from different people, from the same place.’ 

‘What is it?’

‘Bad and good news, which one first?’

Jon frowns, ‘Something with lady Freia?’ He asks. 

Malckom shakes his head, ‘Bad or good?’

‘Bad news first.’ Jon decides.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Just break it Malckom.’ Jon sighs.

‘Your brother is dead.’ He hands Jon a letter, ‘They send it to the old bear. He urged me to show it to you.’

‘I have no brother remaining to me.’ Jon says as he looks at the letter. 

‘Whatever he was or wasn't, the boy king is dead.’ 

‘Joffrey's dead?’

‘Poisoned at his own wedding, apparently. Before the bedding, poor lad.’ 

‘ _Poisoned_? By whom? How?’

Malckom shrugs, ‘They have imprisoned the imp. I can imagine the dwarf was sick of that vicious bastard but still, I doubt it is his style to kill a boy at his own wedding feast. He may be only half a man but you should think that's man enough to stay away from a woman’s weapon.’ 

‘Tyrion? No, I don't think-‘

‘Don't you want the good news, Jon?’

‘Good news?’

‘Yes, the good news. The letter reached us only this morning and I meant to wake you up for it but you were already standing here in front of me before I could make my way.’ 

‘Is it that good?’ Jon asks and he feels suspicion rise in his chest, yet then Malckom grins and he cannot remember the knight ever doing anything with his mouth other than pout disapprovingly. 

‘Oh yes, _that good_.’

‘What is it? Tell me.’ 

Malckom clears his throat and presses another letter in Jon’s hands, ‘Letter from your aunt Catelyn to lord Mormont, she hopes you are still here so she can give you a message from Ser Jaime Lannister.’ 

‘The Kingslayer?’

Malckom nods, ‘He wrote to Winterfell to inform you specifically that you can pick your lady wife up in White Harbor, so long as the gods have not sunk her ship to the bottom of the narrow sea.’ 

‘M-my-‘

‘Only if you want to, of course.’

‘She's-‘

‘On her way to White Harbor, yes, she'll arrive there a mid-week from now.’ 

‘My wife-‘ 

‘Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. That one.’ 

Jon gasps for air and then feels his sworn shield hug his arms around him fiercely like he never thought the man would ever do. 

' _Jon, you have to go home,_ ' his mother said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the Bell tower at Winterfell is not necessarily the highest, it just worked in the story, and it's such a minor detail I didn't think it'd matter.  
> Anyway, so yeah, everyone probably understands the next chapter is called 'Home'. Can't believe I'm actually posting it after ten months of writing it, am I obviously nervous?  
> thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!X


	40. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Jon,’ she said, ‘It's alright, you can go. We’ll be fine.’

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Rhaenys once said Jon became a man when he married Sansa, but despite her own firm believes, marriage did not turn Sansa into a woman. Sansa did not become a woman until she had a child, for that is when she learned to understand true fear. Motherhood made her lose her innocence and her naivety, her firm believe in the goodness of the entire world. Without that firm believe, she now finally sees why Jon loved the North so much.

Sansa stands on steady ground covered with snow. The flakes drift down as soft and silent as memory and they brush her face as light as lover’s kisses, melting on her cheeks. She can feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It is the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence, of her childhood. The taste of dreams.

The night sky above her is filled with glittering stars and as she turns she feels like dancing.

Sansa doesn't dance, but she walks ahead and turns, looking around, taking every bit of her environment in as much as she can. _Home_ , she thinks, she's in the North. And it's _snowing_.

She dressed warmly, because she knew it would be cold, yet she feels none of it. The harsh wind feels like satin to her cheeks and as she exhales clouds escape her mouth.

She wears a warm dress of dark purple lambswool, two pairs of hose for her legs, strong boots, heavy leather gloves, and a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur. The hood covers her head and she takes it off to let the flakes fall in her hair.

Sansa feels free. She hasn't felt this free since… since leaving the North. She believed it was her prison, but she was wrong, she was wrong about everything. She wishes she could dance, she wants to dance in the snow, grab a handful and make a snowball but something stops her. She wonders if it’s adulthood telling her not to be silly.

She has to blink when the flakes fall in her eyelashes as they walk through the straight, white-cobbled streets. It's so clean and well-ordered, it doesn't stink and the people are not dresses in stacks, they don't appear starved and politely bow their head at her when they pass by. Smiling at her kindly, so well-meant and genuinely friendly. It has been years since Sansa saw faces who smiled at her purely for the sake of kindness.

The houses are built of whitewashed stone, with steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate. It's not the most colorful of worlds yet it makes Sansa feel safer than any place ever has.

The snow drifts down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lays thick and unbroken on the ground. All color has fled the world outside. It is a place of whites and blacks and greys. White houses and white snow and white flags, black skies and black ships, the dark grey castle in the distance.  _A pure world_ , Sansa thinks, _I don't belong here_ , and yet… if she doesn't belong here, then where does she belong?

Sansa moves her hand to the top of her head and feels the snowflakes in her hair. She remembers what Ser Malcom once said to her, years ago, ‘White Harbor is to King's Landing as the imp is to the mountain.’

He was wrong, and yet right, but wrong. Yes, they are two worlds apart, but Clegane and Tyrion are both ugly, both liars and traitors. King’s Landing was a prison, a place of nightmares. White Harbor will forever be Sansa’s liberation.

White Harbor smells of fish, yet not like flee bottom, it’s not rotting and it smells saltier too, it smells of the sea. Someone tells her White Harbor smells like a mermaid.

Freia likes stories about mermaids and merlings. Sansa often told her the legend of the Grey King of the Iron Islands who wed a mermaid and became king of the western isles and all the sea beyond. She always told Freia how merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. They have pale skin and black-scaled tails.

The Castle Stair is a stepped street in the city, and it is lighted with marble mermaids cradling bowls of burning whale oil. The street leads to the proud and pale New Castle, a castle built atop a hill rising above the city's thick white walls. The merman sigil of House Manderly flies from its towers.

Sansa remembers how she slept in that castle, just one night, so long ago. When they just arrived here and were about to board a ship south. If only they hadn't, if only they'd stayed in that castle. She remembers how richly it was furnished, how the household guards wear cloaks of blue-green wool and carry silver tridents instead of spears. Jon told her about a secret passage beneath Castle Stair, and she remembers telling him she didn't believe him.

Jon called the lord of White Harbor ‘lord-too-fat-to-sit-on-his-horse’, and when Sansa met lord Wyman Manderly shortly after, she couldn't stop giggling because of it.

‘He is here?’ She asks, and for the first time since she got off the ship she looks at Brienne.

Brienne nods, ‘Yes your grace, he… he will be tomorrow if the letter speak truly.’

Sansa nods too. _Tomorrow_. One more day. The gods plan to torture her for one more day, one more day and then... then she shall be truly home. She’ll be where she belongs again. As much as that makes her feel as happy as she’s felt in years, it scares her too. For it comes so close now... the fear of it all being a lie follows her everywhere.

She is no longer that girl who travelled with her lord husband through the North, slept in a lord’s castle, a day before traveling south.

 _I thought my song was beginning then,_ Sansa remembers, but if truth must be told she'd been singing for such a long time.

Sansa will never be that girl again, if only she could be. She longs so much for those days, when she believed in the goodness of the Gods and in people’s promises.

 _My skin turned from silk, to ivory, to steel_ , Sansa thinks, _Gods be good if I see him again I will be as soft as the snow I hold in my hands_ , Sansa sighs and closes her eyes to imagine, _though not as cold, I'll be as warm as Winterfell_ , she fills her lungs with the icy night air, _I will be soft in his arms and he'll be strong for me_.

She'll be weak. She can finally be weak again. How she has longed for weakness, only those who listened to her prayers truly know.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

He blinks his eyes as if he means to make sure they are open. Then he sees her, immediately he recognizes her, he’d recognize her in a crowd of a thousand people.

Standing in King's Landing, her long red hair whooshing in the wind, an encouraging smile around her lips, tears on her pale cheeks. She clutches her belly, swollen and round.

Sansa smiles, her smile is the most beautiful one he has ever seen, her hair is the perfect shade of red in bright daylight. It’s lifted up by the wind, strands move in front of her face and she doesn't push it away.

Sansa.

He never believed that would be the last time he’d see her, he never thought they were supposed to be parted, they belonged together, she always said so, they were incomplete apart, she made him a better person, she made him the man he wanted to be, always had wanted to be.

‘Jon,’ she said, ‘It's alright, you can go. We’ll be fine.’

 _We’ll be fine_.

He has not been fine. He has dreamed of dying, thought of it, believed it would be the only ending that could give him some form of resolution.

_It’s alright, you can go._

The snow beneath his feet creaks but he doesn't hear it, all he hears is the gushing of the cold, icy wind that burns you from the inside when you let it. There is a burning inside him, a flame that he believed had gone out, but it has only been sleeping, and now it feels like wildfire bursting in his chest.

Her eyes are blue, as blue as the sky of King’s Landing in the early morrow, when the sun hits the water and it’s light is reflected by the black color of the narrow sea.

Her hair has that Tully auburn, it shines like copper in the candlelight and it’s soft... Soft and thick and when he so often dreamed of feeling it between his fingers, he closed his eyes and pretended. Sometimes he could even smell it.

Her voice is soft and sweet, her smile makes his heart stop beating, when she giggles she sounds like a twelve-year-old, she fidgets with her hands when she's nervous, presses her lips together when she's uncomfortable and when she cries she hiccups.

He hears a song about the warrior in the back of his mind, a song about sons and daughters, fathers and mothers and brothers too. She sings it and it's as if she is getting undressed, the way she used to do at night, when he’d already be in bed and he’d watch her take her stockings off, and she'd hum a song and he would not be able to hear the words but it never mattered.

 _Sansa_.

He loved her so much. He never knew love could exist like that before he loved her, he never believed the songs they sing about it are the only true songs, the only ones that are no lies. When he loved her, he started to understand.

Jon stands in the courtyard of the Manderly’s New Castle and he sees his life pass by in front of his eyes.

‘Your grace…’ Lord Mandery is the fattest man in the North but when he sinks through his knees that doesn't seem to be a valid excuse for him not to sink low, as low as he can.

Jon doesn't hear him when he raises and opens his mouth to say some more. He hears a beep and the gushing of the wind but not lord Manderly. He doesn't even see the man.

Her eyes are wide, as if she can't believe it either. Her mouth slightly opened as if her breath got stuck in her throat. It’s almost as if she's scared, as if she doesn't see him, but a ghost, as if she knows it's him, but doesn't truly recognizes. He suspects he looks at her in just the same way.

It can't be her. It has to be her. Is it her? He doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how to speak, he fears he has forgotten how to move but then it's his heart not his head that tells his legs to move. He takes those few strides forward as she spreads her arms out to him and he drags her against his chest.

_You have to go home, Jon._

Jon remembers all of it. He remembers her smell, the press of her body against his, the weight of her as he lifts her up in his arms. He remembers the sound of her breathing, the warmth, how perfectly everything always seemed to _fit_. He remembers her voice, her hair, her eyes, her fingers and her cheekbones. He remembers the way she tastes in the morning when she is still sleepy and in the evening after too much wine, he remembers how she whimpers when he kisses her and sighs in her dreaming. He remembers fighting with her, tickling her, pushing her down in the bed, frolicking with her, hugging her, cuddling and sleeping together, waking up in the middle of the night and she'd be there, curled up in his side and he believed that was the only thing that could ever matter. He remembers the way she felt around him, what it was like to move inside her, to make a baby and be not two but one. He remembers her smile, her grin, her laugh, her blushing, her giggling, her moaning, her yelling and her whispers.

He remembers it all, he never forgot her, not one part of her, no matter how small or unimportant. He knew everything about her, things no one else knew or will ever know. She knew everything about him too, because he has never trusted anyone the way he trusted her. He swears he is incapable of loving anyone more than he loves her, she used up all that he had to offer, never returned it, he could never ask back for it, never wanted to.

She rubs her cheek against his ear and his mind returns to the present.

He no longer needs to close his eyes to see her. She's here. She's in his arms. And she sighs.

He notices how he lifted her up, feels the way she presses her face in his neck with her cold nose to his skin.

Lord Manderly says something again but they ignore him, both because they don't care and because they didn't hear.

Sansa moves her face from his neck and he feels her hot breath to his ear, ‘Jon, I missed you.’ She places her hands in his neck, her fingers digging in his hair, her thumbs on his jaw.

‘You're real?’

She nods and presses her forehead to his, ‘You too?’

‘I think so.’ Her smile makes him smile and he didn't think he still knew how to do that, not like this.

When he loosens his grip on her he puts her back down with her feet on the ground, then her hand in his pulls him with her inside.

Lord Manderly talks to Jon and he is sure he responds, though what… he wouldn't be able to ever repeat it. Hopefully he says the right words, but he doesn't hear it. He honestly just doesn't care. He wonders a little why he thinks he should care and decides nobody would, so it doesn’t matter.

He has completely forgotten where he is, where he's going, who everyone but she is. All he knows is that he doesn't care.

It's like she's standing in front of the sun and the rays of light are bursting away everything around her, shining in his face and blinding him, making nothing but her beaming, tear-stained face distant, cloudy, fuzzy and one giant blur. She's dreamlike and it reminds him of that one time he was hallucinating.

He's not hallucinating and it's her hand in his that convinces him, nothing else. He wants to slap himself in his face to make sure he's awake, to finally get rid of all the ifs and buts in his head, to realize it is true, he’s not going mad like his ancestors before him and it really is her.

It _is_ her. She's real, not like the Sansa he has seen in dreams, nightmares and these endless memories. Her hair has that sweet and flowery smell, her breath warms his cheek, her lips are not cold but warm as they brush his cheek and he can see the imperfections and freckles on her skin. It's Sansa and she's not a ghost. She's human, a woman, her chest moves up and down when she inhales and exhales, her auburn curls tickle his face, her hand is clammy in his and when she walks he hears the heels of her shoes on the stone floor. She is undeniably, unmistakably, undoubtedly real. Perfect in all her imperfection.

Her face is still smooth and fair with not a single scratch visible to his view and she smiles at him all shyly, exactly like he remembers. He just really wants to kiss her, he doesn’t believe he has ever wanted to kiss her this badly, but he’s never been so scared to do it either. Her fingers in his palm burn like a flaming pole, it tingles and he finds it the most pleasant touch.

Suddenly they're all alone, as she closes the door behind her and leans with her back against it. Her smile is gone and it’s been replaced by an embarrassed and uncomfortable stare, down at her feet.

‘It's my… it's my room.’ She says, still refusing to look up, her face flushed.

‘Are you-‘

‘You must be tired and hungry.’ She says and finally she looks up, he sees the way her eyes are all still wide and watery and she smiles unhappily through her tears, ‘D-don't you want different clothes or… a bath?’

‘I'm fine.’ He says, he's never been better, truly.

He wishes to promise to her that they'll never be separated again, that he'll make it all better, that it's all over now. He'll whisper promises in her ear the way he once used to do every night. How he failed all those promises. Perhaps that is why she looks so nervous.

She stands there saying nothing for a while, her hands fidgeting, while he thinks of things to say as nothing comes up.

Sansa bites her lower lip, ‘Freia-‘

'She's at Winterfell. With your mother and… she's safe.’

Sansa nods once, then sheds her tears and he wants to move over to her but it's as if his knees are locked so he keeps standing there in the middle of this strange bedchamber, still feeling like he's up in the air, drifting between clouds, not standing here, in this strange castle, looking at her.

‘She's happy and healthy and safe and I’ll… she's safe, I swear it to you.’

Sansa rubs her tears aggressively away and then nods again as she pushes herself off the door.

Jon nods too and he feels really stupid doing that as they stare at each other again for what feels like ten winters, ‘You look... good.’ He then says and he curses himself for being an absolute idiot. He wants to take her small head between his hands, but he doesn't. Instead he takes her hand again and tries to warm it with his.

‘You look awful.’ She says, ignoring his begging eyes, ‘You look like you’ve aged at least ten years.’

He doesn’t smile because she is not joking, she shouldn’t be joking, it is probably true, ‘I feel like I have aged ten years.’ He says and that is not a joke either. He wants to joke, perhaps the haunted look on her face will fade if he does, but there is nothing to joke about.

‘Yes, me too.’ She says, ‘Me too.’

‘Sansa-‘

She leans forward and kisses him. It is unbearably fragile and a rush of sensations. She’s as tender as a summer night sky, as tender as Winterfell snow. The kiss is salty of her tears, yet the sweetest thing he has tasted in as long as he can remember. He feels entirely powerless suddenly, as they give and get every kiss they’ve ever gotten or given, shared, in just this one; like kissing from memory.

He realizes he frowns as he tries his very best not to cry. She cups his cheeks between her small, soft hands and her fingers move to his hair. He places his on her sides, where he feels her body heat through the fabric of her dress.

It’s an awful dress. He hates it, it's ugly, it looks uncomfortable and not like anything Sansa would ever want to wear. It's not warm enough, maybe that's why she shivers. He wants to rip it off her and warm her body with his own.

Before he can deepen the kiss, she breaks it and she looks at him, her eyes watery and he finally sees something he recognizes in them. It's sadness and pain but it's human, it's Sansa, and he cannot belief it's her. She is here, really close to him, alive and breathing and smiling and kissing him and it's all madness. Perhaps it has always been madness, perhaps he's been as mad as Viserys all along. Mad for Sansa. Targaryen insanity hidden away in loving her.

‘I love you.’ He blurts out as she presses her nose against his, firmly shutting her eyes.

‘Yes.’ She says, ‘Yes.’ A tear slides down her cheek and he kisses it away.

‘Tell me you love me too.’ He says, ‘Still.’

She opens her eyes and makes sure to look him in the eye when she says, ‘Always.’

His forehead touches hers and he realizes he concentrates entirely on her thumb carrying his cheekbone.

'I-I'm so sorry.’ He sputters, ‘I am. I'm so sorry, Sansa, I don't know how to ever-‘

She kisses him again, pulls away soon enough for him to know she only did that to shut him up, ‘Love me Jon.’ She says, ‘make love to me.’

Jon allows her to press him towards the bed in the corner, entangled they drop down in it, and his eyes start aching because he widens them so much as he stares at her pulling the fabric from her body. He assumes she must hate this dress as much as he does.

Seven hells he has missed kissing her. Kissing her is the best thing in the whole wide world. The way she sighs in contentment and dips her tongue in his mouth… it's all really warm and wet and nice and how did he ever manage to live without it for so long? How is he alive? He should have died. She's oxygen and kissing her after two years is like coming up for air, gasping as he fills his lungs. It freezes his brain, numbs only the pain, though he still thinks he feels everything.

He has missed making love to her more, he knows that, it hits him when she opens the laces of her corset, pulls them loose almost violently and he hears the seams break. A moment later she takes his hand, places it to her chest and he feels her heart pounding dangerously fast as he cradles her breast in his calloused, sweaty palm.

Her long ,red braid in his hands still feels the same, the colour is as auburn as it was the day he saw her for the first time, in Winterfell’s courtyard, as auburn as the head of hair of that little nine-year-old girl that forced him to play her knight as she pretended to be a princess in need of a savior. Sansa shivers when he lightly pulls on it, let’s it roll between his fingers.

She does smell the same. Her hair, her neck up to the spot behind her ear and the valley between her breasts. Some things are different, however, the more he looks and touches the more changes he finds. He moves his hands over the skin she has liberated from the wools as if this is the first time he does it.

He had forgotten how annoyingly many layers of clothing women wear, it's going to take him a lifetime to strip her off it all. He will though, he'll undress her properly, completely, he can't rush this, not now, not after two years, he needs her as naked as she was when she came into this world, he needs there to be nothing between them, not even smallclothes, no matter how thin the cotton.

He used to love it to tease her, to slowly take off one skirt after another, taking his time to untie her corset as he lazily kissed her breasts, he remembers the way he sucked on them and let her nipples roll between his teeth. It never failed to arouse her and she cried out and told him to ‘Hurry up Jon! Dammit.’

She liked it when he was tentative, she’s Sansa after all, the Sansa who once believed there’s only that way lord’s make love to lady wives. Sansa who liked slowness, gazing and kissing- yet most of the time, when she was being eager, desperate, lascivious, that is when she just really wanted him to thrust in a little bit too deep and fast and hard. She’d press her searing hot lips to his and whisper, ‘Fuck me Jon’, she'd whisper it again and again, sometimes she commanded, sometimes she begged. He always did it, every time, ardently and hungrily and eager most of all, as eager as the way she spread her legs.

When he removes the sleeves, he sees the first visible scars beneath her clothes, no matter how badly he hoped there wouldn’t be. Not all of her has been left as unharmed as her face. The bruises are yellow and purple, in the end of their healing process, but he can imagine it must still hurt when a finger is pressed to them. He kisses a line on her throat and knowing who did that and why should probably make him even angrier were it not that she gasps in his ear the moment he moves his hand to pull her last pair of skirts down. She has healed cuts on her back, red ones and white ones and he closes his eyes when he presses his mouth to them. When he pulls her stockings off he sees the scars he knows he'll hate the most. Two specific deep white lines on each of her thighs and Jon has seen enough wounds and scars to know these come from a blade.

‘W-who did that?’ He says and his voice must be a murmur.

She is not going to tell him. She doesn't even shake her head, she doesn't do anything, just pulls him closer.

Jon closes his eyes and decides that this is not about him, it’s about her. She deserves to be loved, she hasn’t been loved for far too long and it’s an embarrassment. When he kisses a path down her side to nip along her ribs, she writhed under him and moves her hands to tug on his hair. 

He has dreamed so often of the sight of her head on a pillow and to see her eyes roll back in her head, breathing heavily, moaning words. Her voice is so soft, it's the sweetest sound and she keeps saying his name as if she too needs to remind herself he's real.

Something, some deeply burrowed part of him that he thought had died, wakes up. He'd forgotten how intense this feeling is, how drunk it feels, as if everything else in the world but Sansa fades away. Can he still do it? He hasn't wondered at all, maybe he outlearned. He could make a real fool out of himself.

She pushes her braid over her shoulder when he kisses the inside of her thigh, her body shakes with anticipation but she gets up a little, ‘N-no…’ she says, ‘I don't want- I want to feel you.’

He closes his eyes for a second, scratching the inside of her leg with his unshaved face when he rubs his cheek to it. He should've shaved, she always hated it when he scratched her. Why didn't he shave? It would've been a small effort, the least he could have done. He's such an asshole.

‘You're going on t-top.’ She tells him, pulling him up, cupping his face, pressing their foreheads together and he's happy to oblige, he feels as if he’s compliant and timorous and he has never cared so little.

He sighs her name against her temple when he disappears inside her, she arches her back to welcome him, to give him the best excess and when their bodies start moving together he feels complete, with her, that is what he is. He quickly finds the rhythm she seems to eagerly want, thrusting in fast and deep before slowly moving out. It is painfully, excruciatingly slow and infuriatingly intoxicating.

He has not outlearned this. It's as if they last did this yesterday though she gasps again and digs her nails in his scalp as if it's been ten, not two years. She sighs, then whines with pleasure and that’s good, Jon thinks.

He catches the sounds she makes with his mouth that's opened in a silent oh as he refuses to pull his eyes from her and he’s so thankful that she doesn't choose to look away either.

Seven hells she’s tight, so tight it makes him want to swear loudly, he needs to bite his lip bloody to stop himself. The taste of blood in his mouth seems far away as the muscles in his limbs tremble and protest in the most pleasant way, ‘You’re so tight.’ He doesn't know why he says that, he remembers telling her all the time and it used to make her blush, now, only a tear rolls down and the rosy color on her cheeks is not there out of secondhanded embarrassment.

She starts making the moans exactly like he memorized and hearing it makes his head spin. It's not loud, not as loud as he knows she can be, and maybe that is exactly why it makes him feel the way it does, because her saying his name makes this as real as it could possibly ever be. Her whimpering makes it more intimate and they make her more beautiful too. He squeezes himself in further and further, closes his eyes where all he sees is stars and they make him dizzy, in some really good way and for one moment only, he fears he’ll faint.

He casually skates his hand up and looks down to watch his palm cup her breast. For some reason her breasts are driving him mad, the way they compress to his chest. They are definitely bigger than they used to be and she is nowhere near as skinny as he remembers. Jon could once feel her ribs, count and see them even, now her belly shows him how she made him a child once. But it's still Sansa, still the same Sansa, home. She is all he ever wanted, everything he ever needed.

He pushes her knees up higher, hitching his hips back to thrust back in with one move and she moans in his mouth, ‘Sansa I-‘

‘Don’t talk.’ Her eyelashes flutter and she paints figures on his face with her fingertips, ‘Please… Just look at me.’

It's not hard to keep looking at her, he can’t stop, he’s afraid that if he stops she’ll disappear again or maybe he could wake up from this perfect nightmare, and he'll be alone again. He sees her and he feels the confusion of reality, feelings and thoughts. It’s so warm suddenly, sweat triples down his brow and her skin is sticky, hot and clammy.

‘This is real.’ She says against his lips, ‘Tell me this is real.’

‘It’s real.’

Her eyelids flutter, ‘It’s you?’

‘It’s me.’

Everything about him seems electrified, his fingers mostly, as they touch her. Everything is aflame and stirred, as if the touch of her burns in such a magically good way. It's almost like he's in a rhapsody, but he doesn't feel overjoyed, just blissful and so ridiculously grateful.

She's mesmerizing, and feeling her is as amative and fervid as it is raw and amorous. It's as tender as it's rough and she smiles as much as she cries, silently, and he keeps kissing tears from her cheeks.

Now she is here, her naked body moving below his, pinned down and willingly helpless, he wonders if he stopped believing she would ever return to him. Had he accepted it? That he'd never see her again? Deep down perhaps- maybe his desperate attempts were only that, desperate attempt that felt so much like a convulse.

She pushes him on his back and climbs on top of him and he no longer knows how to think, he stops and all he does is feel. She is everywhere and he needs to close his eyes to make sure his head stops turning but he opens them as soon as he can to watch her.

Lying on his back is making him feel powerless and he hates the lack of contact as she straddles him so he pulls himself up, to look her in the eye. She licks her lips before she kisses him, taking his lowerlip between her teeth, pressing her breasts to his chest as her hair finally finds freedom from her loose braid and falls down her shoulders, slides along his skin as soft and cold as silk. She breaks the kiss and parts just enough for them to catch their breath and he tries not to spasm when he grunts.

Rather suddenly it’s over, he didn’t even really see it coming himself. He hasn't outlearned it but it has been a long time, a very, very long time. He feels the urge to apologize but he gulps it down.

He should’ve pulled out some more, he decides, regrets not doing that for a couple of seconds during which he feels boyishly embarrassed until he manages to shrug that off. It’s too late for that now and no matter how long it lasted, he has never put so much in making love to her ever before. He put all of it in there, all of him, total surrender.

She succumbs, drops her head on his shoulder and he feels her breath in his neck as he takes her hair in his hands. He's still buried inside her and he can feel her smile to his skin. It makes him smile too. He wants to kiss her and he does, softly, gently. He tries to tell her things without those words he can't seem to find. Her lips smile against his and he moves his hands to cup her face, strokes her cheeks with his thumbs and she sighs as he presses his tongue in her mouth. She whimpers and he attempts to sooth her by gently stroking her arm and back as he lays her down in this bed, never letting go, never moving away as he feels her pulse calm.

He hushes her with the same voice he uses whenever Freia triples over her feet and bruises her knee, ‘Shhhhhhh…’ he says and even though he thinks he sounds stupid, it calms her so he keeps doing it until her trembling stops, ‘It's okay.’ He feels so weak in that moment, and he doesn't even mind.

‘Jon.’ She whispers, ‘Jon, Jon.’ He doesn’t know what to say so he keeps soothing her. He's not a poet, has never been, but she knows that, and she never before cared. She only shivers and wipes her nose.

It is then that he realizes he is doing what he never thought he would ever do again; make promises. He wonders if she still believes him and if she should.

'I'll protect you, I'll never let you go, we’ll be together forever, we will, I promise, I do, no one is ever going to hurt you again and I'm going to kill all those who have, I promise Sansa, I swear it to you, I'll die protecting you if I must.’

She doesn’t allow him enough time to despise himself when she presses her nose to his, ‘Don't die.’ She says, ‘Don’t you dare die, Jon Snow, not after all of that.’

Maybe he managed to not die for this, so he could make love to his wife again, it feels like he was born to do it, he could do it all day, every day, forever- and he will certainly get himself back to his old standards.

The tenderness in her touch and the love in her eyes make him want to weep with gratitude. He does not deserve her, he never did.

She looks up at him and smiles, the darkness has faded from her as she lays her chin on his chest, ‘You are so beautiful.’ He says, he means it as much as he did when he told her the last time, perhaps even more because he doesn’t remember the last time, not exactly.

He lifts her up with his arms wrapped around her and makes her lay down on her back, then moves his hand to her stomach. The last time he did that it was round and swollen and he could feel Freia press her hand or foot to his touch. Sansa used to tell him the baby was reaching out for him.

He moves his hands upwards, his finger tingling her skin and asks, ‘How can you be so beautiful? Nobody should be allowed to be this beautiful.’

He can still make her blush… how can he still make her blush?

‘Jon.’ She says again, just his name is enough to make his hand covering her breast tremble, she hums when he kisses her again, he can't stop himself, she doesn't try to, she lets him as she nips on his lower lip and a moan escapes from the back of her throat.

‘Sansa I never-‘

‘Don't talk.’ She tells him again as they move closer, all their limbs entangled, panting and staring at each other in disbelieve.

She keeps crying silently and her breathing is rushed as she presses her forehead to his. She moves her hand from his cheek down to his neck, his shoulder, his arm and eventually finds his fingers and entangles them with hers.

He started fighting this war for her. He would've kept fighting for her, no matter what. He never would've accepted defeat, never. He would've fought for her till his last breath, he'll die for her if he must, he’ll gladly give his life for hers, for if she dies, then there is no life to live for him anymore either, and that is not romantic, it's not pretty or sweet or beautiful- it's as simple as the truth.

‘I've missed you.’ He says and he hopes he doesn't sound like an fool, ‘I can't believe you're here.’ Then he feels his own eyes burn too and their tears join in a symbol of their shared sadness, their shared gratitude.

He wondered plenty if there is any goodness in this world at all, he knows there is now, because despite all evil he has witnessed, the gods have sent her back to him, and everything makes sense again.

She lets go of his hand to carefully stroke some of his hair from his face and she seems scared suddenly, when she demands, ‘Tell me- tell me you love her. Please.’

He knows who she means, ‘Of course.’ He says and he tries to say it with force, to absolutely convince her because he knows she's scared that he could become like his father. But Jon always swore he wasn't going to be and even though he now wonders if he ever knew his father at all, the promise still stands.

Freia will never, not for a moment, have to doubt whether or not he loves her, she'll grow up knowing she's the most loved little girl in the whole freaking world, that no one loves her more than her father and that he always will, no matter what she does- or doesn't.

His answer doesn’t stop her crying at all, though she lifts a hand to wipe her face, not at all gently. Jon pulls the hand from her face, holds it tight again as he leans his head closer to hers and he rubs his nose to her cheek.

‘We’re together now.’ He tells her.

‘Y-yes.’ Her eyes flash from his eyes to his mouth and back up, her eyelashes flutter and she seems almost embarrassed but then she kisses him again.

They lay there for what feels like hours though it can't possibly be that long. Doing nothing, just kissing, with the sun going down in the background. Like they used to do when they were just married and he was so completely and utterly in love with her in a way only boys can be.

Their lovemaking started out as a duty. He still remembers her shivering, the mouth she tried to shut by biting her own lip and the way she lay still as if she believed he would mind if she did anything at all.

Then she gasped his name and pulled him close, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his torso and sighed against his ear. He moved in deeper and faster and she moaned and he groaned and everything changed, he most of all. She changed him so much, for the better.

 _I don't ever want to be happy without you_ , she told him once. He knows now for sure that he can't be. He'll never be happy without her, not as long as she lives.

‘What happened to your face?’ She asks, softly, her words are puffs of breath to his lips, so close is her face to his as he absentmindedly wraps her hair around his finger, it has such an astoundingly beautiful color.

‘Hmm?’ He doesn't understand what she means at first because somehow it is almost as if they're back in time, when there was no scar covering half his face.

‘Your face.’ She nudges his nose with hers and places a soft kiss to his cheekbone, ‘What happened?’

He doesn't know what to tell her, how he could or should but he cannot lie. Looking at her watery blue eyes he knows there is no way he shall ever be able to lie to her again. There is only the truth now, a harsh one but so real, as real as her leg around his hip, her foot moving over his shin, her hand in his, between them, as tightly together as the rest of their bodies.

‘It's Nothing. It… It was an eagle.’

‘An eagle.’ It’s almost as if that answer disappoints her.

‘Yes.’ He looks at their hands, watches her as she places the gentlest of kisses to his fingers, ‘It attacked me.’

He still feels so tense while she seems relaxed all over, ‘Did you kill it afterwards?’

‘No.’ he says, pulling the sheets up over her bare shoulder.

‘Why did it attack you?’

‘That’s a long story.’

‘I don't want to hear it now.’

That's good because he doesn't want to to tell her now, ‘I'll tell you another time.’

A smile spreads on her face, the promise of another time is both incredulous and amazing, ‘Okay.’

‘Are you hungry?’ It's probably time for supper, he doesn't really know, what time could it be? He needs to remind himself in what castle they are exactly, never mind the freaking time, it stands still- or maybe it has turned back, or flashed forward or stopped altogether.

‘No.’ she says, ‘You?’

‘A little.’

She grins then, ‘Me too but I don't want to get up.’

He smirks, ‘I'll go and get you something.’

Sansa shakes her head and pulls him closer again, presses him further down with her leg around him, to make sure he can’t get away, ‘No.’ she says, ‘You're not going anywhere, you're staying with me.’

They don’t talk at all. It’s the curse they’ll carry forever, he fears. They have never talked enough, mayhaps they never will. He kisses her as if he hopes that might make up for it, kisses her until his lips are dry and sore.

‘Jon… I thought we'd only ever meet again in death.’ She whispers as she lays in the crook of his arm, her back to his side as she tickles his biceps with the tips of her fingers, moving the lines of his muscles, following the curve of his upper-arm to his lower-arm and right before she reaches his wrist he moves his hand away and uses it to cover her face, and she smiles as he presses it to her cheek, with his thumb to her lips, his forefinger covering the bow of her nose, and he slides it to her neck to push her autumn auburn hair from her ear so he can whisper in it.

‘Of course not.’ He says and he kisses her neck, then her shoulder, her neck again, the skin behind her ear, the shell of her ear and then her temple. He knows what to say to make her smile a little less sad, he'll tell her what she used to tell him, ‘We’re meant to be, remember?’

‘I remember everything.’

He sees all these flashbacks, of a red-headed girl with Freia’s grin, sitting in Ned’s lap, listening to a story about Bran the Builder. Then he recognizes her in a white dress with silvery snowflakes, standing in front of a weirwood tree, the leaves the color of her auburn hair. She smiles shyly and blinks at him from across Winterfell’s great hall, kneeling down to pat Lady and he hears her sing a song about a castle on a cloud. Her eyelids flutter, she eats her drapes and smiles as he keeps talking, and she listens though sometimes her mind wanders off. He sees her lying in a bed of blood, she cries and he tells her he loves her. She sits on a mare with the outstretched lands of the North behind her. They stand on the battlements of Maegor’s Holdfast and he holds her hand and makes it point into the far distance, to show her the world. She dances around in a blushy pink dress, beaming like a child and when they’re alone she takes that dress off, looks at her naked body in the standing mirror and holds her swollen belly as if the child is already born. Sansa takes his hand and squeezes it, just to let him know she's there, as he stands in the great sept of Bailor, staring at Aegon’s corpse, wondering why he’s not crying.

Fleeting images. He can’t bear any more, it’s too much, as though he’s losing himself with his consciousness.

He nuzzles his face in her neck and moves down, between her legs, where he scratches the soft skin of her upper-leg some more, there where it’s already red and irritated. She cries out and thanks the Gods for being touched in the right place. 

 _It’s not the Gods_ , he wants to tell her, _the Gods left us, it’s just you and me now_ , he wants to ask her if that's enough for her, because for him it is. It's more than enough, it's too much, more than he deserves. He never deserved her. He has never felt so lonely as he did these two years that he was forced to spend without her, and he has never felt as contempt as he does now.

Jon remembers everything too. He remembers how they used to hold each other, so close it felt like all their limbs were touching, and he'd forget which one of those was his own. They're doing it right now. He remembers making love to her lazily as they both lay on their sides and he'd press his face in the crook of her neck, his hand on her pregnant belly with her covering it to keep it there and she'd rub his shin with her footpad, her arm turned behind her to still grab his hair. He remembers her moaning his name and when she does that now… it’s all just as he remembers but better, so much better. As if his memories were a shadow of reality.

'Don't ever leave me again.' She begs and he takes her face between his hands, shakes his head and he pushes and she gasps. He can’t remember ever making love to her while she cried, it terrifies him, but every time he slows or moves away only a little, she pulls him back urgently and he can't resist her, he never could, ‘Don’t do that to me again, don’t you ever dare do that to me again.’

He lets go, all he has he gives away, to her, he gives it to her, ‘N-no, n-never, I’m so s-sorry.’

She tells him not to be, and he doesn’t understand why, it’s almost as if her lack of desire to punish him both insults and disappoints him, ‘I can't live without you, I can't, I couldn't, don't make me do it, please.’

Jon falls asleep a couple of times, he thinks, he’s not very sure, all he knows is that he wakes because she places kisses to his skin, and he’s hard every time he opens his eyes. He moves his hand to her thighs and they’re all wet as he presses her down by the bone of her hip, the sheets tangled around them. He couldn’t stop if he had to. He’d rather end himself than move away, pull out, push her aside.

‘I love you, Sansa.’ He says as he spills inside her for what may be the tenth time, he hasn't lost count because he never tried to keep it. He told her so often in his head, his dreams and his nightmares that it feels surreal to say it aloud now. He doesn’t think he will ever be capable of saying it enough, he'll never catch up on these two years apart, but that won't stop him from trying.

They lay there, entangled, their foreheads pressed together, their eyes never avoiding each other, their tears meeting and becoming a shared sadness, a grief for what should have been, for all the time they lost, for what was stolen from them, they mourn their life together the way it was supposed to be, the cruelty of their parting.

 _Seven hells_ , Jon thinks, _this must be what dying feels like_ , and he’s never feared death so little.

He has no idea how much time remains to him, but as she tells him she loves him, he knows that with her here, alive and real, breathing and tight around him, kissing him and warming his skin with her breath, he doesn't mind anymore. He can die tomorrow if he must. He can die a happy man. He was born to love her anyway, it has been the only thing in his life that he has been somewhat good at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry if anyone was hoping for some deep and interesting monologue, I believe some things cannot be said with words. They'll talk, but for now, this seemed all they needed.  
> Like I already said, I hope it doesn't disappoint. Since I started writing it around a year ago and have changed and edited it so much since, I suppose I can say I could not have created something much better than this.  
> Thanks for reading, have a good start of the week, and do let me know what you think!x


	41. Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants him to turn back time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you all so so much for all the lovely comments and all other sorts of love, it makes my day, truly!  
> I feel like I should have called this chapter 'The One Where They're All Lying In A Bed', but it would not have worked well with the other names, so it's chains, which has little to do with Tyrion's chains (for those who haven't noticed, I name my chapters after words that appear at least once in the actual chapter), but more with Sansa's invisible ones.  
> in any case, hope you enjoy!

**Robb**

When they tell him Rhaenys is here he doesn't instantly believe it. The first thing he feels is annoyance, because of course she's here, she can't stand the idea of him doing something without her being there keeping an eye on him, without lecturing him, without judging and complaining and giving her opinion on everything and everyone. Of course his infuriatingly annoying lady wife is here because she doesn't trust him to do anything ever at all. 

There's that undeniable excitement too, because she's _here_ , and some voice in the back of his mind tells him to not give a shit about how she forgot to let him know, to not care that this is not at all what they agreed on, because she's _here_ , and he almost looks forward to fighting with her again. 

He pushes someone aside, he's not sure who, he hopes it's not a Dornishman, and stalks outside, passes some tents until he's near the open field and turns to find her. It doesn't take him long, in this world of armies, mud and only men she is easily the most beautiful thing. She's always easily the most beautiful thing. 

She holds the steers of her horse, the horse that must've brought her here, and she's talking to her uncle, that crazy prince Oberyn that people either fear or admire. 

Rhaenys is much like her uncle Oberyn, they both say whatever comes up in their mind, they say what others wouldn't dare dream of saying, they're rude, arrogant, witty, cunning, salty and they don't give a shit about what people think of them. People either fear them or admire them but mostly it's a bit of both. Admiration and fear are two sides of the same coin. 

Robb's annoyance fades like snowflakes in his hair under the sun when she turns around and looks at him. 

He is pretty sure he stands there looking like a complete fool but it matters not for she already thinks he is just that and he has stopped minding. 

Then she gives the steers to her uncle, grabs her far too heavy skirts and walks over to him. First, she's walking, then she runs and it only takes him two large steps to have her in his arms. 

‘What the seven hells are you doing here?’ 

She doesn't tell him the truth; that she's here because she was bored out of her skull, that she couldn't stand the idea of sitting and waiting, that Robb’s mother drove her mad, that being away from the live action was unbearable to her, ‘I missed you.’ She says, and then she kisses him, with her cold hands freezing his cheeks as she cups his face. 

She tells him Sansa is home and he wonders if that is why she smiles at him so much, because it takes away her reason to hate him, though he knows that's only a faint dream. 

_Sansa is home_ , the words ring in his head, all day, until late in the night, _she's healthy and save, Jon will pick her up in White Harbor_.

He doesn't know what to say, he wants to tell her why his hands tremble but he fears he'll say the wrong thing and she'll stop looking at him like this, that he'll ruin it and she'll hate him again, she'll roll her eyes and tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself. 

He wants to ask her what he must do, _I don’t know, help me_.

She keeps smiling at him for the rest of the day, as she eats and while drinking her wine, he can't stop staring at it and that night he lays in his cot, wearing more clothes than he has ever worn in his bed before but it's the best sacrifice for her laying against him, her head on his shoulder.

‘Robb, would you do something for me?’

‘Anything.’ 

‘Apologize.’ Rhaenys turns her head to look up at his face and he moves his hand to push a strand of her golden hair from her face, ‘To Jon.’

‘He doesn't want to hear.’ 

‘It's all he wants to hear. Admit to him he was right, tell him you're sorry.’ 

‘Rhaenys I-‘

‘For me?’ she repeats, ‘You'll do it for me? You want him back, don't you? I know you do, you miss him.’ 

He doesn't deny it and he doesn't know how to let her know that's true. 

‘He misses you too.’ 

‘He hates me.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘No… he couldn't, never, you're his brother.’ 

‘Not anymore.’ 

‘Always. By law and in his heart.’ She lays her cheek to his shoulder again and moves her hand to grab his.

‘Sansa will never forgive me.’ He then says. 

Rhaenys sighs, her sigh goes through her body like a shiver, ‘We have all made mistakes, Robb, me included, I failed Sansa too.’ 

‘Not like I have.’ 

‘I am the one who left her, in King’s Landing, I left her and Freia behind right under Cersei’s nose even though I promised to protect them, I swore it to Jon and I failed them all.’

‘You could not have stayed.’ 

‘I allowed them to convince me of that, yes, but now I wonder.’ 

‘You can't change that now.’ 

‘No one can, the past is written, the ink is dry. That is what my father always said.’ 

‘Your father must have been a very special man, everyone always… his memory is much loved.’ 

Rhaenys looks up again and she seems sad suddenly, she always shows him very little emotion when they speak of her father, ‘That is my fault too.’ 

‘What is? Don't be silly.’ 

For a moment, he expects her to scold him for calling her silly, he can't believe she'll let him say that, but then she moves her hand to push a curl from his face and she shakes her head, ‘I screamed at him, you see? I yelled, I was angry… I told him… I mentioned my mother, and then…. I was desperate and panicking. I told him that he could not allow them to put Joffrey on the throne, I said- I told him he had to protect Jon. He always protected Jon. He loved Jon most.’ 

‘Jon wouldn’t agree.’ 

‘Jon knows nothing.’ She bites her lip and then goes on, ‘Jon is Lyanna’s. Jon is… he loved Jon most. Hardly anyone saw it, but that is only because they paid no attention and truly… no one ever pays attention.’ 

He has lost track of what it is she's trying to tell him and that leaves him with only one thing to say, ‘I don't understand.’ 

‘I told father he owed it to my mother and to… to Lyanna Stark to protect us. Me and Jon. We'd be in danger with Joffrey on the throne. I yelled at him.’ 

‘Well, you were right.’ 

‘He lay his head in his hands and-‘ then Rhaenys starts crying and she doesn't finish her sentence. It's as if her own tears surprise her, as if she believed she had full control and the loss shocks her. She mustn't be much used to it. 

Robb cups her head in his hands and she burrows her face in the crook of his neck, ‘What are you saying?’

‘It's why he d-died… because I yelled. I yelled about Lyanna Stark.’ 

It is then that he understands and he feels a lack of words in a way he never has before.

‘I have told no one, not even Jon.’ 

‘I won't tell a soul.’ He promises.

The Rhaenys he knows best returns when she says, ‘I wouldn't if I were you.’ 

Robb pecks her forehead and presses his nose in her hair, he can't quite name what it is she smells off, a bit of musk, roses and vanilla. She smells expensive and like a confident woman. He wonders if that is a right description for her person. 

‘He may have still lived if I had not done that.’ 

‘It's not your fault Rhaenys.’ 

‘Of course it is!’ She sounds almost angry then, ‘And I'll have to live with it, we all have pages in our diary that we burn but they'll still be it itched in our brain, unable to truly ever run away from. That is life.’ 

‘You didn't kill him.’

‘No… but he might've lived longer.’ 

That is something Robb finds hard to deny, ‘If I had traded the kingslayer…’

He says nothing for a while and then she kisses his cheek, ‘I would never have married you.’ 

Robb can't help but frown at that, because it's so true, and she doesn't even say it to make him feel embarrassed, it's just a plain pact, there to show him that things happen, and afterwards there is nothing left to do but lean under their burden, accept, and pray for forgiveness. 

He can't imagine not being married to her, he may have ended up married to a Frey, he may have still been king, how long would that have lasted? Somehow, he doesn't believe he would have lived long without her, he needs her far too much, and the more time goes by the more he feels confident that she needs him too. 

‘I'll apologize to Jon.’ He says. 

‘Thank you.’ She whispers, and kisses his lips all softly, before she turns in his arms, and he drags her against him so he can hold her while she sleeps. 

 

**Jon**

He wakes up and for a moment thinks that is because the sun is up, but it isn’t, and he instantly realizes she’s gone. _She's gone_ he thinks and for a terrifying moment there's a voice in the back of his head, telling him it was not real, that he's all alone again, but then he blinks, and he sees her. The light of the moon is dim and she’s a dark spot as she stands in front of the frosted window, fuly naked. He groans a little when he moves up because his muscles are soar and he’s certain she realizes he has woken but consciously decides not to turn around. 

Jon yawns. He hasn't slept like this in two years’ time. The fire has gone out and when he exhales he can see his breath in the air. Freia calls herself a cloud-breathing dragon when that happens. She always fills her lungs to all their capacity, breathes out and tries to grab the mist in her fists. 

With her hand, Sansa wipes the glass and then presses her nose to it. Her figure is bathed in the vague light of winter that shines through the window and blinds his sleeping eyes. 

‘What are you doing?’ He asks. 

‘I can see the ships in the harbor.’ She places her forefinger to the window as if she points at something in the distance, ‘I came here on a ship just like that one. I tried to see if I could recognize it, but I can't.’ 

‘It’s probably already on its way back to King’s Landing or somewhere else.’

She doesn’t respond and he pulls the furs off his body to move towards her but hesitates when the cooler wind sticks in his skin like a stab.

‘Get back in the bed, it’s cold.’

She doesn’t seem to be cold and as she slowly turns and shows him her face, he sees a sadness that he never thought he’d ever see in her eyes, dark and empty. It is, almost, as if he, in that moment, sees the eyes of someone he has never met.

‘Sans-’

'You came when you heard I would be here?’

‘Immediately.’

She nods as if that is something she needs to understand. Perhaps she only tries to comprehend.

‘Brienne brought you here.’

‘She did.’ 

‘She found you.’

‘You send her for me?’

‘Almost two years ago.’ 

Sansa nods this time because she already knew that and then she finally moves back over to him, climbs in the bed and pulls on his hand when he scoops her against him, ‘T-thank you.’ 

‘You don't have to thank me.’ He's not sure what she should be thanking him for anyway.

She settles herself in the crook of his arm and pushes a curl of his hair behind his hear, ‘Lord Manderly has been very hostile.’

‘I'm glad.’

‘He's very loyal, to house Stark and to... to you. He calls you… he calls me his queen.’

‘Yes.’ Jon says, ‘They do that with me too. I mean- they don’t call me _queen_ , they-‘

‘You are his king.’ Sansa finishes, for which he feels equally grateful and embarrassed. 

‘Yes, some people have lost their mind.’ He says and he tries to grin but she clearly doesn't think it's funny and he wonders why he ever thought she might. 

‘Jon-‘

‘Forget that, please. I don't want to think about all that now. We’ll talk about it and I'll tell you, I'll tell you everything about everything and you can ask me all you want or need to know and I'll be honest and I won't keep anything from you but… not- I can't do that now, not yet.’ 

She licks her lips with the tip of her tongue, moves her eyes to the lower part of his face and then pulls his head down to kiss him. She lays her hand in his neck, tickles the hairs at the nape, then presses her forehead to his and grins the cheeky grin he remembers, ‘You'll always be just Jon to me.’ 

He smiles too, ‘I’m just Jon.’

For some reason that makes her cry again, he doesn't know why, all he knows is that they're what he taught Freia to be ‘happy tears’ because her smile doesn’t fade and her eyes sparkle as he wipes them away with his thumb. 

‘I was at Castle Black when Jaime sent me a letter. I wasn't at Winterfell, I've been at Winterfell for moons but I wasn't when… I could've been here when you arrived but I wasn't because… I'm sorry I should not have kept you waiting at the Manderlys, that was not-‘

‘Don't be silly.’ She says, ‘You came as soon as you could, did you not? It's what you promised.’ 

‘What?’

‘Have you forgotten? How you promised me you'd come home to me as soon as you could?’ 

Now he feels like crying too, ‘I did not do that.’

‘Yes, you did.’ She insists, ‘It was a bit… a little less… not as soon as you hoped it'd be. But as soon as soon could be all the same.’ 

‘I never… I failed you.’ 

She only shakes her head and kisses him some more, ‘No…’ she tells his lips, ‘No Jon, don't say that.’ 

‘Sansa,’ he says and he takes a shaky breath, ‘I never-‘ 

‘Is Arya home?’ She asks and he moves his face so he can answer her without breathing on her face.

He nods, ‘Yes, Sandor Clegane brought her home. She's at Winterfell with Catelyn and Freia.’

The mere mention of Freia makes another tear slide down her cheek and she turns to lie on her back.

Jon moves a little closer, half on his back, half on his side, still pulling her against him in a tight grip she’ll never be able to escape from.

‘I cut his head off.’

She turns her head to face him so quickly he worries she'll have snapped her neck, ‘The hound?’

Jon nods. 

‘Why?’

‘Because you told him I would.’

She nods, pulls her lower lip in when it trembles and then cries some more before she places her hand to his jaw. 

'I should've cut his head far sooner, I should not ever-‘

‘It doesn't matter.’ Sansa says and her warm breath feels like home on his skin, ‘Nothing of that matters.’

He tries to accept that and not mention more of it, and the only thing he can come up with that might make her look less dreadful is Freia, ‘I tell her stories.’ He blurts out and he feels like an idiot but then he sees her face and he knows that he has to keep talking, ‘I do, and… and I gave her a kitten. Well, Rhaenys did, actually, and she… she loves horses, she always escapes and runs off to the stables and the stableboy gives her a carrot but she never feeds it to the horse, she always eats it herself, which is weird because I don't think she really likes carrots. And well, ehm… She always makes snow knights with Rickon and she has the kitchen staff all wrapped around her little finger, she knows exactly who to go to, to get some cake or some… she has such a sweet tooth, she never eats vegetables but Cat hides it between the other things on her plate and she'll eat it then. She loves Cat, only Cat can put her in a bath because she's the only one who manages to keep the soap from her eyes. She calls her grandmama and ehm… Freia loves snow, I taught her to make a snowball, she can't really throw them, but she likes to roll around in it and make a snow lady on the ground.’ 

'She's been a-a good girl?’ Sansa asks, her watery eyes watch him with delight as much as overwhelming emotion. 

‘Yeah, she has, she… she loves Catelyn, and Rickon. Rickon has been so nice with her, it was… it's lovely to see. He's patient and careful. He's- he tried teaching her how to write but she can't even properly hold a crayon so I told him to wait a little longer. He’s always telling her he'll be in my King’s Guard when he grows up and he'll protect her from foes like a true knight protects all princesses and she really seemed to like the idea, though I doubt she knows what a guard is.’

‘Ghost is with her?’

Jon nods, ‘All the time, always keeping an eye on her.’

Sansa smiles, ‘He has done that from the start when she was… when she was only a day old.’ 

That makes his chest lighten up, knowing that, but he supposes he has always known that. 

She moves her hand to stroke his hair from his face, her fingers trembling only slightly, ‘She was the most beautiful little baby. The smallest, with big, blue eyes and s-such dark hair, it lightened when she grew older. Father said she looked like you.’

He smiles, ‘Everyone still says she looks like me, but your mother says all the rest of her is you.’ 

‘Arya said that too.’ 

‘She… she is always singing too.’

Sansa smiles some more and snuggles her face closer to him, ‘She’s still making them up?’

‘Yes. She sings about the weather and her food, about her unicorn-‘

‘She still has the unicorn? I was afraid they'd take that away from her.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘She still has it, drags it with her everywhere, even when she takes a bath.’ That makes Sansa giggle and the sound makes him feel so warm and fuzzy, ‘She sings about the snow and about the castle, the horses, the sun, stars, the hounds in the kennels and Ghost of course but mostly… she sings mostly about you.’

Sansa presses her hand to her face and her crying remains silent but the number of tears increase, ‘D-does she?’

Jon wraps his arms tighter around her and kisses the top of her head, ‘Of course she does. I talk about you all the time to her, you’re her favorite subject.’ 

‘You were mine too.’ She says, ‘I mean…I talked about you too, you were… I showed her all your letters.’ 

Jon grins, ‘She has made so many drawings for you, they decorate all the walls in Winterfell and she was always asking… always asking when you were coming home and-‘

‘What did you tell her?’

‘Soon, I said, I told her you missed her as much as she missed you.’ 

He feels the drop of her tears on his skin and she digs her nails in his side when her shoulders start shaking under the racks of her sobbing, ‘She hasn't f-forgotten me?’

‘Of course not.’ He wants to believe that is the stupidest question ever, but then he knows it's not. She may have. Freia forgot Arya too. Two year olds forget loads of things, and he's glad, because that means that one day there'll be a time where Freia won't remember not having a father, and she won't remember her life in the Red Keep, whatever that may have been like, she won't remember how they pulled her away from her mother either. All she'll remember is feeling happy and safe. 

‘You s-sure?’

‘So sure.’

Sansa nods and they don't say much as she lets her crying flow and then it leaves her, slowly, and her breathing calms down. 

He breaks the arising peaceful silence by blurring out, ‘I doubt lord Manderly still wants me as his king, I haven't said a word to him.’ 

She bursts out laughing and that is the most wonderful sound, only the sound is enough to make his face form in a grin so wide it hurts his jaw. 

‘I’m sure it will be a story he'll often tell after today.’ She says. 

‘He'd better.’

'Maybe they'll write songs about it.’ Sansa says and she turns around to lay her chin on his chest, looking up at his face, smiling a little. 

‘As if they don't sing enough songs about us as it is.’ 

She laughs some more, ‘I almost didn't recognize you there,’ she says and she moves her fingertips over his far too hairy chin, ‘You really do look quite different.’ 

‘I'm sorry, I would've shaven but I've been on the road quite a lot.’ 

She rubs his scruffy cheek some more, ‘I heard, you've been to Dorne and Dragonstone. you forgot you promised to take me with you if you'd ever go somewhere new.’

‘I'm sorry.’ He says, ‘You would've hated Dragonstone. I hated Dragonstone.’

The smile she has been sporting for a while now disappears then, and he regrets whatever it was he said or did that took that away, ‘It's alright.’ 

‘Viserys tried to kill me.’

She leans her head up and he sheepishly grins.

‘It doesn't matter,’ he says, tucking hair behind her ear, ‘He didn't manage either way.’

‘Brienne saved you.’ She says and he realizes it's not new information to her. 

‘She told you?’

Sansa nods and lays her head down on his chest again, her ear to his heart, closing her eyes. 

He stares at the ceiling for a moment as she rubs his feet with her own, he used to avoid that but now he feels like crying in gratitude because of it, then he asks, ‘What else did she tell you?’ 

She shrugs and doesn't really say anything, so he decides to ask more specifically. 

‘Did she tell you about Daenerys?’ 

At the mention of that name Sansa opens her eyes, ‘Brienne said she was pregnant.’ She admits. 

‘Yes. She erm… she lost it.’ 

‘I know she's not with you.’

‘No. We… we have Ser Barristan to spy on her. Viserys died of his burns after the battle and… well, she’s in Essos. Somewhere in the free cities. First Braavos and then… they say she's somewhere near Astapor.’ 

Sansa shivers when he moves his fingers up and down her spine but she doesn't shrug his fingers away like he remembers her doing so often, ‘Why would she be in Astapor?’

‘Because there's no reason for her to be in Westeros.’ Jon decides. 

'Hmmm.' Sansa says and she rubs her cheek to his chest, ‘They say she has dragons.’

‘Yes.’ He's not sure what else to say. 

‘Is it true?’

‘I believe so.’ 

At that she looks up again, ‘What does that mean for us? Do you think she'll come back? Claim the throne or-‘

‘She wouldn't. There is nothing for her here. If she has any right to the throne so does Rhaenys and Rhaenys… Rhaenys wants me to do it.’ 

‘How is Rhaenys? And Robb? They're married are they not? I couldn't believe it. And mother? Bran and Rickon?’

‘Uhuh, yes I… they're good, all of them, your mother is with Bran, Rickon and Freia at Winterfell and I believe Rhaenys and Robb are at the front together.’

‘Front where?’

Jon moves her hair to her back and pulls his hands through it repeatedly, stares at it as he speaks, ‘In the Riverlands, we've reconquered all the castles they took and the northern half of the Westerlands and-‘

‘Winterfell was ceased, wasn't it?’

‘Yes, by the Ironborn.’ 

‘Did you retake it?’

‘I was in Oxcross, Robb did it.’ 

‘Did he forgive Theon?’

‘He gave him a painless death. I don't… we have not spoken much about it.’

‘Robb beheaded Theon?’ she looks up again and then moves up a little to lay her head on his shoulder and she takes his hand in hers to play with and pull on his fingers. He had forgotten how much she used to play with his hands and he almost loses track of what they're talking about because all he feels for a second is the way her fingernails softly scratch his palm. 

‘Yes.’ 

'Who would've thought.’ She says and the cold and carelessness in her voice takes him off guard a little for a moment. 

‘We want to attack Casterly Rock with the Dornish navy and-‘

‘Were you fighting in Oxcross?’ her eyes are wide, as if she’s afraid. 

‘Yes.’ He rubs his hands over her upper arms, ‘But only… it wasn't dangerous.’ 

‘That's why you're scattered with scars.’ She says. 

‘So are you.’ 

She doesn't say anything. 

‘Sansa-‘

‘You'll fight again? When you'll attack the Rock?’

‘I'll have to.’ She still doesn't sound much worried though her face seems scared suddenly as she moves her leg over him and wriggles her limbs closer to his. 

‘You'll bring me with you?’

‘I'm bringing you home first.’

She presses her nose to his and grins, ‘You'll come with me? Home?’

He closes his eyes at the feeling of her fingers that play with his hair at the nape of his neck, ‘Of course.’ 

She pecks his lips as if she kisses him good-night, and closes her eyes as she pushes her nose to his cheekbone, ‘But you won't leave me again, will you? Never again?’

He shakes his head as he sits up straight and pulls her with him in his arms, ‘No.’ 

She sighs, her eyes move over his face in that way she used to do when they were just married, when they were lying in bed and she was looking and probably wondering who he was, what he was thinking. 

‘I wasn't sick on the ship.’ She tells him, suddenly, ‘I think I was sick… because of Freia after all.’ 

'Maybe, yes.’ 

'Sounds horrible to say it like that, doesn’t it?’

They grin at each other, ‘No, it’s fine.’

‘We'll go to her? Tomorrow?’

‘We will, tomorrow.’

She nods and her eyes leave his suddenly, ‘How is… can you talk about her to me?’

Jon nods, ‘Yes, I mean, of course, what do you-‘

‘Does she sleep well?’

‘I think so.’

‘All on her own?’

‘We gave her Bran’s old room. It's not big, but-‘

'She eats well? She's awful with vegetables and if she doesn't want to eat something she just doesn't.’ 

‘Your mother’s really good with that.’

‘And walking? She's getting better?’

‘Yes. I mean, I think so. She's running all over the place actually-‘ 

‘Talking too? She used to be so scared of strangers, I was so scared that… I thought she'd… I don't know, she never likes to talk to strangers.’ 

‘She talks the ears off your head.’ 

‘Really?’

He nods.

‘Truly?’

‘Won't shut up, she babbles all day and most of the time I have no idea what she's talking about but I don't really mind because it's really adorable and she is always so enthusiastic about everything, so I smile and nod and she told me how-‘

Sansa starts crying again and he's not really sure why, he blinks a few times and scoops her back against him, stroking her hair, as he waits for her to calm down. 

'I thought she'd be so scared.’ Sansa sobs, ‘She was always… if anyone only peeked into her crib she'd start wailing and I guess I just thought… I was so scared she'd be afraid of you. And of mother, I thought… I don't know I thought I-‘

‘She was Sans, in the beginning she was, but your mother was amazing, she knew exactly what to do and what to say and Freia loves her, she does. She made Freia a doll, Freia has three dolls, and she hosts tea parties for them. She has missed you so much, she'll be so happy to see you, I… I talked about you all the time and she was constantly asking when you were coming too and it was just- she missed you as much as you missed her and I told her, I said you missed her and she never…’ he doesn't really know what else to say as he realizes that the only reason he's rambling is because he doesn't know what else to do but talk, when he's talking, there's no silence, and when there's no silence, it all seems so much less surreal. It’s kind of ridiculous, hos easy this talking feels, as if they were lying in a bed together last night, and the night before that, too. 

She doesn't say anything when he keeps his mouth shut, cries some more for a little while and he just lays there, and memories of a long time ago come back. When she lay in his arms at night and her tears broke his heart. When he came back from the wall too, and she was crying, lying in her bed, asking him to forgive her. He told her there was nothing to forgive, because she had never done anything that could possibly ever need forgiveness. She still hasn't. But he has, he had back then and he definitely has now. 

‘Can you ever forgive me?’ 

She wipes her cheek with her hand, ‘Don't be stupid.’ She says, ‘There's nothing to forgive.’ 

‘Yes there is. I took her away from you.’

‘That wasn't you, it was _them_.’

‘But I let them. I could've said no.’ 

‘If you hadn't done it I'm not sure if… it was the trade, and you traded the both of us, for the Kingslayer, and you got what you asked for, eventually you did, Jaime freed me, Jaime and Tyrion.’ 

‘Tyrion is in chains himself as we speak.’ 

She clearly didn't know that, ‘Why?’

‘They accuse him of murdering Joffrey.’

‘Why? He didn't do it.’

Jon shrugs, ‘There's only one person Cersei hates more than me and it's her own flesh and blood brother. Honestly though, who didn't want him dead? Only Cersei didn't, it could've been anyone.’ 

‘But it wasn't Tyrion.’ Sansa says. 

‘Wasn't it? I'm not so sure, I won't be surprised about any of-‘

'It wasn't.' Jon frowns at her certainty and Sansa’s relaxes her face when she sees the look in his eyes, she sighs and decides, ‘Tyrion has no motive.’ 

‘People don't need motives to kill lately.’ He can’t stop scanning her face, ‘He’s dead Sansa, we should be dancing on tables or something, it's not a bad thing.’ 

She doesn't seem eager to dance at all, ‘How can you say that? When he was raised as your brother.’

Jon frowns, ‘He killed your father. He was a sick soul, and he deserved to die.’ 

Sansa seems to suppress a shiver and moves away from him, pushes herself off the bed and he doesn't understand. She has that haunted look in her eyes again, the same as she had when she first saw him.

‘Sansa…’ he starts as she bows down to grab her linen underdress from the floor. She stands up, in the room and hides her nakedness behind the white fabric almost as if it embarrasses her. She puts the dress back on, hugs herself and takes a small step towards the window. 

Jon gets up and pulls her on her hand back into the bed, just in time. She lets him and he's glad, because he doesn't believe he could handle resistance or rejection. 

‘Let’s not talk about that.’ He says, ‘About any of that. We have all the time we need to discuss any of it, but not-‘

‘You said you didn't want to talk about it.’ She says and it’s as if she's accusing him of doing what he told her not to do, ‘So we won't.’ 

‘We won't.’ He agrees, ‘Except if you really want to, if there's anything you need to know, if you want to ask me something and you-‘

‘I don't need to know anything.’ She says, then she hugs her arms around him and moves her legs to each side of him. His hands grab the fabric of her undergarment and he realizes how rough it feels, not silky or soft at all, not something she'd ever want to wear. He'll pull it right off her again the moment he'll feel like he can.

‘Sansa I need-‘

‘You have been true to me, haven't you?’ She whispers, her mouth close to his ears.

‘What? Do I- of course I have.’

He's not sure why that makes her smile and kiss him, but if it's because she expected a different answer then he's not sure what he'll do with himself. He feels oddly angry suddenly. She knows him, does she not? How can she ask him such a thing?

‘Sansa, don't you… why do you ask me that? You're being… you can't ask me that. Don't you ever dare ask me that again.’

Her smile fades and he wonders if she understands why that question is the worst one she's ever asked him, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Don't be.’ 

‘I'll always be the only one, won't I?’

He nods. 

‘You're... I do not…’ she doesn't finish that sentence and he hopes she wasn't going to tell him how lucky she is to be married to him.

From nowhere a memory pops back in his head. His father, telling him, _I can't carelessly give some worthless land to my bastard without men noticing and condemning, it will be insulting to Northern lords._

‘If only I were some stupid lord of a castle somewhere with a river nearby and only a handful of peasants- nobody would care and we could just- nobody would give a shit about us.’ 

‘I wouldn't want a stupid husband.’ 

‘Yes, you would. The stupid ones don't ever concern themselves with politics, they live the longest.’ 

That makes her smile, ‘I always knew.’ She says then, ‘With your father. I told you, remember? I said how… I have so often thought that it was you, your father wanted on that throne.’ 

‘My father is dead, whatever he wanted means very little now.’ 

‘I don't think you believe that.’ She says, and she's right. 

'No. I mean, it means… it doesn't mean enough.’ 

She places her hands to his shoulders and squeezes his muscles the way she used to do when he dropped in their bed after a full night of council meetings, ‘It will.’

‘We weren't going to talk about that.’ 

She smiles, ‘Don't blame me.’ 

‘I'm not blaming you.’ He says and he decides to stop being careful when he adds, ‘but you are the one with clothes on.’ 

She grins and finally, for maybe the first time, her eyes smile with her mouth, she moves closer to him in his lap, her nails digging in the skin of his shoulder blades and she presses her nose to his, ‘Can you go again, then?’ She asks.

He frowns and tries his very best not to look amused because he doesn’t want her to change her mind. She always asked him that, he remembers, and he can't recall him ever answering no.

He feels the urge to convince her of his betrayal, he feels the need to make her hate him as much as he hates himself, but somehow… he doesn't believe he'll manage. She seems far too determined to love him still and he doesn't think he wants to change her mind, as much as he tells himself he should, he's not strong enough. 

She holds his face between her hands as she moves and he lets his hands skate over her body as if he needs to carve these new curves in his head, etch them in his brain. 

He expects her to be as dry as Dorne after the day they had, but she's as slippery as soapy skin, her tights all wet, and she sighs in grateful content when he fills her all up. 

He wants to spend the next fortnight looking at her and touching her, just feeling her. Watching her too, as she closes her eyes and smiles as if she's terribly pleased with herself. They don't play and joke and tease the way they always used to do, this is too intense for that and she cries too much. She sniffs a little but she smiles through the tears so the taste of the salt on her cheeks doesn't hurt him as much as he initially thought it would. Then her crying stops and she just smiles, and it's almost as if she has no reason to cry. 

They continue to not say much throughout the night, hardly a thing, except his unoriginal compliments that come back to him as if he last told them yesterday and they still make her blush and smile and look away because they're still as bad as they always used to be so they still embarrass her. 

Her voice is so soft, as soft as the satin of the sheets around them and she whispers to him, ‘Jon, I missed you so.’ She tells him, ‘I can't believe you're real.’ 

He realizes that he can believe this is real, this is the realest thing he's done in two years.

 

**Sansa**

Sansa closes her eyes again to let the feeling sink in, to try and keep herself from crying, she's done with all the crying, her eyes still ache from the tears of last night, if she'll cry some more the narrow sea will flow over, wash them away and she might drown- wouldn't that be such a waste? 

When she moves and turns around in his arms he stirs but doesn't wake up.

Jon… she needs him to open his dark grey eyes and tells her all the things she needs to hear, even when she doesn't know exactly what that is, the only thing she knows is that he is the only person who can say it. She wants him to wake up so she can climb on top of him, for him to move inside her and make her forget who she is, and allow him to spill some more seeds in her already filled womb. Sansa needs the first and she wants the other. Her wants have been stronger than her needs these past hours of hazy bliss. She shivers when she remembers. 

She moves up a little so she can look at his face properly, now that she can finally inspect it in broad daylight without him staring back. 

It's odd looking at his face, especially after such a long time. She believed she could remember his features as if she'd seen them only a day ago, and maybe she could remember, but he has changed and she wasn't there to see it happen, so now he simply looks different from the way she remembers. 

Sansa moves her hand up and places the back of her fingers to his cheek, where she can feel his trimmed beard. The last time she saw him he was all clean-shaven and boyishly handsome. Now he looks like every bit of him that contained a youthfulness has died a painful death and made place for not only a beard, but some quite gruesome scar covering his left eye, too. Somehow, magically, it didn't manage to ruin his handsomeness, perhaps it suits him.

The way he sleeps, his eyes closed and his dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks, make her wonder if he can still pull off that mopey, brooding look he used to put on when he was in a whiny mood. The memory makes her smile. She loved his brooding, she could know he was doing it without looking at him, she gave up trying to find out why he did it, she made it one of her priorities to simply make him stop instead and she had her ways of doing it. 

His cheeks are gone, with the cheekbones less defined as his jawline is more evident, less chiseled, than she remembers. He isn't skinny anymore. She already felt it in the arms he draped around her middle, bigger and stronger, his shoulders seem wider and when she moves her hand down to lay it to his chest it feels harder than she remembers it feeling. 

The way he looks makes her feel somewhat uncomfortable, it's as if it is the living evidence of their time apart, of how young and foolish they once were. She wonders if he saw the differences in her appearance, for she has changed too, but maybe he has forgotten what she used to look like.

Looking at him makes her smile. He may appear different but he's still as handsome as she remembers. Perhaps more handsome, less pretty, he looks less like his father and brother, more like… she's not sure what he looks like. Less boyish. Maybe she quite likes the beard, maybe it looks good on him. It felt weird when she pressed her lips to it, she remembers, she never kissed a bearded cheek like that. It scratched her, her lips, her face, the inside of her thighs… it turned soft and dainty skin all red. Sansa wonders why she used to dislike that so much, she loved it last night. She loved everything. Him mostly. Most of all she loves him. 

The innocence in his sleep is something she recognizes. She remembers those days. In that room where he took her maidenhead and in the weeks after that night, night became her favorite time of the day, when no one would scold her or treat her like a child and she did not have to share him with anyone. He'd roll off her and she hated how quickly after he'd fall asleep. She never could and she didn't dare grab a book at first, in fear of wakening or possibly even annoying him, so she stared. Sansa lay on her side, her head in her hand palm, her legs rubbing together because she wasn't at all used to the seeds in her womb yet and she'd start her studies on her lord husband’s face. 

Later he'd roll off her and drag her against him, his arms around her and his face in the crook of her neck and she felt so happy, so _wanted_.

‘Jon…’ She whispers, ‘Jon wake up.’

His eyes flutter and he frowns at first but then he smiles, he says her name but makes no sound, only moves his lips and it makes her kiss him. 

He pulls her close, buries his face in her neck but she resists, ‘We can’t.’ she tells him, ‘The sun is up, we have to go home.’ 

He seems disappointed for only a small moment and then he nods, ‘I'm going to bring you home.’ He says and they both know how that feels like the last promise he manages to keep, he has said it at least five times in the past few hours. 

She can't stop grinning as she watches him, so surreal is he to her, everything about him, he pushes her off him and they help each other get dressed, which is something she doesn’t remember ever doing before. 

He greets lord Manderly, properly this time, like a king, in a way that reminds Sansa of Rhaegar, which makes her feel all sorts of things, and then they sit apposite each other at a table to break their fast, ‘Is there anything you need?’ he asks as he studies her eat her shrimpsoup. 

_I need you to hold me._

She only wants to tell him to take off all his clothes again, she wants to feel his lips on hers, on every part of her. She wants to take him in her hand and guide him inside. She wants to feel him move deep within her, make her feel complete, good, safe, wanted. She wants to close her eyes and feel nothing but their bodies moving as one. She wants him to fill her up, to give her one more baby, because she thought she’d never have another. She wants to hear his breathing, moan in his mouth, scratch his back with her nails. 

She wants him to turn back time. 

_Love me, please, love me_ , she wants to say. She wants to beg, _I didn’t believe anyone would ever love me again_.

He was always very good at that. They were good at it together. So good she wondered once if it was normal that it was always so good, if it was ever going to stop getting better every time. 

She asked him once, a long time ago, ‘Is it always like this? Between a lord husband and his lady wife?’

‘No.’ He said, so quickly she knew it could be nothing but the truth. 

‘I figured.’ She said and he asked her how and she told him, ‘Because if it is always so good, between all husbands and wives, someone must've certainly mentioned it to me once.’

That made him laugh and then he shook his head and looked a little more serious, ‘Some men are horrible creatures, Sansa.’ He said, ‘Remember when you didn't like it the first time? For some women… it is always like that.’ 

Sansa wanted to tell him it wasn't that she didn't _like_ it, but she remembered the stinging and understood what he was trying to say, 'And their lord husbands don't care?’

Jon shrugged, ‘No. I suppose they do not.’ 

She knows what he meant now. She knows now that men don't need to have lady wives to hurt women neither. They'll do it on the streets, after pulling them from a horse, ripping their dress, pushing them down into the muddy, filthy ground with anger and they’ll force themselves inside and it'll hurt. Women will scream out in both terror and pain and men won't care. Some men are horrible creatures. And love is not always love. Sometimes making babies hurts. Sometimes a woman gets raped in the streets and her belly will grow and she won't stand in front of the mirror in the morning, naked and glowing, hoping it'll look like the father who put it there. 

If anything, knowing that makes her so much more grateful.

They stand in the courtyard of the castle where he lifted her up for what feels like only a few hours ago. It's not been a few hours it's been at least a day. 

If lord Manderly hoped to find some pleasant company in his king and queen he was rudely disappointed. They didn't come out of their room at all. That makes her feel by far not as embarrassed as it should. 

‘We don't have to talk, but you… I love you and I'm so sorry. I'm not so good with words but you are… Gods Sansa I will protect you with my life, I swear it, I do, I'll never fail you again.’ He said, somewhere during the middle of the night, when she pulled on his hair, her legs trembling as he moved inside her, with her, together. And she believed him. How could she believe him? Did she not swear to never trust anyone ever again? But she didn't think she'd ever see him again when she swore that. She feared that if she'd ever see him it would only be his corpse as Joffrey forced her to look at it. Joffrey will not force her to ever do anything ever again. 

Joffrey is dead, she made sure of that, and it did not make her feel better nor relieved, all she feels is disappointment, because she was not there to see Cersei’s response, hear her screams, when his face turned blue, then purple, when poison filled his throat with his own blood, as he choked. She wanted to look at it and smile, smile at Cersei when the woman’s eyes found hers.

Jon lifts her up and puts her in her saddle and Sansa feels a little uncomfortable in her seat, it's been so long since she rode a proper horse for much longer than it takes to cross half a city and he gives her a reassuring smile because he probably sees. He still can, and that makes her feel so grateful. 

Ser Malckom raises an eyebrow at her and then, quite suddenly, asks her, ‘All right, m’lady?’

‘Yes, thank you, Ser.’ 

He nods, seems to think of his words for a moment, turns his head to watch Jon say his proper goodbyes to Lord Manderly, who doesn't seem as offended as he should be, and then tells her, ‘It's good to have you back.’ 

Sansa smiles, ‘I missed you too.’

Jon once promised her he'd find her a wheelhouse when they'd go back to Winterfell. There is no wheelhouse, and she's glad for it. In a wheelhouse, all she'd be able to do is think and worry, be alone. She's been alone enough for the rest of her life. 

On her mare, she gets to breathe in the fresh air of the North and she can look at him, make sure he doesn't flash away, blow away like a dust of air. 

She wonders if he can't stop thinking of the last time they were traveling together either, like she can't. When they were respectively seventeen and nineteen years old and so young. She can't believe how young they were. The only thing she wanted back then was to be a woman grown, be treated as one too. She wanted him to tell her everything and she wanted everyone around her to stop acting as if she was still a child. 

But she was a child, Sansa knows that now. She was as innocent as a lamb. Chaste, pure, blameless of any wrong in the world. Unaware of all the dark clouds creeping up on her, from all sides. She lived in such a bubble and the worst truth is, that she voluntarily chose to live in that bubble. Whenever Jon told her a story she didn’t want to believe, she'd tell him she refused to believe him, and he'd shrug and allow her to do that. He probably figured that she'd find out on her own soon enough.

He said it too, once, she can still remember, ‘It's alright if you sometimes have to figure things out on your own.’ 

She wishes he didn't let her do that, that he'd pressed it under her nose. Perhaps that would've made it all a little less terrible. Perhaps that would've made it feel less like her world came crumbling down on top of her like a ruined building, pressing her down with all the broken rocks, suffocating her, wounding her for life. She may have built herself a proper shield if he'd done that.

He was her shield once, she knows that now. He took all her blows for her, stood broad and wide in front of her to catch it all, and he did it so well she didn't even notice the shaking ground beneath his feet. 

It was only that when he was gone she realized how hopelessly vulnerable she was, how weak and targetable. It was only when he was gone that she understood how strong he was. It was then that she finally truly understood where his bitterness came from. 

She used to get so angry at him for keeping things from her, but now- she can understand the desire to just keep her away from the reality of things. 

Rhaenys told Sansa once that she envied her, she said she was jealous because Sansa didn't fear the great ordeal, she had nothing to be afraid of. That seventeen-year-old girl had nothing to be worried about. 

Jon tells her Tyrion escaped and she once again repeats how the imp is not the murderer of Joffrey. 

She doesn’t say it, though she knows she must. It is just that somehow, somewhere, she hopes he’ll guess, that he can see it, that he knows her so well that she doesn’t need words to confess, that he can still stare right into her soul the way he once could. He can’t. She wonders if her soul is too black now, for him to read.

Jon shrugs, tells her anyone might have done it, ‘Everyone wanted him dead.’ He says.

 _Nobody wanted it as much as I did_ , she thinks, closing her eyes firmly.

She doesn't say it, she keeps her mouth shut and he doesn't even notice her discomfort. He should notice, she doesn't know why he doesn't. 

She knows she should tell him, that they can't do this again, that he's right when he tells her constantly how they should talk. But she doesn't want to. 

When she starts talking, when she tells him everything, he'll know. 

And when he'll know… perhaps the reality of things will hit him. 

This time, she's the one catching all the rocks, and her knees are shaking and the ground beneath her shudders, yet he doesn't notice, he doesn't see it, and she wants it that way. She is the shield. It’s Sansa’s turn to be the shield.

When Jon looks at her she feels happy, hopeful, optimistic, light-hearted, carefree… almost vivacious. She feels like that seventeen-year-old girl again. She feels young. Like that innocent and fearless person he fell in love with. The person he is still in love with, that he still seems to think she is. 

She doesn't want him to know she isn't that person anymore, because what if he'll know? What if he'll stop recognizing her? What if they'll accept that they are, in fact, totally different people than they were the last time they saw each other? Can she tell him he doesn't know her anymore? Can she tell him she's a stranger to him?

How should she do that? _I’m not who you think I am. Not anymore_.

Can she tell him that? What will he say? 

_I don't care about silk dresses, knights and harp music anymore. I don't believe in songs. I know they're lies. The outside world doesn't excite me anymore. The outside world scares me. It hurts. It hurt Jon, it hurt so much._

Can she tell him how much it hurt? Can he hear it? Can she do that to him? Maybe she can't. Maybe she shouldn't hurt him so much, to kill that last shred of believe. 

He tells her he missed her, he tells her all the time. And she says it back and it's true, the Gods are her witnesses, it's true. If only she knew missing like that exists. She never would've allowed him to go. She should've forced him to stay. 

Why didn't she? He blames himself but she's as much to blame. She told him, did she not? She told him she'd be alright, she told him it was going to be alright, she told him _you can go Jon_.

Was that a lie? Or was she being stupid? Maybe she just didn't know. 

He loved her once. Will he love her now? Maybe she can't let him know because she fears he won't. If he'll ever stop loving her she'll be lost, she'll lose herself with him. 

‘I love you, Sans.’ He says, he whispers it in her hair at night and she hears the beating of his heart beneath her ear before she falls asleep on his chest. 

She wants to tell him that maybe he doesn't. Maybe he loves what she used to be. If he loved the fool she used to be- how can he love what she is now? Sansa is a fool no longer. If only she still was. If only she understood back then, when she still was, that he didn't want to keep her stupid, or in the dark, he wanted her to be innocent, he wanted to protect her. 

He must know that she no longer is. He can see it can he not? He sees it every night when his eyes grow dark as they move over the skin of her thighs. He stopped asking her who did that. 

_Jon will kill you all_.

Will he? Telling herself saved her from collapsing many times, yet, now- she's not even sure if she wants him to. 

Revenge is not sweet. It never is, Sansa knows that now, too. His kisses are sweet. They're the sweetest thing, his words too. Revenge didn't make her feel better. Seeing him made her feel better. His lips pressed to hers make her feel better. 

There is this moment where she has forgotten, quite suddenly, what he used to look like. It's just this Jon now, the way he is as a 23-year-old. It doesn't even make her think anything anymore, she decides she likes it. She likes him older. 

She likes his new attitude too. If one can call it an attitude. The way he talks, walks and looks around, the way he carries himself. Not at all like that nineteen-year-old boy. 

Yet it's still Jon. He can still be a little bit awkward, and he tells her the same, uncreative compliments, and they still make her blush. He still looks at her like that and when he smiles, his eyes still narrow. He kisses the same, and when he holds her, she feels just as save as she once did. And that is all she ever dreamed, what she missed so much, the most of these past two years, so she tells herself it should be enough, and most of the time, it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who thought the angst was over cause they're back together... the angst is never over. Angst in oxygen.  
> I'm sorry if anyone was hoping for a Freia-Sansa reunion... as I've said before, I try to keep the word count below 10,000. That Robb chapter was written three days ago during tort law lecture and exists only because I had at least five comments that went a bit like 'OMG I NEED a Robb/Rhaenys reunion!!!' - blame it on these people.  
> So yeah, see you guys this Sunday, have a lovely week, don't do what fic!-Sansa wouldn't do (that doesn't include killing Joffrey, btw), and before you do that, make a girl happy and grateful and feel appreciated and leave a comment!  
> byeexxx


	42. Winterfell's Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She leans against a tree and catches him staring at her, which worries her first, annoys her then because she feels he's watching her, until she realizes he's just staring. The way he always has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really early update (hope nobody minds!) because I have some very hectic week and I wouldn't be able to update tomorrow nor the day after that. In fact, my exams are coming up and, like last time, I'm going to do myself a favor and adapt my update schedule to my law school schedule. I'm gonna update next Tuesday, then again that Friday and then I'll have a two weak break and return on Friday (that will be, 21st of April), to my two chapter a week thing, if all goes to plan. If it doesn't... you'll find out by then haha!  
> In any case, thank you for all the niceness, as always, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Sansa**

Jon tells her about battles, bannermen, strategies, plans, castles, marching, tactics, maps, navies, plots and spies. Sansa tries to listen, she tries to understand, but often, she finds herself pretending.

‘Really, we were most lucky with the Hightowers, I didn’t expect their support but apparently Lady Hightower was a lady in waiting of Elia Martell and the wife of their eldest son a frequent visitor of Rhaenys’ tea parties, those truly turned out to be of some value, after all.’ 

‘How is lord Hightower so important?’ 

‘They brought in so many men, and they are south of Highgarden, all the rest are closer to the border with the Westerlands, which is good when that is still where all the fighting is happening, but when we attack Highgarden it is going to be a nice extra push to attack it from the south with an army the seize of theirs.’ 

‘Attack Highgarden?’

‘After the Rock, yes, of course.’ 

_Of course_.

The way he talks reminds Sansa about their first weeks of marriage. She'd ask one question, often about some place she had never seen that he mentioned before, and she expected a short answer, one that she would be able to process, but instead he would ramble on and on and mention more things she had never heard of before. 

She would stare and listen breathlessly, sometimes her mind would wander of and she'd sit there, watching him, taking the sight of him in as she, then, decided he was handsome, terribly handsome, in one way she never noticed handsomeness exists, far more handsome than silver haired princes with eyes the color of amethysts. 

She can’t stop thinking about the time, so long ago suddenly, when they were just married. How much she longs for these days. She was so happy then, careless most of all.

She'd hear his voice without the meaning of his words, discovering the sound was one she found pleasant. She sat there, next to him, at the high table or opposite him on her own bed, wrapped up in a heavy robe, and all the information just hit her like a rock. 

The way he spoke back then, about the free cities, Pentos with the Velvet Hills, the nine wonders made by man described in a book written some measter named Longstrider and the customs of Bravoosi tradesmen and Dothraki horselords, was almost the same as he does now, about his own war effort. 

The words stream out and they seem endless, a never-ending bombardment of information and all Sansa can do is blink. 

He's using words she has no idea what the meaning is of, talks about castles, rivers, roads and town she wouldn't know where they are in the world if someone held her at knife point. He mentions lords from castles that she didn’t know existed though they are, she’s sure, very important.

Sometimes she asks what he means, or where that is, or why that would be a good idea, but most of the time, she just can't bring up the energy, and she is glad for his rambling, because when he's rambling about a bridge they need to cross the Mander -which is a large and powerful, but slow-moving river, wide with snags and sandbars to trap the unwary ship- at least he's not asking questions, nor is there a silence between them that could freeze a waterfall. 

He asks after all of it, simple things, what rooms she had in the keep, where she ate her supper, if she was allowed to go to the garden, if she ever saw Cersei, if she had the same chamber maids and servants all the time, if she went to feasts and joustings, if Freia had a Septa... 

Sansa tells him all she knows about the Tyrells, Margaery and her grandmother and those three knightly brothers. About Cersei, the small council, the Lannisters, including Tywin and Kevan, Lancel, and that sister of theirs, who's married to a Frey, Tommen too. Sansa tells him about all Tyrion told her, he asks her how she knows and she says she listened, just always listened and he seems to know what she means, seems contempt with that answer. He’s contempt with every answer, every little word he gets out of her, and never suspicious of their truth.

The few emotional questions he dares ask are left so coldly unanswered he quickly stops trying entirely.

He asks her how she came up with the name Freia and she can't help but feel a little afraid- what if he doesn't like it at all? Shouldn't she just tell him she found it in a book? Or met someone from somewhere who had the same name? 

‘It's what your mother wanted to name you.’ 

She regrets the honesty when she sees his confusion, then he says, ‘But Freia is not a name for a son.’ 

She laughs, ‘No! I mean, _yes_ , she thought you'd be a daughter.’

He smiles cheekily, ‘I suppose women don't always know, then.’ His smile disappears when he realizes who they're talking about, ‘Who told you this?’

‘Your father.’ Sansa says. Freia is Freia. They can't change her name now, not after this long, he'll like it or he won't, there's little his dislike can change.

‘Really? When?’

‘Not long before she was born. He erm… he said we'd have to make her a princess.’ 

Jon just snorts at that and she's not sure why. He doesn't ask much more, doesn't wonder why her father told her, he doesn't ask what else they talked about. Frankly, the information of her conversing with his father doesn't shock him at all as much as she thought it would. 

‘Do you mind?’

He looks up and shakes his head, ‘No, I… no, it's nice. It's a pretty name.’ 

Sansa tries to find something on his face other than indifference but there's nothing. Perhaps men are simply not so sentimental about things such as this. Maybe the link means little to him because it's so indirect. 

‘I just thought it was a beautiful name. And it sounds northern, so I supposed you'd like that.’

He grins, ‘You would've named her whatever you liked either way, don't pretend otherwise.’ 

She smiles at that and decides not to deny it, ‘So you don't mind?’

‘Why would I mind?’ 

That response is reason enough for her to leave it at that. She supposes she should be glad he doesn't mind. That would've been horrible. And she's glad he doesn't ask her if they discussed anything other than baby names, telling him all the rest Rhaegar told her is something she prefers to postpone. 

Over a hundred men, including lord Trebor Jordayne, lord Jason Mallister, lord Manderly’s two sons, Wylis and Wendel as well as Rodrik Cassel, Leobald Tallhart, and Cley Cerwyn, followed him to White Harbor and they all stare at her as if they had heard of her existence, but never quite believed her to be truly real. The feeling is mutual.

Tyrion told her Jon has an army, he told her he was proclaimed his father’s true heir, lord of the Seven Kingdoms and all, but seeing it doesn’t really confirm it, it still seems incredulous and the lack of change in his behavior to her, doesn't help much. Most of the time, he still smiles at her as that nineteen-year old boy who warmed her hand with his as they stood in the snow, in front of a weirwood tree. 

‘Why are they all here?’ she asks, ‘So many of them, do I need that protection?’

Jon grins, ‘You don’t, the only protection you need is me.’

‘Then why?’

He sheepishly looks at her then and his grins turns into a grimace, ‘Because _I_ need their protection.’ She must look scared then became he wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses her temple, ‘Don’t worry Sans, we came right off the Wall to White Harbor, they helped me stop the invasion.’

 _Don’t worry Sans_. 

Hearing him say it gives her the urge to break down in sobs, so grateful is she. He’s lying when he says it though, for he can’t possibly have chased off a wildling invasion with only a hundred men. Somehow, she knows, he doesn’t mean to lie. He does it unconsciously, or perhaps it is what he tells himself whenever he feels scared. He never seems to feel scared, he’s far too confident for that, and far too grateful for her company. He only ever seems worried. 

She watches him talk to these soldiers and it’s odd because they all seem to view him as a god, a savior, their hero, a _king_ which often seems to make him feel uncomfortable… but he is also their leader and, at the same time, importantly, one of them, and that is, as it always was, something he feels perfectly comfortable with. It astounds her how many of these common soldiers he knows by name. 

The two of them don't argue, not the way she remembers, and whenever he does something he shouldn't, he apologizes and seems almost afraid of angering her, and it's quite the same the other way around.

Sometimes they're laughing and it’s almost like they’re young again. They sit in a small, warm inn and watch the owner’s wife flutter her eyes at Ser Malckom and they laugh at the way his eyes bulge from his skull.

He makes love to her in a bed so ridiculously small he actually manages to fall out of it and she laughs and he laughs because she laughs. The bedchamber so small with walls so thin he keeps his hand pressed to her mouth from beginning to end because Ser Malckom sleeps in front of their door- though she's sure it matters nothing, the bed creaks as loud as a warhorn. 

Afterwards they lay against each other, so close it is as if they're holding each other for the first time in two years, and he whispers, ‘Wildlings make love to each other under the stars, in the muck, on a bed of snow, with everyone else sleeping around them.’

‘They don't have bedchambers.’ Sansa says. 

‘No, don't think they do.’ 

They reminisce memories of their childhood and the memories of snowball fights in the courtyard, Ned telling them stories about a dragon under the ground and Bran falling asleep in a tree makes them laugh.

She leans against a tree and catches him staring at her, which worries her first, annoys her then because she feels he's watching her, until she realizes he's just staring. The way he always has. The way he did from the start, from the other end of Winterfell’s great hall, with his eyes so wide it makes him look like a blind puppy. 

When she turns her gaze up and stares back he grins, as if he got caught, and Sansa feels her cheeks burn. 

She thinks that maybe they should talk about his father, but she just can't find the right moment, it is the subject he avoids.

Then suddenly, when they are forced to spend one night in the open air, and they sit around one large, flaming fire, Rhaegar comes up when Jon suddenly starts telling her, and the men around them, ser Malckom, Brienne, lord Jason Mallister and all these others, a story about his father. 

She suspects it’s the sound of the stream of the river that brings the memory to his mind and when he starts, he just can’t seem to stop.

‘My father loved fishing, he did. During summer, he’d sit in a low stool by the water and he’d catch one fish after another from Blackwater Bay, he was really good at it. I remember -when I was thirteen- it was really hot that day… He caught one as big as Tommen and he gave it to him- to Tommen- made him hold it. He was trying to teach him I think, I don’t remember… and the thing… the fish, it still lived and struggled to be free. Tommen fell flat on his face down in the water, the fish lost. I pulled him up, back to his feet, he was just a little boy… Joffrey mocked him then and my father he… he slapped Joffrey to the back of his head with a dead fish.’

Jon makes a movement with his hand as if he slaps someone with a fish and grins at the memory of his father hitting Joffrey to the back of his head.

‘It wasn’t at all hard, it can’t possibly have hurt but… and Myrcella couldn't stop laughing. Rhaegar hated Joffrey more than all of us together, I promise you that, but he never beat him, none of us.’

‘King Rhaegar enjoyed fishing?’ Wandel asks, and his voice describes Sansa’s own disbelief. 

Jon nods, a vague smile on his face, ‘When we were traveling- we were always traveling- he’d do it too, and he always forced my brother to join him. Aegon hated it. He hated everything outside of castle walls. I can still hear my father yell at him…’ Jon imitates his father’s voice scarily well, ‘Egg hold the worm! Hold it! It’s not going to bite you it’s a _worm_!’ Jon laughs again at his own memory, ‘And then Aegon would scream out, something like, _It moves_! Or, _It’s sticky_! And Rhaenys would make fun of him for it for ten days after at least. He never caught one fish, Egg, he wasn’t very good at the waiting. I think the waiting is what my father loved most of all... And the silence. When he was fishing, he had an argument to make everyone around him keep their mouths shut. Back then Aegon was Egg, Rhaenys was Gael or Lady No... Aegon called her Lady No, she hated that. Myrcella was Cella and Joffrey Joff.’

‘What did they call you, your grace?’

‘Me?’ Jon laughs, ‘Just Jon. Or _bastard_ , depends on the person who demanded my attention, I suppose… my father never called me that, not once.’ 

‘Wasn’t the queen there, your grace?’

‘Cersei? Oh no, never. Thank the Gods! No, it was always me, Rhaegar, Rhaenys and Aegon. Cersei wouldn’t go anywhere on a horse and Rhaegar couldn’t stand the time it takes a wheelhouse to cross any distance… Her brood stayed in the capital with her, of course.’ 

The movement of the fire creates shadows on his face and Sansa feels so sad suddenly, seeing the way he stares down at his hands, where he holds a sword she doesn’t recognize. He moves the whetstone over the steel and seems lost in the past. 

‘Father used to… he always brought one of us to this place, somewhere, when we were on the road, and he’d point at it, and ask what we were looking at. You never knew, you always either shrugged or guessed, but he never called you stupid for it, and then he’d… He explained where we were, some grassy field, a desert or a river, and he said, _this is where queen Rhaenys and Merexes were killed_ or, _what you’re looking at is the worthless piece of land they fought over during the battle of Town’s End_.' Jon looks up then and stares right into Sansa’s eyes, though she’s sure he doesn’t see her, he’s too deep in the past, when he says, ‘I’ll never forget when we travelled through the Riverlands, and he sat on his horse and said… he asked, _do you know where we are?_ and he didn’t let me answer, before he said, _This is the Trident, here I killed Robert Baratheon_ , and he pointed at the river and asked, _What do you know about the battle of the Trident?_ ’

Jon doesn't tell anyone what his answer was as he sinks away in silence, and the mood of everyone sitting around them adapts to his words that dance through the air. 

When he puts his longsword away she cannot help but crawl over to him, in his lap, where he wraps his arms around her tired, dusty and soar body. 

A memory comes back to Sansa, of one of these feasts at the Red Keep, when she always tried to make him dance with her. She begged him, more than once, ‘Jon, Jon, _please_ , dance with me…’ 

He'd grin and shake his head, point at all the men whose hands were aching in their desire to dance with her but she only wanted him, and he was the only one who wasn't eager at all. 

‘If you'll dance with me… if you'll dance with me I'll do the thing you like.’ She whispered in his ear. She always whispered and she was sure no one heard it yet now she wonders if someone may have.

Aegon, Daenerys or Tyrion, the hound… anyone who was bothered by their happiness.

He gave her his happiest smile then, his face so flushed she wouldn't believe it didn't embarrass him no matter how much he wanted to hide it, ‘What? Here, _right now_?’

‘No! _Tonight_!’

‘I don't need to dance with you to get you to do that, you like it more than I do.’

'That's not true! If you don't dance with me I'll never do the thing you like ever again.’ 

‘If you don't ever do that again I'll never do the thing _you_ like ever again either.’

‘That's not fair.’ She told him and he was so close he pressed his forehead to hers, his twinkling eyes two shiny black diamonds making her heartbeat speed up, ‘You don't want to dance with me.’ 

‘You're the who’s one blackmailing me.’ He said and Sansa giggled. 

He pulled her out of the throne room then, outside, to the terrace, into some bench, where he spend the rest of the feast kissing her until all feeling in her lips had left, right there on that bench. The memory still makes Sansa blush. 

The thing she liked most about feasts in the capital was the part where he brought her to bed and made love to her drunkenly. All clumsy, rough and fun. And she'd do the thing he liked, and he definitely liked it more than she did, though she liked it too, and he'd do the thing she liked as well, of course, and they'd fall asleep with the sun coming up, casting its light in the bedchamber as they lay there, entangled, naked and sweaty. Blissfully happy. 

She remembers how he woke her up sometimes, in the middle of the night, and she asked him what was wrong, because he was so clearly upset and he'd shake his head and say, ‘I just want to cuddle.’ 

She would wrap herself around him and they’d cuddle, and she'd stroke his hair and kiss his forehead until he fell asleep, long after muttering something in the dark, like,

‘I hate my father.’

That night she wakes up when he lifts her up in his arms and brings her to her cot in a hastily built tent, where he moves close against her and shivers. 

‘Do you miss him, Jon?’ she asks. She remembers how Brienne told her he mourned Rhaegar, but they just can't seem to talk about it. 

Jon sighs, snuggles his nose in the crook of her neck, ‘Not now, I don't.’ He says. 

He tells her she’s safe every day, multiple times, but Sansa doesn't feel safe yet. She wakes up in the middle of the night, sweating, and when he's there he strokes through her hair and whispers until she calms down. Sometimes, however, he's not there, and she lies shaking in a strange bed, her heart pounding in her throat, cold sweat dripping down her temple, her entire body in a freeze, her limbs ice, and all she can do is call for him, his name, just his name, and he's always immediately there, but never soon enough.

‘I want Freia.’ She tells him then, ‘I need Freia, I have to go to her, she needs me, Jon.’ 

‘We’re going to her, it's alright, you're safe, we'll be with her soon, no one is going to hurt you.’ 

His words echo through her brain but they feel so hollow and empty, she realizes she sometimes doesn't believe them, sometimes they seem too good to be true. 

She sleeps so terribly at night that, whenever they make camp, or stop because of the weather, or because the horses need rest, she usually falls asleep in his lap. 

As they travel through the north he keeps pointing at places as if she should remember what it is. She doesn't. The only place she recognizes is that tavern, the really special one. The one they celebrated his 20th nameday in. 

Maybe they made Freia that night. She thought of that before. Grand measter Pycelle said ‘ten to twelve weeks’- but he may have been wrong. She hopes they made Freia that night. It may have been the loveliest night of her life.

The night they sleep in that tavern again the words of the witch come back. 

_You'll give away your dearest possession but you will not lose it._

Sansa lost everything. She knows what it's like to have nothing, she knows what giving up feels like. She knows what reliving hope feels like too. And now… now she dreams of five daughters and three sons again. Will they? Can they? She's such a fool. How can she still be such a fool? 

_Death in the night, dragons awakening and so much tears. Undying love protecting you like a cloak. Death in the night… red eyes and red weddings… the purple wedding. A wall and a child lost. Purple wedding… death in the night… and betrayal._

Who was that woman referring to? Cersei? Joffrey killing Sansa’s father? Daenerys asking Jon to run away with her? Viserys declaring Rhaenys a traitor? Or maybe Sansa’s own brother? Robb… she has not seen him for three years. 

They don't talk about that either. About Robb betraying Jon and Jon betraying Robb. They don't talk about the trade at all, he doesn't repeat how parting her from Freia was a mistake, he doesn't keep asking her to forgive him, the way she expected he might. 

Most of the time they don't say a word, it's as if the realization that they're really together again has just simply not sunken in yet, not during the day. 

At night, it's real. It feels real, surreal too, at the same time. 

But during the day, when he sits on his horse in broad daylight, she looks at him, and wonders if she can actually see him. 

A day before they reach Winterfell she sits in his lap on the ground, his back against a tree, a slow stream not far from them.

He asked if she wanted to wash herself and she did, though not well, for the water was freezing cold and her fingers soon turned blue and numb. 

He helped her out again, wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and rubbed her arms to warm her, then dragged her against his chest, real close, to let his own body heat do the job for him.

With all these men, it’s hard to find some time of their own. Their staring is both uncomfortable and confronting.

‘Sans…’ he says, his nose pressed to her neck, ‘You don't have to tell me everything, but you know that you can, don't you?’

Sansa turns her head and he presses his forehead to her temple, ‘Hmm?’

‘You know what I mean.’ 

Sansa doesn't, truly doesn't, for he could mean so many things. 

‘I spoke with Arya, she told me everything.’ 

‘Arya…’ Sansa closes her eyes at the name.

‘She told me they beat you.’ 

Sansa bites her lower lip and she senses his eyes pierce in her skin, trying to find what it is she thinks or feels. 

‘I understand you don't want to talk about that.’ 

‘What do you want me to say?’ Sansa is aware her voice may be angry, too angry, in a way he absolutely does not deserve, but she can't help it. She feels herself stiffen in his arms and she realizes he notices too because he drags her closer to his chest and kisses her cheek multiple times. 

'When she told me, I was so angry, I’ve never been so angry before in my entire life. I wanted to kill someone, I’ve never wanted to kill someone, anyone, not like that.’

Sansa closes her eyes and feels extremely nauseous suddenly and the urge to jump up and throw up in the stream appears. 

‘No one will ever do that to you again, no one, I swear it, I’ll revenge them, I will, I mean it Sansa, all the Gods, they are my witnesses.’ 

She opens her eyes again, and the nausea fades when she sees his eyes, so worried and warm. He’s afraid now, she can see it. She has never seen him look so scared. His fear terrifies her too. 

‘We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.’ He says after a moment of silence.

She wants to ask why he brought it up if they don't, but she knows that he _wants_ to talk about it, that he perhaps tried to bring this up multiple time before, ever since they left White Harbor. She knows he wants her to talk to him and she wishes she could. 

‘Arya said it was the King’s Guard who beat you.’

‘It was.’ Her voice is hoarse now, cold and soft. 

‘I'll kill them all, Sansa.’ He promises and with these words her body relaxes, it is as if all her muscles break and sink down, lose their strength and fall apart. 

A tear slides down her cheek and she turns in his lap, in such a way she can lay her head on his shoulder, hide her face in the crook of his neck. His gloved hand trembles as it moves her hair to her back and he kisses the top of her head multiple times. 

'I don’t want you to kill them all,’ she sobs, ‘I want to go home.’ 

‘I know… and… and I'll bring you home, and I'll kill them too, I'll do it anyway.’ 

‘I just want to go home… I want to go to my baby.’ she pushes the tears away, dries her face with her sleeve and then feels the urge to get off his lap, to stand, so she can breathe in properly. 

When she gets up he follows her example, grabbing the fabric of her cloak to make sure she doesn't run away from him, because if truth must be told, she feels that urge, and he seems to sense that. He senses some things. 

‘Arya said Joffrey took you to the battlements and made you look at your father.’ 

_That was not my father_ , she wants to say, because finding it hard to recognize him had made it easier for her to watch the crows eat out those eyes. Grey, though so dark it appears almost black. Haunting and beautiful. Such eyes stare at her right now. His mother's eyes. Stark eyes. Her father's eyes. She saw the crows eat out Jon’s eyes so often in her nightmares that every time she turns her gaze and finds his, she feels relieved. 

‘Septa Mordane too.’ Sansa whispers, ‘I didn't even know they killed her. I asked for her, I remember… I asked for her because… I tried to nurse Freia but it was hard, it was as if she sucked in air sometimes, I thought… maybe Septa Mordane can help- stupid really, septas know nothing about nursing.’ 

Jon just stares, his eyes bulging. They stare as if they pity her, she cannot bear him to pity her. She's not sad, she doesn't deserve sympathy or empathy. 

‘Vajon Poole too, I remember him, I recognized his face… on the pike. They said the stairs of the tower of the Hand were slippery with blood. I wouldn't know. I was bleeding myself. A woman’s sort of blood.’

‘Rhaenys told me.’ Jon says, ‘About your… she said you nearly died.’ 

‘Nearly.’ Sansa raises herself and she wishes she was bold enough to mention Daenerys. To tell him how she heard Dany’s voice when she laid on her back, pushing and pushing, screaming and begging everyone to help her, yelling to them, that she could not do it, that it was simply too much. If only he had been there, by her bedside, not Arya and Rhaenys, she wanted him, in that moment she needed _him_.

Daenerys was there, standing in a corner, witnessing it all, holding her own womb, with her dying child inside and Sansa wonders… Sansa knows now that she must've hoped that the fever would come and stay, holding the hand of the stranger, walking into Sansa's room, laying his hand on her belly, taking life from her and her daughter. 

Daenerys prayed for nothing, for her own child died as Sansa lived, and the whisperer of those who cursed her never reached her life, though often, she remembers it still, she has dreamed they had. 

'They took Jeyne away, I don't know where they brought her. To one of Littlefinger’s special places, I think, I've never seen her again.’ She has not thought of Jeyne for so long.

‘We’ll find her.’ Jon swears, and he seems almost relieved that he can promise her such a thing, anything. 

‘Cersei wanted me to write to you, to tell you to… to ask you to come and swear your loyalty to Joffrey. I didn't write it. I said I… she told me I was a stupid girl.’ 

‘You're not.’ 

Sansa can't help but snort, ‘I am not no, not anymore, never again.’ 

‘Sansa…’ he takes a step towards her but she only moves away. 

‘I don't want to talk about it.’ She says, slowly, with a clear and careful voice, so she’s sure he understands and remembers, ‘I don't.’ 

‘You don't have to.’ He says, though he doesn't seem to mean that much. 

Sansa nods, feels her knees shake and when she turns to walks around him he grabs her upper arm and pulls her against his chest, his arms wrapped around her so tight it hurts. She doesn't mind, she'd rather feel this pain than speak, than relive all of it. Forgetting is what she wants, forget it as soon as she possibly can. She presses her nose in the furline of his cloak, it smells of Jon, of grass, leather, soap, wine, cedar, grapefruit and air. It smells safe. She loses the power in her legs and he holds her up or else she'd sink down to the ground and roll up like a ball, lay in the snow like a dying beast.

“I’m sorry.’ He whispers again and again, ‘I’m so sorry.’ 

Everything about the world is different now. The colors and the weather, the sky and the air. It smells of winter, she tastes it on her lips as the flakes fall down on her face.

She thought Winterfell might look less big, less grand and impressing as she remembered, but it doesn't. 

It's perfectly the same. The grey walls and the Stark banners. The broken tower and the bell tower. 

The sight of it against the pitch-black sky of black, bathing in moonlight. It seems like the prettiest picture, almost surreal, with the glittery stars scattered around it like diamond jewelry, to make it, if possible, more charming. 

When Jon pulls her off her horse it's almost as if she expects her father to be there. It makes her mother's tears even worse than they already are. 

Her father is not here. His bones lie in the crypts but he'll never return home, she hasn't truly realized that until now. 

'My little girl.' Catelyn calls her and it's alright, because Sansa has her own little girl now and Freia will always be her little girl too, the way she'll always be her mother's. that's motherhood. Your children will always be your babies, no matter how big they grow, how married they are or how many babies they have themselves. Babies will always be babies, when they grew in your womb, when you bore them yourselves and nursed them in the middle of the night, their little hand wrapped around your thumb. 

‘Mother.’ Sansa breathes and the scent of her mother is the safest scent she knows, her arms the warmest, her words the most soothing.

'I was so scared.’ Catelyn confesses. 

Sansa was too, hearing her mother say it brings the nausea back to her belly.

Her mother guides her inside, her arm tightly wrapped around her, where Arya is waiting for them. 

‘Hey Sans.’ She whispers and it's as awkward as it's wonderful. Sansa pulls her to her chest, kisses her hair, and all is well. 

‘I was so happy when- when I knew you were here.’ 

‘I'm glad you're home… I… I told them everything.’ 

Sansa can only nod. 

‘We didn't know if you'd arrive today, we hoped, so we stayed up.’ Catelyn tells her. 

Sansa nods and smiles, looks at Jon and then croaks, ‘Where is she?’

For one terrifying moment she’ll never forget, Sansa fears she’s not here. That she’s gone again. Still. For forever. But then her mother smiles.

‘Asleep.’ Catelyn seems apologetic but she shouldn't be. Sansa could've known. It's so late. Malckom wanted to stay the night in an inn again, arrive in the morning but Sansa wouldn't hear of it and Jon didn't dare object, no matter how dangerous the roads are at night. 

Sansa nods as if she means to tell her mother she understands but if truth must be told she doesn't. Are the gods this cruel? She wonders. To ask one more day of her? Or is it all punishment for her sins? 

‘Better not wake her up. You can see her in the morning. You must be tired, hungry too? Would you like a bath?’ Catelyn shakes her head and pulls her back against her chest, ‘Let me hold you. The Gods, they send you back to me.’ 

Sansa feels such an urge to tell her it was a ship and a horse. She saw no gods, not one. She hasn't seen them in years. 

'Thank the Gods.’ her mother whispers, again and again.

‘Mother I missed you so.’ Not as much as her mother missed her, Sansa knows exactly how much Catelyn missed her, she knows far too well. 

Cat takes Sansa's face between her hands, ‘I always knew I'd see you again.’

Sansa wishes she could say the same, but she'll lie, and her mother will know and it'll only hurt and there has been enough pain. 

‘I always knew it. Always.’ 

Sansa feels her tears slid down her face. The feeling is familiar and yet, they still manage to give her a sense of freedom.

Sansa holds Bran tight in her arms, almost afraid of letting go, kisses his hair, mushes it too and his smile does things to her that make her cry again. 

‘Rickon is asleep too.’ Catelyn says and Sansa nods, _Rickon_ … the last time she saw him he was _five_ , will he even recognize her? So long as Freia recognizes her, ‘Do you want soup?’ 

They eat their soup and Sansa listens to Jon telling her mother how much he likes it. He sounds as if he's being pleasant, not necessarily sincere. But Sansa loves it. It's the soup of her childhood, it tastes of her youth, and she eats all of it, until she's scraping the bottom of the bowl.

‘You're hungry?’ Catelyn smiles through her watery eyes. 

Sansa only nods. 

‘I made up your old room again.’ Cat grabs her hand and rubs it with her thumb, ‘You'll sleep like a winterrose during summer, I'm sure.’

In Catelyn’s solar, Sansa lays her head in her mother's lap and closes her eyes. The heard makes such familiar sounds, as if a fire in the north is different from the ones in the south. 

Catelyn strokes her hair and her cheek with the back of her fingers and Sansa feels like falling asleep. She could fall asleep right there and then. 

All that time she thought she'd feel safest in Jon's arms, it's what she longed for- but she'd forgotten that the person you trust most in your whole life, the person who will love you most, unlimited and absolutely, who will fight for you unconstrained, will always be your mother. Her mother. The only one she ever had, the one she should be everyday grateful for, thankful that she still has a mother, ever had the luck to have one at all. 

Sansa is a mother too now, so she understands, and perhaps it makes her even more grateful, if anything. 

Sansa wants her own child. 

Sansa doesn't plan to stop crying until she feels Jon's hand around her upper arm. 

‘Come.’ He says, ‘I'll bring you to bed.’ 

‘No bath?’ Catelyn asks. 

Jon shrugs, ‘After a fortnight of travel we can run our own.’

Catelyn only nods and allows him to pull her eldest daughter from her arms though she lingers on Sansa's hand in hers for as long as she can. 

‘You sleep tight.’ She says, her lip trembles a little, ‘I wish I could tuck you in like I used to do when you were little.’ 

Sansa wishes that too, but she's not little anymore.

Jon squeezes her hand and never let’s go as he pulls her with him up the stairs. 

It's only when he stops and she looks up that she realizes they're not standing in front of her own bedchamber door. It's been so long since she walked through these halls, she doesn't know what's behind what corner and in the darkness of night she might get lost in her own home. 

Though she recognizes everything. The torches and the sound of the stone beneath her feet. She recognizes the wall decorations, the hunting tapestries with direwolves embroidered and the Stark banner hanging around every corner. The gargoyles haven't changed nor have the wooden doors. She used to run through these halls, skirts flapping around her legs, careless like a child, with her dear friend Jeyne Poole. 

This is Bran’s door. 

'What are we-‘

‘You shouldn't wake her, doesn't mean you can't have a look.’ 

Sansa feels a shudder go through her body and it's almost as if she doesn't dare do it. As if she is not strong enough to peek around the corner of the door. 

'Jon…’ she whispers, _I can't_ , she closes her eyes and breathes out, ‘I have to see her.’ A tear slides down her cheek and he rubs it away, then nods.

Jon opens the door carefully, slowly, so it won't creak. The opening brings a stream of light into the room and Sansa takes a shaky breath of oxygen when she sees the bed. 

‘It's her.’ She whispers. It's undeniably her baby. 

Just peeking, that's what Jon said. But Jon's an idiot and Rhaenys is right, he knows nothing. Maybe he knows that he knows nothing because he doesn't stop her when she soundlessly walks through the room, feeling like a ghost, not using her feet to move forward but she's floating. 

She kneels to the bed and with no tears in her eyes, only in her heart, she moves her hand and caresses her daughter’s curly hair.

Freia is laying on her side, her small hand under her head, her body rolled up like a ball, completely and fully sucked into the world of dreams. She always called dreams ‘world of great wide somewhere’, after one of her favorite stories, _the adventures of ser Prim and Ser Mirp in the great wide somewhere_. Sansa wonders what she might be dreaming of. What is it, she might see in her sleep, that could possibly be better than the innocence of being a two-year-old?

She's bigger. Clearly much bigger and her hair seems longer. Yet it's as if Sansa saw her yesterday. Still so perfect and vulnerable. The most beautiful thing ever, the most precious thing. Her little girl. Her most precious possession. Still a baby. 

Sansa leans forward and presses a kiss to her cheek, ‘Freia, sleep well.’ She tells her and then a tear rolls down, ignoring all her inner protests, ‘Mama’s home.’ 

Freia doesn't even stir, maybe her sleep is dreamless. The Septa used to wrap too many blankets around her and Sansa would pull them off again because Freia’s chestnut hair would stick to her sweaty forehead. She's not wrapped up in too many blankets now. 

Sansa is not so sure how long she sits there, for an hour maybe, or longer, until Jon moves over and helps her up.

‘You can see her in the morning.’ he promises and though she knows she can, and it'll be soon, so soon, only a few hours from now, leaving the room feels like the cruelest thing he has ever made her do. 

Jon pushes her into the bathing room, tells her to wait there as he goes to get the hot water and she tries to wait, but there’s something about the silence that she cannot bear. 

She opens the door after only five minutes and takes a couple of steps into the hallway when she hears her mother's voice. 

‘Use one of the yellow soaps, not the purple ones, she doesn't like lavender.’ 

‘I know.’ Jon says, ‘I've got it here.’

‘How is she? Truly?’

Sansa leans with her back against the wall, closes her eyes as she lays her hands against the warmth of the hot spring heated stone. 

‘Not good.’ Jon says, ‘Not good at all.’ 

Sansa's mother sobs once. 

‘She has some… attacks, whenever I ask her anything, or mention a name, it's as if she disappears, she's gone, as if she relives it all. She shivers and her eyes are distant and she ignores whatever I say. She doesn't want to talk about it.’ 

‘Maybe she will. Soon.’ There is a hope in Catelyn's voice that not even the most positive fool would believe. 

‘I hope so.’ 

‘Does she sleep well?’

‘No. Nightmares every night, and when I wake her she doesn't know where she is and she cries.’ 

‘You mustn’t- it will get better. She needs a good night’s sleep in her own old room in her home.’

There's a silence then, for far too long, after which she hears her mother sob again. 

‘Oh Jon…’ she whispers, ‘It will be alright, she only needs time.’ 

‘It's been two years, I allowed them to do that to her for two years, to turn her into this.’

Jon's voice is high and it's so husky it reminds Sansa of Rhaenys. If only Rhaenys were here. Rhaenys always knew what to do. 

‘It's my fault.’ 

‘It's _not_. They did that to her, not you.’

‘I should have saved her, I failed her.’ 

‘No… no, no, no.’ 

Sansa shovels back through the door and with trembling hands she opens the buttons of the sleeves of her dress. She wants to be naked when he comes back, so he won't suspect her having left the room, but she fails as she still wears all her skirts and fights with the seams of her corset when he opens the door. 

When Jon walks in she can't make herself turn around. He lays his warm hand to her bare shoulder to push the body down and she feels her muscles flex, then relax. 

He helps her out of her woolen dress, tells her he'll ‘burn the damn thing personally’ and she's not sure what the great problem with the piece of fabric is but she doesn't ask. 

‘Don't go.’ She says, and after hearing his words, his voice, she does not even feel embarrassed anymore, just guilty, ‘Stay with me?’

He tells her what she told him in White Harbor, ‘Always.’ He says. 

They sit in that tub, together, for what feels like hours. 

‘You have no idea how often I've fantasized of doing this.’ He admits suddenly, his words so casual they make her blink.

‘Taking a bath? I know you were-‘

‘Shut up Sansa.’ He says and she laughs. Laughing hurts her jaw. 

She wonders if maybe she should suggest doing things he ‘used to fantasize about’ more often. Wondering makes her smile. 

‘Why have we not done this before?’ Jon wonders.

‘Take a bath together?’ He nods, ‘Because it's not proper.’ 

‘Most things in the world are not proper and most of these are not nice- at least this is nice.’ 

She splashes some water in his face, ‘You're taking up too much space, maybe that's truly why.’ 

‘I don't think the maker of this thing intended on more than one person at once, that's for sure.’

‘She looked good.’ Sansa whispers suddenly, ‘I couldn't see properly but… she looked good.’ 

‘She looks even better when she wakes up at the first glance of sunrise, I promise.’ 

Sansa smiles to herself, ‘She still wakes so early?’

‘She always used to.’

She has to keep reminding herself that Jon has not seen Freia for over two moon turns either. 

Sansa leans her head back, on his chest, and at her sides her hair drifts on the surface of the golden-colored bath water. She closes her eyes to stop them from aching. The crying made them red and puffy, they're all dry now and she feels like rubbing them though she knows it won't help, closing them gives some temporary relief but sleeping is the only true remedy. 

She doesn't think she'll sleep a wink yet when Jon wraps a blanket around her shoulders and she hugs it to herself, she feels terribly tired. 

Her room is still her room. As if she never left, the only proof of time she sees is him, him and the new look of him, that new look she secretly loves. 

Jon hands her bread with spicy butter and Sansa lets the butter melt on her tongue. She likes it better than anything she's ever tasted before, better than the soup. It's Winterfell’s bread and it's soft and fresh and she eagerly eats all of it. He hands her a piece of cheese that she nibbles on as he watches her, there is a smile on his face that is close to adoration.

‘Stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

She doesn't answer and he keeps looking at her like that and it makes her blush, how can he still make her blush? 

‘Are you making fun of me?’ She asks.

He shakes his head, ‘I’d never make fun of you.’ He says and she knows it's true.

He hands her a glass of wine and though she takes it she hesitates to drink it. 

‘It's fine, it's winterwine, it will help you sleep.’ 

Sansa doesn't need wine to help her sleep yet she still drinks it to the last drop. Then she pushes her food away and moves over to him, as he stretches his arms out for her and he tucks her in the way her mother would've wanted.

After a long and blissful silence, he says, ‘I missed this room so fucking much.’ 

‘Me too.’ She sighs and then leans up to look at him. He has already closed his eyes. Sansa wonders if she's happy again, in that moment, ‘Jon..’ she whispers. 

‘Hm?’

Sansa moves up a little so she can press a kiss to his lips. His mouth tastes of cheese and wine. He even smells a little of wine, though they had very little of it. 

Sansa so often closed her eyes to pretend this is where she was, she pretended to feel him and hear him. Now she doesn't dare close her eyes. 

Her eyes don't care about what she wants. They sink down and Sansa loses the battle to sleep.

###### 

When Sansa wakes up Jon is still there, all curled around her, with his face burrowed in her neck. 

She stretches and flexes all her muscles and for a moment, sunken away in her contempt, she forgets. 

Then she shoots up and throws herself from the bed, making sure not to wake him. She opens the door of her wardrobe and shoves the dresses aside, looking for one she hopefully may still fit. They're all richly decorated and they have such bright colors. She won't be able to put any of these on by herself. Did she really not own anything of slight simplicity? Something she could move in, something more practical? 

She finds a dress she manages to pull over her hips, though it costs her much wriggling (it slightly pains her to realize how skinny she used to be) and she stands in front of the mirror, her pretty adorned mirror, her father’s sixteenth name day gift, as she braids her hair. The dress is light and cold blue, with white daisy embroideries along the neckline. 

Sansa doesn't even remember the dress though something tells her it may have been a favorite once. The bodice is beaded too and Sansa recognizes her own work. She can imagine herself sitting down, this fabric in her hands, passionately creating a little work of art. She had little more to do during the day but embroider. She was a proper little maiden.

Sansa hops down the stairs, nearly falls down in her eagerness, almost runs and then, for some reason, assumes that outside is where she needs to go. 

_Freia loves snow._

The double doors are opened and the cold air blows through her skin, reaches her bones to freeze it but she cannot feel it for the sight she sees warms every part of her, body and soul, mind and thoughts, her fingertips and her beating heart which, for a few seconds, is all she hears.

As she stands on the balcony that looks down on the courtyard she can feel the eyes of soldiers on her, they look at her perhaps the same way they have for weeks, with pity and awe and disbelief. 

Freia can't see her and it's the back of her curly hair that Sansa recognizes. Measter Luwin holds her in his arms and points at something Sansa can't see. 

When the measter spots her, he turns around and his eyes widen. He doesn't need to point at Sansa for Freia to see her and for one terrifying moment Sansa thinks Freia can’t see it’s her. She's so young, so small and innocent, maybe she can't recognize, maybe she has forgotten. Sansa has feared that so often and so much, no matter what Jon said.

 _What if she'll see me and not see me?_ she asked and he shook his head, _She makes at least three drawing of you, every day_. 

Yet, Sansa couldn't help but fear it. If Freia has forgotten her, she's not truly a mother anymore. What is left of her when she loses that? 

Luwin points and doesn't say a thing and in that moment Freia's facial expression in one that should only belong on an adult. It breaks and shatters and crushes Sansa's heart in all the right and wrong places and when her child squeals and aggressively wriggles herself from the man's grip Sansa knows that there is nothing crueler but not putting her down on the ground. 

Freia makes a run for it, of course she does, on her wobbly small legs, faster than Sansa ever thought she could be. 

Sansa can't see her run straight to her because tears block her sight, but she feels her, she feels her little body in her arms as she lifts her up, she feels Freia wrap her legs around her middle and she feels her tiny arms around her neck. Sansa gasps for air and shivers shake her shoulders. 

Freia calls for her, says her name and Sansa suddenly realizes how long it’s been since someone called her ‘mama’, how close she came to never being called ‘mama’ ever again, that she would be, the rest of her life, only a mother in blood and name, nothing more. She’ll be Freia’s mama always. This she swears, she promises her little girl as she places kisses to the top of her head, breathes in the smell of her hair. 

‘I'm here, mama’s here.’ 

Freia cries and shakes her head, ‘Mama, mama, mama…’ is all she says.

‘Mama’s here.’ 

Sansa looks up at the sky, it's hardly blue, almost as white as the color of the snow that keeps falling down.

_Thank you._

She doesn't believe in the Gods anymore, old ones, new ones or those they pray to in Essos. They are all cruel and viscous and they abandoned her, separated her from the only thing that mattered.

She is not sure who she thanks instead, maybe the world, the sky and the snow, she thanks the air she breathes that keeps her alive, her heart that's still pumping, her skin that can still feel softness and her arms that can still hold the people she loves. 

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you…’ 

Sansa needs to sit down before she will succumb to the floor and so she does, on the stairs, she sits down with Freia in her arms who clutches to her as if her life depends on it. 

'Let me look at you.' 

Sansa holds Freia’s two-year-old head between her hands and kisses the chubby and freckled, tear-stained cheeks, the low forehead, the small nose, the full lips, the blue eyes and the chestnut brown eyebrows above them. 

‘Mama…’

‘I missed you, my sweet girl…’ 

Sometimes terrible things don't happen for a reason, they don't teach you anything, they don't make you stronger, they don't even change you as a person, it's just what it is; pain, suffering, heartbreak. It's unnecessary. 

‘Don’t go.’ 

‘Never, I won't, I promise.’ 

Suddenly, all the sadness of the long time spent apart washes away and Sansa can feel a smile spread across her face. It's a smile that not even Jon managed to give her. 

‘’Mama, mama, mama… You give me away?’

‘I will _never_ give you away.’ Sansa her forehead to Freia’s, ‘You and I will stay together forever.’

‘Fro-ever?’

‘Forever and ever.’ 

Sansa looks up and takes Freia's hands in hers, kisses her little fingers and warms them in her palm. 

Freia doesn’t seem to believe her and it makes Sansa’s stomach do weird and sickening things. To wipe that look of her face she decides to kiss here some more until a smile appears, the most perfect smile, prettier and lovelier than any other in the world, and Freia hides her face in the crook of Sansa’s neck again. 

'I'm so sorry.’ Sansa says, she cann’t stop saying it, and she cannot bear to keep the tears in no more. Let her be weak, if that means she finally feels something other than anger, ‘I am so, _so_ sorry, Freia, I missed you so, so much. Mama loves you, I told you remember?’

Freia nods. 

‘ _Always_ , there is no one I love more, I would never give you away or leave you, never, I love you so much, please forgive me, Freia, Freia…’

Freia only cries and says her name, ‘Mama…’ she sobs, ‘Mama, I miss you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading (again)! I'll see you next Tuesday, and do please let me know what you think!Xxx


	43. A Special Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Men often say poison is a woman's weapon, but Rhaenys always waved that away. Her father said poison is the weapon of those who have enough wits to calculate their murder, he said it takes preparation, patience and hate to kill a man with premeditation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for all the lovely messages again, you're all amazing! :)

Sansa watches Freia eat, a little more refined than she remembers and all by herself, insisting she needs no help. She holds the spoon in her fist, lifts it up to her mouth and looks around while she does it. She seems comfortable, which reassures Sansa, it seems she feel completely safe sitting here at the table. Maybe Freia wasn’t always scared of strangers, maybe she just felt it, maybe, even at the age of one, she still knew. 

Sansa wants to ask her so many things, she wants to know who brushes her hair every morning. Does she like the room she sleeps in? Does she sleep well, does anyone tell her stories… What do you make of him? Do you like your father? What do you call him?

Sansa doesn't ask a thing, she just sits and watches and bites her lip bloody to stop the stream of endless and endless tears. 

‘Mama, you sleepy?’ Freia asks. 

‘No.’ Sansa says, ‘No, not sleepy at all. I've been sleeping too much.’ 

‘Sleepy, sleepy! Sleep, sleep sleepy!’ Freia sings and Sansa smiles. Her voice has always been the most adorable and sweetest thing, from her first babbles on, ‘You’re cold?’ She asks. 

‘Not really.’

‘I am not cold.’ Freia says.

‘Good.’ 

‘Everything is cold! Snow is cold.’ 

‘You get used to it.’ Sansa says, ‘Do you like the soup?’

Freia nods again, ‘Always like soup… Always!’ 

‘I'm glad.’ 

Freia looks up at her again and she seems worried, ‘Are you sad?’

Sansa feels a tear appear in the corner of one eye, ‘No,’ she breathes.

Freia frowns at her a bit but nods, ‘I'm not sad too.’

Sansa can't stop pulling her hand through the chestnut curls, she wishes she could drag Freia to her chests again, ‘Why would I be sad? I have found you.’

You… looking for me?’

Sansa moves closer to her, takes her pretty and small head between her hands, ‘Always, all the time, I didn't even sleep, I couldn't stop looking for you, I missed you so much.’ 

‘Not sleeping?’ That seems incredulous to Freia and Sansa smiles and nods.

Sansa combs through Freia’s head of curly brown hair with her fingers and tries to tame a bit of it. Still as hopeless as ever.

'Aunt Rhae-lys giving me kitten!’

 _Aunt Rhaenys_ , somehow, that sounds a little ridiculous to Sansa, ‘Yes,’ the idea of Rhaenys surrounded by children, smiling and handing them kittens seems rather ridiculous, ‘I've heard.’ 

‘I name her Bell! Because of tower, too dange-trous!’

‘Is that so?’ 

‘Ghost too. Ghost outside?’ Freia points to the door. 

‘I don't know where Ghost is, I haven’t seen him.’ 

'I show you Bell?’

‘Yes! I'd love that.’ 

‘Bell is nice and white and she likes me!’

‘Of course she does!’

'I tell her stories! Always talking. I tell Bran stories too.’ Freia says then, ‘He never lis-ling to me.’ 

‘That's not very nice of Bran.’ 

‘Rickon can do all the writing, he telling me the story, and I say!’

‘That sounds like a plan.’ Sansa straightens the napkin she placed over Freia's muddy brown dress. She looks like such a northern child, with the lack of ruffles, bows and bright silks. The cotton of the dress, with the woolen sleeves, looks, though less pretty, far easier to move in than the dresses Sansa used to put her in. Southron dresses. The neckline is embroidered with little white and green stars and the green looks lovely with her Stark brown hair. 

‘I like stories.’ Freia says then. There's such a difference in her speech. Though her vocabulary is still rather small, it has grown exceedingly since her second nameday, and she seems more confident to talk, she won't shut up really, and the rambling fills Sansa's heart with pride and joy. She's forming some impressing sentences. 

‘I know you like stories, do you want me to tell you one?’

‘Prim and Mirp in Great Wide Some-there?’ Freia asks, ‘I like Prim but Rickon is… he likes Mirp, Mirp is not nice!’

‘No, Mirp is rather mean, isn't he?’

‘Hhhmhh,’ Freia nods and takes another spoon of her soup, ‘It iz toma-ro.’ Freia says, her mouth full. Some of the substance spill on her chin and napkin and Sansa lifts it to wipe her face. 

‘You like tomato?’

‘Hhmhhm,’ Freia nods and takes another spoon, ‘It is _red_!’

Arguably it's orange, but Sansa really doesn't care, ‘Yes, it is!’

‘I like toma-ro... you like toma-ro?’

‘Yes, it's nice.’ 

‘Bran thinks it is _bleh_.’ Freia says, she looks at her spoon, then holds it out for Sansa, ‘You?’

‘No, I'm fine, it's your soup, you eat it.’

‘I eat!’ She grins proudly at her spoon, ‘Aaaall by my-thelf.’ 

‘Yes, look at you.’ 

Before becoming a mother, Sansa never would have believed it when someone told her that finding out your child can eat soup on their own, brings tears to your eyes. It does. Sansa quickly wipes it away and thankfully Freia doesn't notice.

‘Who brushed your hair?’

‘Gran-mama!’

‘Is grandmamma nice to you? Do you like her?’ 

‘Gran-mama has hair too, it is red!’

‘Yes, like mine.’ Sansa thinks about it for a moment and then explains, ‘It is because she is _my_ mama.’ 

Fries giggles then, ‘You are my mama…’ she mutters, shaking her head as if Sansa's being silly and she moves closer to Sansa, ‘My mama...’ 

Sansa nods, ‘Just yours, no one else's.’ 

‘Hhhmhhm.’ Freia nods and turns the spoon through her soup, ‘Gran-mama hands are _soft_.’ She says, ‘She sing!’

‘Yes, I know!’

‘Rickon is teaching me all writing!’ Freia enthusiastically tells her then. 

‘Is he?’ The age of two is far too young to learn how to write. She decides not to ruin Freia’s enthusiasm and instead gives her a proud look and a warm smile, ‘That is wonderful, I am so proud of you.’ 

‘I say to him I can write letters to my mama but he says no, so you have no letter.’ She looks apologetic, ‘I try always.’ 

Sansa pulls her in her lap, with her arms around her, ‘It is alright, you couldn't send me one because they did not know where I was, it is hard to send a letter to a person when the ravens won't be able to find them!’ 

‘They can tell raven; fly to mama!’ Freia insists, ‘Papa send letter aaaall the time.’ 

Sansa stiffens at the word she uses. _Papa_. Freia has a papa, and he talks to her and tells her things and she actually calls him _papa_ , Jon's Freia’s papa. Sansa feels her bottom lip tremble, ‘Does he?’ 

‘Yes, and he saying you write back _always_. You say you will come with us very, veeery soon.’ 

Sansa feels the urge to break down, roll on the floor and weep like a child but she gulps it down and places a kiss to the top of Freia’s head, ‘I see.’ She has no idea how to talk herself out of this situation and she wonders if this will be the first and only time in her life that she will curse Jon for his tactics. 

‘I was seeing it.’ Freia says, ‘I ask papa, I want to know if you are sad and he was saying… he is going to send you. He was saying to the raven; ‘fly to Sansa!’ And the raven flies and flies and flies away.’

Sansa doesn't know if she has to cry at the utter sadness of this story or laugh at the way she just heard her daughter give an interpretation of her husband’s voice, ‘Yes, that must have been a very special raven.’ She says, ‘I think it wasn't here when you asked Rickon if you could write me a letter.’ 

Freia shakes her head, ‘He say I write not good enough, he saying, first I learn more words.’ 

Sansa wonders how many words she can actually write, ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to write letters very soon.’ 

‘I don't want letters.’ Freia says, ‘I ask now, to you, don't need the letters.’ 

‘No,’ Sansa agree, ‘You don't have to write me anymore.’ 

Freia smiles at her and Sansa smiles back and for a while they sit there, just smiling at each other. 

Freia’s hair is so much longer than she remembers, it's still super curly but it no longer sticks around in all directions and it's braided with ribbons wandered through it. 

Sansa pushes a curl on her forehead into the braid and kisses it then. It's so clearly her mother’s work and that makes her smile. She used to braid Sansa's hair like that too, and Arya's, until she grew older and refused anyone to touch it after which it ended up looking like a bird’s nest.

‘You look so pretty.’ Sansa tells her and she presses her nose to Freia’s, grinning, ‘You're my pretty girl.’ 

‘Yes!’ Freia tells her and she takes Sansa’s head between her hands, ‘Mama, mama, I always knowing you come here.’ 

‘Of course I would, you are here, and wherever you are I need to be.’ 

‘Need to be.’

‘Yes… Freia, I have missed you.’ 

‘Miss you.’ Freia moves her hands to rub Sansa’s cheeks with her palms and when Sansa squeezes her eyes shut at the touch she giggles her childlike giggle and the sound gives Sansa butterflies, as if she's in love. 

‘I'm so sorry about what happened.’ Sansa's eyes burn again but she knows she can't cry, it'll only confuse Freia, ‘I never meant to… I never meant to give you away, I never wanted that, you know that, right?’

Freia nods, but her frown has returned.

‘Can you ever forgive me? I would never… it was better for you to be with p-papa for a while, but I would never give you away. You're mine, I'm your mama, always, you know that, don't you? I'm so s-sorry Freia.’

‘So sorry…’ Freia repeats and she drops her hands from Sansa's cheeks then wraps her arms around Sansa's middle and presses her cheek to the the cotton of Sansa's dress, ‘Miss you.’ 

‘I missed you too. So much, always, all the time.’ 

‘Always?’

Sansa takes her small head between her hands, ‘ _Always_ , we’ll never be… I'll never let them take you from me again, I promise.’ 

‘Pro-wis?’

‘Yes, I swear it to you.’ 

Freia smiles again, ‘Pro-wis!’ She says and she lets go and returns to her soup. She doesn't eat it for long because when she looks up again she squeals and jumps from her seats. Freia spreads her arms out like wings and runs to Jon, who kneels to catch her. He lifts her up, pretending her to be too heavy for him and that makes her giggle again. 

Freia is as light as a feather but he tells her, ‘You're growing so much, soon you can lift me up instead of the other way around.’ 

‘Papa!’ She puts both her hands to cup his face, ‘Pony?’

‘Can't believe you remember the pony, I was slightly hoping you'd forgotten.’

She grins at him and he pecks her cheek which she rubs with her hand, ‘Papa!’ She says again and he lifts her up a little higher as she wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him voluntarily, she giggles her happiest giggle and suddenly he sees Sansa and he grins broadly at her, as if he's proud, as if he wants to tell her, _Freia is perfect, isn't she? She's our masterpiece_. 

‘I promised you a gift, didn't I?’ He whispers in her ear.

‘Pony?’

‘No, not a pony, _better_.’ He says and he points at Sansa. 

‘Mama!’ Freia gaps and she lifts her hand up in the air to celebrate it, ‘Mama, mama, mama, papa it is mama!’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘Papa, pony?’

‘We’ll have to find you one first, one that's not too big for you.’

Sansa feels her throat tighten. No way in hell is Freia going to sit on a pony, she's _two_. 

‘You have to wait a little longer, do you think you can do that?’

‘No pony?’

‘Not today, maybe in a couple of days.’

Freia doesn't seem to know what that is but she nods all the same, ‘Papa, papa, I have biscuits.’ She says and she rubs her own belly, ‘They were yummy yummy in my tummy!’ 

‘Are they spoiling you?’

Freia hides her face behind her hands giggling some more, ‘Nooooo!’ She says, ‘No, gran-mama making biscuits.’

‘Did grandmamma give you biscuits?’

Freia nods, ‘Rickon too!’

‘You didn't eat Rickon’s again, did you?’

Freia shakes her head, ‘I bring biscuits to him!’

‘You brought them to him?’

Freia nods proudly and Jon beams at her, ‘Bran too!’

‘That's really nice of you.’ 

‘You biscuit too?’

‘Naaah, I'm not hungry.’

‘I get biscuits?’

Jon laughs, ‘You want to eat my biscuits?’

‘No, Papa! Biscuits for _you_.’ 

‘Maybe next time.’ 

'Papa...' Freia says and she lays her hand to Jon’s cheek, ‘Papa story?’

‘When I bring you to bed for the nap, okay?’

‘No nap!’

‘Not now, but when I do.’

‘I had the nap the day before.’

‘Did you?’

Freia nods, ‘You do the nap too?’

‘Sometimes.’ He says and when Jon looks up again and catches Sansa sitting there, crying her eyes out, the grin disappears from his face and he mushes Freia's hair, ‘Freia, why don't you go and look for Rickon? We’ll go outside and make a snow knight, hmm?’

‘Snow lady?’ Freia asks.

‘That too, both.’ 

'I tell Rickon my mama is here!'

‘Yes, you tell him!’

Freia nods excitedly and when he puts her down to the floor she doesn't give Sansa a second glance but runs away to the door she opens herself and leaves the room. 

Jon stands there and by the look on his face she knows he feels uncomfortable. She can't bare it for him to feel that, for in the moment, she's falling in love with him all over again. 

‘Are you okay?’ He asks, a sheepish smile on his face, ‘I thought about asking Catelyn to wake you, so you could be there when she got out of bed, but you were so tired last night and I-‘

‘It's okay.’ She says, and she means it. 

She smiles at him and shoves the bowl of soup away, ‘Were you breaking your fast?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I tried to help her eat but she didn't let me.’

His grin widens, ‘No, she likes to do things on her own.’ 

His grin makes her smile and she gets up to walk into his arms. He doesn't need to kneel for her, but just as he did with Freia, his arms open for her to welcome her moments before she actually presses herself again his chest. 

'Are you alright?' he asks again.

‘I didn’t expect it to be so hard.’ She confesses. She expected everything to be good again, once they would all be together again, but as happy as she is to be with Freia again, she still feels so miserable. 

‘It’ll be fine Sans, I promise, I’ll make it better.’

Sansa can only nod as she rubs her cheek to the leather of his doublet.

‘Come.’ He says, ‘We’ll go outside to make a snow knight.’ 

No one has ever before offered her such a magical thing. 

 

**Rhaenys**

‘Let him go, let him!’

Rhaenys throws her cloak off her shoulders and pushes it down on a table. 

The soldiers drop the imp down to the floor in front of her, where he falls down in a tangle of short limbs. 

‘Rhaenys I-‘

‘No!’ She glares at Robb who fidgets with his hands, purses his lips, glares at imp and then yells, 

‘We kill him!’

‘We will not!’

‘He is a Lannister!’

‘That is precisely why we won't.’ She throws her hair over her shoulder and eyes the soldiers in the army tent, ‘Leave us.’ They all hesitate and it angers her, ‘ _Leave_!’ 

They are alone with Tyrion Lannister and Rhaenys sits down in a chair, crossing both her arms and her legs. 

She can hear Robb’s mind turning and turning and she needs to say something before he gives her a headache. 

She moves her eyes over the imp, carefully takes his appearance up and she can do little but realize she is the one in total power, ‘The giant of Lannister. How unpleasant the sight of you is, I had nearly forgotten.’ 

‘You never forget a thing. You're too cold and careful for forgetting.’ Tyrion tells her. 

‘I used the word nearly, did I not? Or have you lost your ears as well as your nose?’

‘My ears hear more in a single day than most men do their entire lives.’ 

Rhaenys presses her lips together and feels tired of this conversation already, ‘You must have a carefully calculated reason to assume I would not kill you, or else you wouldn't be here.’ 

‘You said it yourself, I am a Lannister.’

‘You shouldn't listen to the things I say. I'm not like most women, I'm not even like most men. You can't hear lies from my mouth even if I'd tell you they were untrue words.’

‘I killed Tywin.’ He says and it doesn't even seem to pain him, which oddly impresses her, ‘I killed him and now with Jaime bound to the white cloak it is to me that Casterly Rock belongs.’

‘Congratulations. I hear it's as awful a place as it has always been.’

‘Only a Lannister can love the Rock.’ 

‘Last time I was there Tommen couldn't sleep a wink because Joffrey told him of actual lions guarding the doors.’ She forces a painful smile to her mouth and leans her elbow on the table, to hold her chin up in her hand, ‘I hear Tommen has little to fear from his disturbed older brother, these days.’ 

‘I did not kill King Joffrey.’ 

‘ _King_ Joffrey!’ Rhaenys laughs, ‘Careful imp, choose your words conscientiously, I warn you once only.’ 

‘Joffrey sat the iron throne and wore your father's crown, lords sank through their knees and swore him fealty… I'd call that a king.’ 

Rhaenys feels her eyes widen, ‘Joffrey Targaryen was no Targaryen… a man who must tell the realm he is their king is no king.’

‘I agree. He was my sister’s bastard son.’ 

‘And your brother’s, if I'm not mistaken. Though I hear she is even more of a selfish whore than I always thought she was.’

‘My brother was the father to my sister’s child, yes.’ 

‘Am I your last resort, Tyrion?’ Rhaenys asks, ‘Is that why you're here? Because you have nowhere else to go? Cersei put a nice price on your head. A knighthood and a title too, actually. I might send it to her, see if she keeps that promise still out of all the others, hates you more than she hates me, so to speak.’

It was always hard to scare the imp, ‘I am as much your last resort as you are mine.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘You are not. I am not Jon. Don't you think you can outwit me, dwarf. You will never fool me and I do not need you… I know why you are here.’

‘Do you?’

‘Naturally. Jon always liked you and If I'm not mistaken you helped get his wife back to him. He must be grateful, right? Is that what you're hoping for? Jon's mercy and gratitude? He's not here.’ 

‘I have plenty to offer his grace.’ Tyrion insists.

‘What is that?’ 

‘Whatever he would have of me. Sage counsel, savage wit, a bit of tumbling. I will lead his armies or rub his feet, as he desires. I know Cersei. You want her head? Not as badly as I do. I offer you my help, and the only reward I ask is I might be allowed to rape and kill her.’ 

Rhaenys wonders if he’s misogynistic or just blathering, then she comes to the conclusion that, which of the two it is, it doesn’t matter, he’s disgusting either way. How many whores did this rape on his way over here? Uncountable numbers most likely, ‘You are the most loathsome of them all.’ She says, her jaw clenched. 

‘I forgot rape was a painful subject for you.’ Tyrion then says, oddly, he seems to feel an urge to apologize, but Robb doesn’t allow him the chance because he takes one step forward and yanks his fist to the imp’s non-existing nose. 

Rhaenys pulls on his arm, ‘Robb! Keep your self-control.’ She won’t allow the imp to think he found her soft spot. He’ll never find it, no one will.

Tyrion wipes the hole in the middle of his face, his lip bleeds and his eyes are two mis-matched colored burning holes, then he smiles the ugliest smile. 

‘I don't need your help. I suggest you stop assuming I do. Have you seen what is outside of this tent? An army so big it could crush your monstrous sister with a snap of my fingers.’ Rhaenys snaps her fingers, ‘Jon never told anyone that he is their rightful king, as my father's son… they chose him.’

‘I know Jon, I know his strategy, I know yours, and I can help you.’ 

‘You know nothing.’

‘I have done you no harm. I know your enemies, I come rolling from the heart of them and their head too. Have your history lessons never taught you how Aegon allowed his enemies to bend their knee after defeat?’

‘You were never the one to bend the knee and you won't bend it to me.’ 

‘Awfully few will, and you know that. You don't want Jon on the throne because it's what your father wanted. You want Jon on the throne because you can't sit on it yourself.’ 

‘Spare me your guesses. You always think your strength is that you know exactly what everyone in the whole wide world wants. Perhaps you're right. But you're awfully often wrong too. Your wits couldn't safe your dignity for you, your knowledge never earned you respect, your wits caused you to be send off to the Wall, your cleverness didn't spare you the humiliation of being sentenced for king and kinslaying… I know what you want too, and I can't give it to you. No one can.’

‘I am not here for me.’

‘Of course you are. I am perhaps the only one who was not going to instantly chop your head off and send it to the capital.’

Tyrion opens his mouth to speak but Robb interrupts him, ‘You want to bend your knee to our cause, now there is a price on your head? Do you think we have lost our wits?’

‘I want to be a part of the right side. I do. I have wasted my life for too long.’ 

Rhaenys laughs, ‘Clearly. Dear halfman, your entire being is a waste, not your life only.’ She shakes her head, ‘Very well, you believe you have something to offer me? Offer it to me.’ 

‘Tommen is a child, his mother is insane, my father gone. The Lannisters are bankrupt and your army three times the size of theirs. You are winning this war and I have told them this, no one listened. No one ever listened to me, I believe that is something we have in common.’

Rhaenys wipes her unimpressed smile from her face and stands up. She walks over to him, so close she towers over him like a master a servant. 

‘I want Jon on the throne because he was born to sit on it.’ She tells him, ‘It's not power that I desire most and precisely that is why you shall never outwit me, imp. You've trained yourself to understand men, but I am a woman. The only women you are accustomed to are either vile and insane or paid, these last are the only ones who could stand to be in your presence, not even your own sister could.’

The imp not even blinks, she’ll break him eventually, she knows she will. He’s playing the monster role, the monster they all think he is, but all he does is make himself look insane. Cersei was right about something, Tyrion is weak, he wants love, he wants power. . He is a Lannister, _one of them_.

‘I am unknown grounds to you. Better stop pretending now than when it's too late, hhm?’ 

‘You want to restore your family's legacy.’

‘It doesn't matter knowing what people want so long as you have no idea why they want it. I just told you, however, that puts you a step forward, I think.’

‘You're a step backwards.’ He says, ‘You think I come here fleeing my sister after a gross betrayal.’ 

Rhaenys raises her eyebrows at that, ‘I’d say kinslaying is a gross betrayal, even when it's Joffrey.’ 

‘Are you jealous?’

‘A little.’

‘Of the wrong man.’

‘Half-man.’ Rhaenys corrects, in the corner of her eye she sees a smile creep in on Robb’s face. He always lets her do the talking and she's ever grateful for it. 

‘Woman I'd say.’ 

‘Have they chopped your cock off too?’

‘No, I still have it, you want to see it? I offer that to you too.’

‘No one would voluntarily look at that.’ She knows it’s true. 

‘My mouth then?’

‘Are you a woman now?’ 

‘Joffrey’s murderer was, most of them at least.’

Rhaenys straightens her back. Now this may turn out to be more interesting than she thought it would be, ‘Continue, imp.’ 

‘You do not know who killed him?’ He seems surprised and pleased with that and it annoys her immensely. 

‘I never planned on poisoning the bastard. I wanted to look him in the eye when he died.’ 

‘His murderer didn’t look him in the eye.’

Rhaenys could've known it wasn’t Tyrion, though she’s not sure who it might’ve been instead. Men often say poison is a woman's weapon, but Rhaenys always waved that away. Her father said poison is the weapon of those who have enough wits to calculate their murder, he said it takes preparation, patience and hate to kill a man with premeditation. 

‘Do you think it concerns us who killed him? He's dead and we all sleep better at night for it.’ Robb says. 

‘I think you'd like to know.’ 

Rhaenys sighs loudly and rolls her eyes, ‘You are so exhausting still. If you're planning on saying it, do it now before I grow bored and decide to have you killed after all, just to amuse me.’ 

‘Your brother’s wife. She didn't tell you?’

‘Sansa?’ Robb looks at Rhaenys and she curses him in that moment for being so terrible at hiding both his shock and disgust. 

‘Sansa had already left the capital when Joffrey died.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘Not soon enough to conspire with Petyr Baelish to kill Joffrey.’

‘Why the hell do you think we would ever believe that?’ Robb asks, his voice a little louder again. 

Rhaenys can't help but bald her hands to fists. It makes no sense. Littlefinger was Cersei’s asskisser, why would he want to kill Joffrey? But then, littlefinger always preferred to be surprising, his moves were hard to indicate. He likes it that way, she knows that. He was always clever, though Rhaenys would argue it's one one thing to be clever and another to be wise. This is not about Littlefinger, not in this moment. Sansa… The last time Rhaenys saw her, she was a child with a child in her arms. Sansa is no killer. She could never be. 

‘Because it's true.’ The imp says, ‘Ask her, she is clearly not much proud of it, but she won't lie.’

‘You don't know her, you know nothing about Sansa, I should have you tortured for the suggestion alone! You are a filthy liar, to blame my sister for your own killing!’ Robb yells and he moves over to Tyrion just to make the anger in his voice more evident. He always has a tendency of loudly yelling whatever it is she is desperately trying to keep it. It used to annoy her at first but now it's as if her frustrations are being put out there without losing her self demeanor in the bargain. It's a win-win sort of situation. 

‘I have known you for as long as I can remember.’ Rhaenys says when Tyrion doesn't respond to Robb's accusations, ‘Your father always liked Jaime so much better and I have to give it to the Kingslayer, he is a Lannister to the bone… but you, I have always said it but no one agreed nor listened… you are your father's son.’ 

‘I killed him.’ Tyrion says, ‘I killed my father but I did not kill Joffrey, though I wish that I had.’ 

‘And you did!’ Robb yells.

Tyrion shakes his head, ‘They are already singing songs about it. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. They sing she killed the king with a spell, and afterwards changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.’

‘She did not kill him with a spell.’ Rhaenys says.

‘No. She poisoned him.’

‘She wasn't at the feast.’

‘She wasn't, but that’s the funny thing about poison, you don't have to see yourself kill your victim. It's a weapon for people who know they'll regret their kill afterwards.’ 

‘If I kill you I won't regret it.’ Robb says. 

‘We’re not killing you.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Jon will be here, you can talk to him, convince him of your worth. He is the king. I wish you the best of luck with your accusations there.’

‘I've never been lucky, I didn't need it.’ 

Rhaenys glares at him before she leaves the tent, ‘You need far more than luck alone when you explain to him why it took you _two years_ to send his wife back to him.’ 

 

**Jon**

They have so much sex. All the time, everywhere, anywhere, as much as they can, as long as they can, wherever they can. Everywhere where no one can hear or see or notice. So long as they don't get caught. 

Everywhere but in their own damn bed.

Freia gets out of her bed and climbs in theirs during the middle of the night or at the start of it and she always manages to wriggle herself between her parents, a pleased smile on her face before she falls back to sleep, thumb in her mouth. 

Sansa is scared to death Freia will walk in and see things she shouldn't know it's existence of for at least another twenty years, so the nights are unavailable and it's extremely frustrating. Jon loves Freia, but he'd love to kick her out of his bed more. 

Sansa often calls herself a weak mother, it is a joke, but she means it all the same. He calls it self-knowledge. He loyally disagrees every time, but these are lies. Though he is the one who spoils her the most, Sansa has trouble saying no and she can't bear to see tears nor pouts. 

So, Freia does not get kicked from the bed and when he offers to escort her back Sansa shakes her head, ‘I don't want her to feel unwanted.’ Pulling her finger through the curly brown hair of their sleeping daughter, lying in the crook of her arm.

The bed was always just a little too small for the two of them. It never mattered before, but now Jon melts from it sweating and panting for air and he makes his way to his own small bedchamber, the one he slept in when he was twelve years old. 

He hates it that even though she is back, he still has to sleep all alone. He hates it that he twists and turns in his small cold bed while his wife is at the other end of the keep and not with him. That feels wrong.

Having sex with Sansa does not feel wrong. It feels really incredibly great. The best thing in the world. Just like he remembers, perhaps even a little better. It's wonderfully the same, she still feels breathtakingly perfect and she's still the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world. The most beautiful woman behind the wall and in the south and on every island, even in the Far East, everywhere, nobody is as perfect and as pretty and sweet and soft and kind and all of that as she is.

There is nothing as attractive, as seeing her, dressed in her nightgown, sit in their bed, an arm wrapped around Freia, who leans close to her, thumb in her mouth, as they read a picture book together. 

Seeing Sansa and Freia together is like a dream, the happiest bubble that makes him feel so proud and blessed he has to squeeze himself and blink multiple times to convince himself it's true.

She's just extra beautiful every time Freia sits in her lap, when she wipes the baby cheeks clean with a napkin, the presses a kiss to the red skin. Her hair seem extra red when they walk on the grounds, holding hands, both dressed in grey Stark dresses, Freia making snowballs as they go. Sansa hums when she braids Freia's hair and as for now, Sansa's the only one who gets to touch the messy and wild curls. When Sansa puts her in a bath Freia blows kisses in her way, her hands waving as she tries to grab the bubbles and her high-pitched voice makes Sansa laugh. A genuine laugh. When Sansa brings Freia to bed she sings the song about the starry roof, and Freia sings it with her, and when he stands in the doorway and watches them sit there, in the rocking chair, the small head on her mother's shoulder, eyes sinking closed as they cuddle and she falls asleep in her mother's arms... Jon feels like crying. He feels like a monster for ever separating them. 

Freia is so happy now. She always was happy, cheerful and bright, but the sadness in her eyes, her bitter tears and pleads for mama are gone, for good, he prays. Her eyes sparkle, her giggle is careless, her grin carefree and she hums throughout the day as she hops through the castle, jump through the snow, runs over to him, her arms spread as wings, calling his name, jumping in his arms. It's all Jon wants from life. For her to be happy, healthy and safe. He manages to give her that now, and he's ever so grateful. 

The first time Freia wriggled herself between them it felt like the most perfect moment, to have her lie between them, to be able to wrap his arm around the both of them, it made him feel complete in a way he didn't know completeness exists.

Now, it is just a little too much, he wants that time back where their bed, was _their_ bed.

Because they can't do it at night he just presses her down in the bed during the middle of the day, or sometimes she wakes him up in the morrow in his own small bed and leaves afterwards before Freia notices she's gone, like some random tavern slut while everyone else is either sleeping or doing something useful. Jon feels like making love to his wife is extremely useful. Pushing her in a closet and up against some wall feels as wrong as it feels right and she seems to really like it so he decides to not give a damn. They have too much catching up to do. 

Sansa bites his hand when he puts it in front of her mouth to stop her from moaning too loudly and she laughs when he almost falls backwards and pushes over scrolls and books in the library. 

They don't talk at all and he's sure Catelyn knows that. She eyes them sometimes and she somehow seems to disapprove. Jon knows Sansa talks to her, perhaps they talk about things he'd rather not have them talk about, and that really sucks. But it's fine because so does Sansa. 

He feels like the crappiest lover in the world. She doesn't seem to think so, she doesn't seem to mind, or perhaps she thinks this is exciting. He doesn't know. He has no idea what she thinks. 

He remembers how, when they were just married, he looked forward to the night's all day. He'd try and focus on some numbers of crops and whiny farmers or dissatisfied lords and the only thing he could think of was being inside his extremely pretty and cute wife. 

Everyone must've noticed. All of them but Robb. To Robb their marriage meant that they sat together at the high table during feasts. He was a blind idiot. But everyone else saw it. The memory still makes him feel embarrassed. But it doesn't matter anymore because the memory is still the memory of the best time of his life. 

Back then he dreamed of doing her during the day. When the sun is up and people are awake. They never did that, not back then, she was far too embarrassed and he didn't really have the time. He neglected her a little during the day, but it really was not on purpose. Perhaps they purposely kept him busy on boring things. Every blind fool could see. The mere idea of Sansa’s naked body and the realization that he and he alone got to do that with her made him feel like the luckiest bastard to ever walk the world. The luckiest man, really. He should still feel like the luckiest bastard in the world. He doesn't feel like that anymore at all. Except when he comes borrowed deep inside her and she starts sucking on his bottom lip. In that moment, he feels like that lucky bastard again. And when he can hear her sing Freia to sleep, then too. 

Now he doesn't get to have her during the night so all they try to do during the day is fuck. Nineteen-year-old Jon would've been extremely thrilled but twenty-three-year-old Jon is pretty pissed about it. It's not even the way it once was. She doesn't cry, she doesn't whisper to him her sweet cooing and she doesn't stare deeply into his eyes the way she used to like so much. The way she did the first time since. It's almost animalistic and very unlike them. But maybe they have changed. Maybe they are still trying to find them back and doing it is really a good way to spend time together while doing that, especially when talking is not among their options. 

He doesn't feel like they're doing that at all, though, finding them back. It's like a temporary relief to hear her moaning in his ear and to feel her hands tug on his hair, being inside of her and it's all wet and warm and nice and it feels good. He feels good. He hasn't felt good in years. But it's all temporary. The moment she gets up and leaves him there, all alone, he feels lonelier than ever. She's back but she's still somewhere else. 

Perhaps they have so much sex because when they have sex, they don't have to talk. They really need to talk, he really wants to talk, but every time he opens his mouth she either starts kissing him or pretends to have fallen asleep. 

He's not sure which of these is more frustrating. Probably the falling asleep thing. He always has to wake her up so she can go back to Freia and she'll move away from him, straighten her clothes, peck his lips, mush his hair like she does with Freia and leaves him there. Alone with his nightly frustration and anger. He's so angry with himself and the world. With Winterfell and the war and the cold too. It's so freaking cold all the time. He's angry with winter. 

He decides she'll talk to him when she's ready and he doesn't want to push it, but then, he really wants to talk to her, he needs to speak to her and tell her everything, like he always used to do. 

Her nightmares are over, the moment they arrived at Winterfell they were gone and he thinks- he's _sure_ he's got Freia to thank for that. Losing Freia broke her, destroyed her, ruined whatever was left of her. 

‘I wanted to die, Jon.’ She says once, but when he turns towards her and opens his mouth to speak she shakes her head. 

He did that. She doesn't believe it but it's true. He wonders if she doesn't believe it because she cannot handle the truth. The truth is, that he allowed them to do that to her. She wanted to die because of him, and realizing that makes Jon feel like he's dying, too. 

These panicking moments, where her breathing is rushed, as if she cannot get enough air into her lungs, as if she fights to exhale, are not gone. Every time he tries to mention something, tries to ask, tries to get her to tell him, it's as if the light behind her eyes dies. She's gone then, trembles, turns her hands into fists and shakes her head. It's as if she's terrified, as if what happened terrifies her, the mere mention makes her scared to death. 

Jon starts wondering why no ghosts come and haunt him, there must be plenty of ghosts at Winterfell and he's a rather easy target, a target many people alive want to dig their swords it. After all, Rhaenys still seems to want to push him on the Iron Throne and though he puts less effort in doing a good job at pretending he's fine with all that, it still seems rather vital that he keeps it up. He is the only one who can do it. Rhaenys is a woman and everyone else is dead. So there is no other way but to pretend he wants to be king, even if losing this war will mean losing his head. He realizes, every day a little more than ever before, what he's risking. It would be rather a shame to die after everything they all went through to get themselves all together in this castle of kings of winter. Despite his unknightly behavior the only ghost that bothers him is his direwolf when he licks his face in the morning to wake him up. 

Because he promised and she keeps reminding him of it he supposes there is no way to get around learning Freia how to ride. He lets her pick out her own pony, a spotted one she calls Harry even though it's a mare who probably already has a name. She jumps up and down in excitement, pats the pony, ‘Sweet pony! Sweet horsey!’ and demands Jon that she wants to, ‘Sit!’

He lifts her up, puts her in the saddle and at the age of two and a half Freia first sits on horseback, then starts crying loudly the moment he lets her go.

‘NOOO! Papa no, no! Up! UP!’

Sansa gets as furious with him as he has ever seen her be and it's like a part of her returns that he almost feared had disappeared.

‘HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?’ 

‘What? No Sans, don't be silly, you know nothing could happen-‘

‘Oh _I'm_ being silly am I? She could've dropped off or-‘

‘I would have caught her! She can drop off the stairs too, or off the balustrade, she's going to fall, that's how you learn, falling and-‘

‘You cannot put her on a _horse_! She's not yet _three_!’ ’

‘It's a pony, a gentle one, a really small one, the smallest I’ve ever seen, she'll never hurt-‘

‘It's still a beast!’

‘Well, so is Ghost.’ 

‘That’s not the point!’

‘It _is_ the point actually, the problem is not the pony the problem is that-‘

‘A direwolf is not comparable to a horse!’ 

‘Of course not. I’m sorry, but I promised her and she seemed ready.’ 

‘You should not have promised her!’ Sansa yells and he knows then how that's something she'd been thinking for a rather long time, ‘She's far too young to learn how to ride anyway.’ 

‘She's two and a half, I was two when I-‘

‘I was six, and Freia is a girl, like me.’ 

‘What does that got to-‘

‘I’m saying no!’ 

‘Oh well, I suppose that means-‘

‘Yes! That means it stops. She's my daughter.’

‘Is she?’ 

Sansa's anger fades from her face when she realizes. Then her anger is replaced by an extreme form of unease that is usually accompanied by the common desire to run away and hide so she picks Freia up, who makes her displeased and disappointed wails, and marches back inside with Freia staring over her shoulder at Jon, a stable boy and Ghost, a distraught look on her face.

As much as that really deeply hurt, he knows that trying to talk about what she said is not a realistic prospect so when he finds her in her room the adolescent in him takes over and he pretends to have completely forgotten about it. Just like she does. 

He's angry. He is actually angry with her about what she said. About the way she looked at him and the way she spoke to him, in the courtyard, for the world to see and hear. 

But there's not a bone is his body that will consider telling her that. So instead of screaming at her like he might've done in the past, he just grabs the fabric of her dress at her back in his hand, pulls her away from the window she was staring out at and presses her down in the bed. 

He doesn't even look at her face as he nearly rips her skirts and moves inside with a rough, firm press. He can hear her gasp and he knows that he should be more careful, he knows that the gasp comes from an ache but he doesn't care because he knows she doesn't. She grabs the sheets in her fists and doesn't hold back. He can't press his hand in front of her mouth when they're together like this so he decides that hoping no one will be in the room next door will have to do. 

The old him would probably hate him for doing this. He wants to curse the old him for being a judgmental ass. The old him didn't know what it is like to be parted from her, to not be able to see her and hold her and protect her for over two fucking years. He doesn't know what it's like to have been longer apart than together with his wife. He doesn't know what embarrassment, regret and shame feel like. The old him has no idea what it's like to not have the smallest opportunity to be where you belong. The old him should shut his bastard mouth. He feels lost for a moment, completely and utterly lost, and he nearly drops down, his limbs to weak to move, until she pushes him down in the bed, her nails digging in his skin, scratching, and climbs on top of him. 

It's almost as if they switch roles. _You've had your opportunity of punishing me, I liked it, now it’s my turn_. He probably likes it more than she did. He probably hates himself more than she does. He probably wants to kiss her more than she wants to kiss him. She doesn't kiss him. When he tries to move up to kiss her she pushes him back down and the push of her hands on his collarbones is everything but gentle. 

He's got her body back, but her heart and soul are wandering around somewhere else. He wonders if kissing her will help bring that back. After giving him some more bruises and fingernail prints she rolls off him and lays down next to him, shoulder to shoulder in the bed.

Jon moves on his side and turn her face to his with a hand in her neck. He tries to put everything he has in the kiss, everything he feels and thinks, his doubts, regrets, worries, his affection and love for her. If they are not going to talk then at least he wants to be able to kiss her like he wants. To tell her everything she won't let him say.

‘I'm sorry about the pony. You were right it was a stupid idea.’

‘It's alright.’ 

He doesn't think it was that stupid, in fact, Freia begged him for it, but if Sansa felt scared then he'll let himself feel sorry, ‘It won't happen again.’ 

She doesn't tell him that she is sorry too, that she didn't mean _that_ when she called Freia _my daughter_ , she doesn't say anything at all, but she kisses him too and the hand she moves to cup his face trembles.

When she breaks away but lets her lips linger close to his, her eyes closed and her nose moving over his cheeks, he thinks for a second that she’ll say something, that she'll tell him she loves him. Like she did that first night. _Always_ she said, she said she'll always love him. It sounded like she meant it yet she hasn't told him since.

Maybe he should tell her, maybe she'll say it back when he starts. Maybe she's scared too. 

He wonders if maybe she's pretending they have never been apart. Perhaps she can make herself believe it all never happened by not speaking about it. When they start talking, she won't be able to pretend anymore. He's fine with pretending for now. 

He has missed her too much. He wishes he could tell her that, tell her how unbearable it was, how he thought of her every day, the whole day, he wants to tell her how he felt when he thought she was gone, what that did to him, what it nearly made him do to himself. He wants to tell her he is scared, that they'll be parted again, that he'll die and leave them behind. He wants to tell her he's scared that she’s angry, that she blames him. He's terrified that she actually thinks he failed her, like he thinks he did. He wants to talk to her so he can beg her for forgiveness. But then he wonders if maybe she doesn't want to talk because she's scared he'll start making promises again and he decides that she must fear that more than anything. 

He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her he loves her and how much he loves Freia. He wants to ask her if she thinks he's doing a good job, at being a father. Ask her if he should've done something differently. He wants to tell her what seeing her be the mother of his child does to him. 

His hands moves over the laces of her corset. She's still wearing nearly all her layers of clothing. He always used to torture her with slowly undressing her, untying all the laces and she'd tell him to hurry up and he'd grin and she'd playfully push him and everything was just so easy then, they were so easy, everything just happened and he didn't have to think about what to say or what to do. Mostly he didn't have to worry about what she was thinking and feeling because he just knew. She told him or he saw it, as readable as a book she was. 

She still doesn't look at him but not by avoiding his eyes, she closes them and bites her lower lip as if she wants to take back all the moans that escaped her throat just a moment ago.

Then he pulls her close, in his arms, locking her in a grip she could never escape from. She doesn't try to, she sighs as if she's at peace with the world at last. She shivers and her shoulder shake but finally, it's as if she crumbles, as if walls break, as if her headache is finally over, as if her muscles all relax for the first time in years.

He just wants to make her smile, it used to be so easy, he didn't even have to try, he could make her smile with the stupidest comments, sometimes he didn't even mean to make her smile. He'd ask her what's so funny and she told him he was being silly, or nice, or an idiot. Once she told him to _stop being so nice all the time_.

He doesn't think he should stop being nice, he's not sure what she wants but it's not that. 

She smiled when they travelled here, she smiled during their first night together. She smiled the way he remembered, so beautiful, innocent, lovely and sweet. She blushed too and held his hand tight. He hoped that all she needed to heal was Freia but he now knows he was wrong. He doesn’t know what it is she needs, she never tells him. 

‘Sansa.’ He says, ‘I want to make it better.’ 

She says nothing and keeps her eyes closed. Then, a tear drops down her cheek. 

‘Sansa…’ he whispers and he wants to tell her he loves her but the fear of not hearing it back stops him. 

What has happened? Was it too long? Was two years too much? Have they really been broken? Is what they once were, so united and together and meant to be, is that gone? Did these people… did his enemies succeed in destroying the thing he cared most about?

Of course not. She may not say it as often as she once used to, but she still loves him, for the Gods he has no idea _why_ , but she does. The thing they lost is trust, and he needs it back. He’ll get it back. 

She stares at something he cannot see and then snuggles herself comfortable in his arms, her cheek to his chest. 

‘What are you thinking, Jon?’ She asks. 

‘I’m wondering what you are thinking.’

She doesn't instantly respond but then says, ‘I'm wondering if you're angry with me but don't dare to say it.’ 

‘I'm not angry.’

‘Aren't you?’ she clearly doesn't believe him.

‘No. Not anymore.’

‘I'm not angry anymore either.’ She says and he wants to convince himself that's true. 

He moves the tops of his fingers over her back and he feels the goosebumps tickle as he takes a strand of hair in his hand instead and twists it around his finger. 

‘I'm sorry, Jon.’

‘You don't have to apologize for anything at all.’

‘I think I do. I want to.’

‘Sansa I-‘

She moves herself up on her arm to look at him, a frown on her pretty face, ‘You're an idiot.’ She says and it makes him smile, his smile makes her smile, her smile warm his limbs, and she leans down to kiss him.

‘I love you.’ He blurts out and she blushes. How can that make her blush? He used to say it all the time. He whispered it to her in the morning, informed her as he pecked the top of her head during supper, moaned it as he pressed inside her, whispered it in her ear as they stood side by side in the sept listening to the High Septon's endless nonsense and he told her as she lay sleeping in his arms. 

‘I… I do… I love you too.’ She kisses him again as if that makes it less painful that these words are special and meaningful to them in a different way than they should. 

‘Sans…’ he says when she pulls back, ‘Sansa, they have not destroyed us, have they? It's still us, isn't it?’

‘Of course it is.’ She says, ‘We’ll always be us.’

‘You promise?’

She nods and he wants to tell her he loves her, again, but something stops him and he's not so sure what it is exactly. 

Sansa moves away from him and pulls her dress back to her, holds the body of it to her chest and sits there for a while, holding her clothes to herself, and then sighs, ‘I should go down, give Freia and Rickon their luncheon.’

He doesn't want her to go, he should tell her he doesn't want her to go but she doesn't want him to say it so he keeps his mouth shut. 

She moves herself off the bed and pushes the fabrics away, he cut one of her underskirts so now she needs to put on a new one. 

He climbs off the bed, pulls his tunic and smallclothes back on and moves over to help her and as he laces her dress up he presses kisses to her shoulder and neck.

‘I'm sorry I ruined your dress.’

‘It matters not, it was ugly anyway.’

‘You'll have to fix it now.’ 

‘I've got nothing better to do.’ 

She breathes a shaky breath and then bows down to grab her shoes from the floor and leaves the room without putting them on first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I don't believe I have much to add, except that I know Jon's part knows quite a few words and expressions that are not very much in the asoiaf style, I usually try to avoid that except when I feel it works, and here, I think, it works.  
> Next update it this Friday, after which I'll take a pretty long break. I promise, btw, that next chapter is going to be much happier, cause I wouldn't leave for two weeks with a sad angsty chapter, of course!  
> Thanks for reading, as always, and do let me know what you think?


	44. Afterglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Freia is a lovely little thing, but you don’t have to raise her on your own anymore… you can’t. You have to share her with Jon now.' Her mother says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for all the niceness, as usual!

**Sansa**

Freia and Rickon are one red-cheeked, curly-haired, eyelash fluttering, big-eyed dream team. They run through the castle halls, play hide and seek, play with all the wolves, built snow castles and snowknights and together they enchant every kitchen maid who feeds them sugary sweets and strawberries until their bellies are round and there’s no room left for vegetables. 

‘Strally-berries!’ Freia says and she holds one up for Sansa, ‘They are… they come from… the garden with the seeing!’

‘The see-through? Do you mean the glass gardens?’

‘Hhhhmhh, they have all the strally-berries!’

‘Blueberries too?’

Freia holds up her hands to tell Sansa she has no idea, ‘All the berries! Yummy yummy in my tummy!’

It annoys Sansa a little how much they stuff her with the fruits, she’s never hungry this way and when she should be sitting at the table, eating her oatmeal, she’s hopping around instead, throwing her arms in the air, turning and twirling, ‘Are you dancing?’

‘Ghost dancing!’

‘Ghost doesn’t dance, he’s a wolf.’ Sansa pulls on a chair, ‘Come sit, you have to eat.’

‘It is bleh.’ Freia says, unfortunately she’s still as hopeless as ever when it comes to oatmeal.

‘You have to eat Freia,’ Catelyn says, ‘So you can become a really big girl, remember? Here, drink your milk.’

Freia sits down and takes the cup from her grandmama. Sansa tries to help her but she pushes her hands away. 

‘I want to myself!’ 

Freia takes a sip and when she’s done Rickon laughs, ‘Freia! You have a mustache!’ 

Arya laughs too until Sansa glares at her. She wipes Freia’s confused face with a napkin, ‘That’s not a mustache silly!’ Sansa tells Rickon, ‘It’s only milk.’

‘Mi-rache?’ Freia asks.

‘When you have hair on your face.’ Sansa says and she rubs Freia’s cheek with her thumb, ‘Like papa.’

'Like this.' Arya says and she takes a strand of her own hair and holds it below her nose.

Freia places her hand to her chubby cheek, ‘I have no hairs!’

‘Just on your head.’ Arya says and she pulls on one of Freia’s braids. 

‘No brushing.’ Freia says, and she moves her hands to grab the two braids that end just over her shoulders.

‘We won’t brush it now, promise.’ Sansa says and she strokes Freia's head.

‘Mama, mama, Rickon sits on horseys, I sit too?’

‘Maybe.’ Sansa says, through gritted teeth. Somehow Freia senses that it’s her mother who’s being difficult, so she keeps asking. Every other minute that is. She won’t shut up about the damn horseys.

‘I sit on Alter-low too!’

‘Alter-what?’

‘It’s Jon’s horse.’ Catelyn says, ‘She’s so fond of horses.’ 

Sansa wants to say that she doesn’t understand where it comes from, but then, she knows perfectly well where that comes from, ‘Afterglow is far too big for you!’

‘Papa say I sit on Alter-low!’

‘Not in a million years.’ Sansa decides. 

‘Papa saying!’

‘I don’t care what papa says!’

‘But papa SAYING!’

‘And I am saying no.’ Sansa says quite simply and when she moves her napkin to Freia’s face to clean it again she’s rudely refused.

‘YES!’ Sansa can’t help but feel shocked at the anger in Freia’s eyes, she cannot remember her ever looking at her mother like that before, ‘Papa say I grow and I sit!’

‘Grow ten-thousand stones, maybe.’ Sansa says and Freia clearly doesn’t understand what that means. 

‘Papa say I can sit.’ She repeats, her face one grumpy, displeased frown, ‘You say _nothing_!’ 

Freia turns around and walks over to the door to leave and Sansa stands up, she feels her face redden, ‘Where are you going? You’re staying here!’

‘Oh just leave her,’ Catelyn says with a wave the moment Freia is out of sight, ‘She’s eaten most of it… sort of.’ 

Arya shoves her chair back, raises her eyebrows at Sansa, grins and shakes her head, ‘May I be excused? I've finished.’ 

Catelyn nods. 

‘Can I go too?’ Rickon asks immediately, he purposely avoids Sansa’s eyes and Sansa knows it.

Catelyn pretends to think about it, ‘Very well then, but hurry up before I change my mind!’

Rickon runs as if his life depends on it.

‘You shouldn’t contradict Jon in front of Freia.’ Catelyn says, the moment it’s just the two of them, ‘You can’t have him say one thing and then say the complete other, it confuses her.’

Sansa feels an urge to tell her to keep her advice to herself but that would be unnecessarily rude, ‘Not when he promises her she can ride a stallion- a _Dornish_ one at that, have you seen the beast? It’s huge! Apparently, it was a gift from that crazy uncle of Rhaenys. He rides it in battle.’

‘Sansa… he promised her she can sit once she’s bigger. Do you honestly believe he would promise her she can ride on that thing anytime soon?’

Sansa feels a little dumb in that moment, because _of course not_ , but _still_ , ‘He hyped it all up for her, now she’s having all these big expectations and I can be the one to crush them.’ 

‘What is wrong with expectations? She’s two, let the child have her daydreams.’

‘It’s not a daydream when he promises her!’

‘He promised her before you decided to disagree. You can't expect him to break it now? It’s not too dangerous to sit on a pony, and she seems so eager, who are you to ruin her fun just because you’re anxious?’

‘I’m not anxious.’

Catelyn looks at her as if she doubts Sansa actually believes herself. 

‘I’m only worried.’

‘Well, we’re all _worried_.’ 

Sansa knows she worries too much, she doesn't let Freia do things that could possibly cause her pain and she’s eager to bring her to bed on time and get her to eat the vegetables she hates so much. Sansa knows she's not a fun parent. 

Jon is. He makes her laugh, lifts her up and throws her in the air. He runs after her in the inner courtyard, lets her get her dress all dirty, joins in on teaparties, remembers the names of her dolls, wrestles with her and pretends she's stronger and tickles her until she can't breathe no more. He reads to her and uses voices and she'll giggle and beam at him as if he is her favorite person in the whole wide world. She lets him cuddle her too, when he brings her to bed and when she wakes him in the morning by jumping on his legs. She lets his kiss her face and she'll giggle, ‘Ew papa!’ And rubs her cheeks dry with flat hands. 

‘I understand, but when it comes to the pony you’re being over-protective and that’s never a good thing. When Jon was two he could ride around the courtyard all on his own.’ 

‘Freia is not Jon!’

‘Isn’t she?’ Catelyn smiles to herself, ‘They look ridiculously alike.’

‘Do you have anything else you want to tell me?’ Sansa asks, leaning back, her arms crossed. 

‘What?’

‘Something else I’m doing wrong?’

‘Sansa, that is not-‘

‘I raised her for _two years_ , all by myself, it seems to me she came out reasonably decent.’

Catelyn seems honestly shocked at the sudden swing of mood, ‘I’m not saying she’s not decent, but two-year-olds are difficult, wait until she starts getting tantrums.’

‘Freia won't have tantrums! She'd never yell at me.’ 

Catelyn's raised eyebrows are almost amused and they make Sansa feels mocked, ‘What was it she just did, then? She would have plenty more if you didn't always give her what she asks for. You don't want a spoiled child, you'll regret it for the rest of her life.’ 

‘I'm not the one who spoils her, Jon is.’ 

‘Jon spoils her with attention and food, you spoil her with a lack of _no_.’

‘That’s... that's nonsense!’ Sansa says, though, she knows it's embarrassingly true.

You’ll struggle and you’ll feel hopeless, that is what raising a child is, wait until you have five.’ 

‘I don’t find it difficult.’ Sansa says. 

‘Everyone does, I still do. It’s alright to accept help, to listen to advice, especially when it comes from someone who has five. It takes a castle, you do know that, don’t you?’

‘It never took me a castle, I did it all by myself.’ Sansa fills her own glass with milk, ‘I managed perfectly fine on my own.’ 

‘Yes, you did, and Freia is a lovely little thing, but you don’t have to raise her on your own anymore… you can’t. You have to share her with Jon now. He is her father as much as you are her mother.’ 

‘What’re you trying to say?’

‘Let him teach her how to ride a pony.’

‘Never.’ Sansa breathes, ‘Not for at least another year.’

‘Don’t you trust him?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Show him.’ Catelyn rips off a piece of bread and dips it in her tomato soup, ‘Let him know you trust him with her. I think he needs that, for you to show him that you have faith in him, as a father, that he can teach her how to ride and not let her get hurt. Because you can trust him, truly, he loves her with all his heart.’ 

Sansa bites her lip then, ‘I know.’ She says, and she means it. 

‘He’s her father too.’ Catelyn says again, ‘Don’t allow him to think that means nothing to you.’

Jon is, inarguably and undoubtedly, Freia’s favorite person in the world. Sansa is not jealous, truly, because Jon is her favorite person in the whole wide world too, still, always. Freia wants Jon to bring her to bed, she wants him to cut her meat and she also wants him to wash her hair. Then, when she sits in the bathtub, she splashes water all over him and it only makes him laugh. They're like best friends, she's confident they even have their own language that no one else understands. Freia hates it when Jon scolds her, which is remarkable, no one else can say the same, and when he puts her to bed, he stays and lies in the bed with her, until she has fallen asleep. It is as if he was born to be a nurse, not a king. 

Perhaps he was born to be a father. He is so good at it. He doesn't spare himself an opportunity to tell her how much he loves her, how important she is to him, how proud he is of her. It makes Sansa both sad and happy, because she knows where it comes from. Jon knows what it is like to not feel loved.

Sansa is proud but not surprised. As much as she feared their relationship would be forever strained she knew it couldn't ever be. Somewhere she always knew he'd love her to bits, and she knew Freia would love him too. What is not to love about either of them? Sansa wouldn't know, she's the last person to ask. 

Sansa waits a couple of minutes before she can’t stop herself no longer and she gets up.

She finds Freia and Rickon throwing snowballs at Jon in the courtyard, Ghost tries to catch them with his mouth as he jumps and when Freia falls flat over her feet the wolf moves over to press his wet nose to her face and licks her forehead, ‘Ghost ew!’ 

‘Jon! Jon! Jon _look_!’ Rickon screams, Jon looks and the snowball hits him right in the face. Freia laughs so much she falls down again. Sansa feels the urge to run towards her a help her back on her feet but she doesn’t, instead she stands there, hugging herself, as she watches Jon lift her up and throw her into the air. 

He tickles her and kisses her cheeks, ‘Aaaagh papa, nooo!’

‘Rickon, _catch_!’ Jon pretends to throw Freia in Rickon’s way and she squeals, hides her face behind her hands and laughs. Her laughter is the best sound, and Jon makes her laugh so much. 

‘I can catch her!’ Rickon says, he shows Jon his arms, wrapped up in ten layers, and Jon nods.

‘Those are some big muscles you’ve got there, son.’ He says.

‘I’ll be a knight!’ Rickon says, he grabs his wooden stick from the snow and holds it out as if he means to prick it in Jon’s legs, ‘Ser Rodrick says I can be in the King’s Guard!’ 

‘You’ll be a knight?’ Jon asks, ‘You’ll have to protect the princess then.’ She puts Freia back on the ground, she squeals again and runs away with both Rickon and Jon running after her. 

Jon allows Rickon to catch her and as Rickon tries to lift her, which he absolutely cannot, Jon just grabs them both and they’re pressed together, laughing and squealing as he raises them up, together, at once. 

Freia is hugging Ghost, kissing and patting him as he rolls through the snow when Sansa walks over to Jon.

'Hey.' He says and his smile is almost careful.

Sansa opens her mouth to speak but Rickon screams.

‘Freia no! Not again! Freia that is my _wall_!’ he makes a groan in frustration, ‘JON! Jon, she’s ruining my wall again!’

Jon walks over to the pile of snow, ‘Wooooosh! I fly!’ Freia giggles as he lifts her up. 

‘Freils, you can’t ruin Rickon’s wall, remember how long it took him to make it so high?’ Jon rubs the snow off her cloak. 

‘She loves you more than me.’ Sansa says, the moment he stands beside her again and there is not a hint of jealousy in her voice nor her heart. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Is all he says and he wraps an arm around her shoulder and kisses her nose. His cheeks are red because of the cold wind and the running, and she can’t help but kiss him.

‘Ew!’ Rickon says.

Jon kicks snow his way and Freia giggles and hides her face behind her hand, ‘Papa kicking snow at you!’ 

‘I love you.’ Sansa whispers, lately she has found back the ease she used to have in saying it and now she can’t stop anymore.

‘Is everything alright?’ He frowns, though there is amusement and adoration in his eyes. 

‘Just say it back.’

He kisses her nose again, ‘I love you.’

Sansa grin, moves a hand to his neck, allows her fingers to play with his hair at the nape as he presses his forehead to hers. 

'Your parents are gross.’ Rickon tells Freia and when Jon looks up to scold Rickon for saying it Sansa grabs his collar so he won't turn away from her and she can't help but feel pleased with herself when she suggests, 

‘Maybe… when Freia is two-and-a-half you can try to teach her how to… you can put her on a pony again, do you think that might be… is that a good idea?’

‘Only if you want.’ He says, too quickly, almost. 

She really doesn’t want to, but her mother is right, of course she is, damn her, so Sansa nods.

His grin is worth it then, so wide and bright, he kisses her on her mouth again and it’s too much for Rickon now because he throws a snowball again, aims it at their heads but misses, thankfully. 

‘Stop drooling!’ he says. 

‘I’ll drool all over you then!’ Sansa says and she grabs Rickon’s face to kiss him but he wriggles almost aggressively, screaming loudly and Freia giggles as she runs to Jon to hide behind his legs. She always does that.

It is later that day that she takes off her wet cloak, her gloves and her boots and drops down in the sofa, ready to grab some needlework.

‘She’s sleeping.’ Jon says as he stands in the door opening. 

Sansa nods without looking up, ‘Was she tired?’

‘Fell asleep after one story.’ 

‘Relatively tired then.’ Sansa picks up her work and sighs when Jon clears his throat.

‘Sans?’ 

She looks up and feels almost cold. He once used that voice when he still did things she’d lecture him about, when they were young and Robb persuaded him to do stupid and foolish things that would get them into trouble.

‘What is it?’

‘I have a demand.’ 

Sansa frowns. For a moment, she is convinced he’s going to scream.

They haven't talked much. Hardly. She knows they should but she’s afraid it will burst the bubble. She knows he hates the bubble far more than she does. 

For some things... there are simply no words. 

As long as he keeps telling her he loves her, keeps holding her and everything… all that she needed to live without for so long, she'll manage. 

She can feel in his touch how much her scars anger him. She knows he wants to know who did that to her. Those on her thighs, on her back and the small one above her eyebrow that he kisses when she lays with her face in the crook of his neck. 

She is not ready. She will be, surly she’ll have to be one day, but not now, not today. Her fear is left unanswered when he straightens his back and says, ‘This is my bed.’ Jon points, ‘Mine.’

‘I know that.’ She means to roll her eyes but he seems frustrated.

‘Then why aren't I sleeping in it?’

‘You slept in it last night.’ 

He did. She couldn't find both him and Freia, then eventually found them asleep in this bed, her head on his chest, drooling all over his shirt, and his one arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, the other lay along his body, an opened and unfinished book in his hand. 

The most lovely, innocent and enchanting thing she'd ever seen. There is something so unusually beautiful about seeing the two most important people in her life love each other completely and unreservedly that just makes her feel like she is the luckiest woman in all the seven Kingdoms. 

She wrapped the furs around them and climbed in there with them, placed her head on his last free shoulder. Two shoulders he has, strong ones, broad ones, they'll always be there for her to lean on and she’s finally getting used to that again. 

She felt so at home then, so safe and secure. As if they have always been together. 

When she woke up the next morning they were both gone and she peeked out of her window to see Freia throw her snowballs at him and he pretended to fall down at the mere seize of them. 

It made her smile. They make her smile. They always do, just the sight of them alone, of him. 

‘That was the first time in _three days_!’

‘You're exaggerating.’

He crosses his arms and glares at her as if he's a displeased adolescent and she his annoying mother. He's not an adolescent. He was once, she can still remember, but definitely not anymore. 

‘Jon-‘

‘It's my bed.’ He says again, ‘I’m done.’

‘You're done?’

‘I have tried to deal with it, I dealt with it, now it's done. She can't sleep in your bed until the age of ten. She was sleeping on her own perfectly fine, I'm convinced she can do it again.’

‘I don't want her to feel-‘

‘She's a big girl. And you _are_ a weak mother.’

She frowns at that, ‘How can you-‘

‘You always say it, I always say it's not true, well, I'm admitting now, I was lying. She has a hold over you that she knows all about and she knows exactly how to play it. She's a clever little thing, but I am done. I demand my bed back.’

Somehow at one point she felt a grin appear on her face, ‘You seem really passionate about this.’

‘Trust me, I am. There are other ways to show her she's wanted than by letting her sleep on my side of our bed.’ 

‘I like sleeping with her.’ Sansa admits, ‘We always… I've always done it, ever since she was a day old.’ 

‘She's not anymore.’ 

‘I know that.’

‘Well then.’

‘She’s scared of the dark.’

‘We’ll leave a night candle on.’

‘It's not that simple!’

‘It is Sansa!’ He throws his arms up in frustration, ‘I’m sick of my small bed! I can't stretch and it's cold.’

‘You always leave voluntarily.’ 

‘Because I can't breathe!’

‘That's nonsense, you're being very-‘

‘Serious.’ He says and he crosses his arms again, ‘I’m being very serious.’

‘Well…’ she grabs her piece of embroidery, ‘You’ll be the one to bring her back to her bed. She won't like it.’

‘I won't like it either but sometimes you have to bleed before you heal.’

That makes her scuff but when he marches out of the room and leaves her there she can't help but smile.

He proves once again to be a man of his word when he brings Freia to her room that same night. She screams, ‘Papa no!’ But he ignores her and drags her back across the hall. 

He explains to her calmly that, ‘You're going to sleep in your own bedchamber tonight, Freia, like a big girl, you'll be my big girl?’ 

She tries a full amount of five times and she's jumping up and down in frustration, big fat crocodile tears sliding down her cheeks until she’s exhausted and falls asleep in his arms. 

Sansa wonders of this is what her mother calls a tantrum. She figures it must be. Jon drops himself down beside her, tells her Freia is ‘finally sleeping’, and closes his eyes to finally find his well-deserved rest. 

The next morning Sansa wakes up to Freia squealing as she jumps up and down in the bed, ‘Wake papa, wake! Papa, papa!’

Jon groans when she lets herself drop on top of him and she giggles when she pulls on his hair.

‘PAPA!’ She screams in his ear. 

She gets up again, pulling on his arm to drag him from the bed, even though she'll probably never be strong enough to pull him anywhere, she still tries and she frowns deep as she uses all her strength to lift his arm alone, jaw clenched. 

Freia doesn't seem to feel unwanted at all. She seems to have forgotten entirely. The guilt Sansa felt at Freia’s tears and begs just melts away. 

As Jon drags himself from the bed, by demand, Sansa wonders if perhaps he was right. There are certainly other ways to show her she is loved.

It's not only that of course. Sansa wanted Freia close because she was scared, to protect her all day every day… But she doesn't have to anymore. She's not scared they'll all be killed in their sleep, she's not frightened they'll take her away nor does she feel so lonely and sick at the mere idea of her hopeless situation that she needs to feel her daughter’s body heat, just to be sure. 

'Say; good morning mama.’

‘Morning.’ Freia waves and then runs away again. Jon kisses Sansa's temple before he follows Freia like an obedient servant, looking at Sansa as if he expects her to feel sorry for him, which she doesn't, she can't stop grinning as she closes her eyes again to finish her wonderfully careless dreams. 

The next night it's much the same, perhaps worse because Freia begs for Sansa’s help now. Jon hisses to her to remember that ‘she's clever! She's trying to manipulate you!’ And Sansa feels the urge to cry with Freia as she gets pulled from their room once again. 

It takes Jon three nights to get Freia to stop trying and Sansa has to admit, the extra space is nice, and really, if there is anything she longed for or missed so dreadfully, it is falling asleep in his arms. 

He makes her laugh. She'd forgotten how funny he is, especially when he isn't trying. He's funniest when he's trying to be dead serious about something no one else can be dead serious about. 

He's still a storyteller, and he talks to her without stopping. About Freia and about the war, about Winterfell and at one point she realizes he talks about their time apart too. 

Maybe he can start and then she can do it too, she'll mention something and then later on she'll explain things and afterwards she can’t keep her mouth shut because everything will stream out. 

She rubs her feet with his and he starts pulling them away again and they even argue sometimes too, about silly things, just the way she remembers. He watches her eat drapes in bed or read a silly romantic book and she watches him sleep. On his front, and she pulls her hands through his hair, moves her fingers over his back, caresses his skin and presses her cheek to it as she moves herself over him, presses a kiss to his neck and he'll moan in his sleep and tells her that, ‘Sans, I’m trying to sleep.’

They are not like they once were, not at all, but the more time passes by, the more she starts believing that they will be, eventually. She tries to convince herself that there is nothing to forgive and she believes it. That they have not broken what was once unbreakable. They were not unbreakable, and there are fault lines, but there is no beauty without imperfection and their relationship is perfectly imperfect. 

He starts being annoying again and she is all used to the way he looks now. She can't really remember the old him, there is just him now. And he's still him. Jon is still Jon. With the same irritating habits, the same lopsided grin, the kind grey eyes and the curly dark hair. He's still terrible at complimenting her, he still proudly grins and is all full of himself when he helps her reach the peek and he still narrows his eyes when she makes him smile that one smile he only has for her, his special smile. He's still a terrible sleeper, perhaps worse than she remembers, lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling but then, she still knows how to make that better.

Sansa lays on her back at night, her hand on her abdomen, staring up at the ceiling. Sometimes she moves a limb simply because she likes the feeling of her skin rubbing his. He is silent in his sleep, his eyelashes flutter to his cheeks and his beard scratches her forehead as she kisses his neck. She told him not to shave his trimmed beard off last week. He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. 

She moves her hand over his shoulder to his upper-arm, lets the tops of her fingers drift over his muscles that are hard under her touch. As she moves her hand she can't help but stare at his face, perhaps a little in wonder. It still amazes her how handsome he is, how he is hers. He's so good to her, always was, always will be. She's so lucky, still, with her brave and gentle husband. 

He gave her a daughter, and she wants another. She falls asleep with his seeds in her womb and sometimes she feels the urge to cry because there was once a time she wondered if she'd ever feel that again. 

Once there was nothing she wanted more than to feel a child inside her, now that she knows what that’s like… how that is the most wonderful thing… the desire for it is different, the want less based on imagination, more on a longing that makes her feel so eager and it's unbearable sometimes. It comes along with wanting him, more than anything. 

She lets her hand slide down to his chest and these muscles feel the same as the ones in his arms. She's getting used to that, to how broad and strong he is. The curly haired, cleanly shaven boy that nervously eyed her from the other side of the Winterfell great hall is gone. Her lord husband is a man grown in every way a man can be that. There's nothing boyish about him. Not his voice or his once shy eyes, the muscles in his body and the hair on his face. 

She moves closer against him, pushes her bare breasts against his chest. The contrast between their bodies is stronger than ever before. Once they were both skinny and dangly- now he is all hard and strong and she is all round and soft and it's good, she likes it. 

In his sleep, he moves his arm around her, with his hand to her back and she entangles her leg through both of his. He groans and she lifts her hand to dig it in his hair as she presses her nose to his cheek. 

In the past he often pushed her away when she did all that, ‘N-no Sans, I’m sleeping.’ Or, ‘I can't perform right now, it's the middle of the night.’ He never pushes her away lately, nor she him. He always lets her and she always wants him. 

'You want me inside?' He mutters now and Sansa nods, a small smile around her lips.

He grabs both her hands as he moves on top of her, places them above her head and with his knee he pushes her legs apart and she eagerly spreads them for him. She raises her face to his so she can take his lower lip between her own and he dips his tongue in her mouth which causes her to sigh in complete contentment. There are no fabrics on them to shed so all it takes is for him to push inside. He looks in her eyes when he does, and she smiles at him, she hopes it's a loving smile and she thinks it is because that is the sort of smile he gives back. 

He makes love to her like a man. That, he always has. Still as attentive and eager but not careful, not anymore. When he fills her up he doesn't hold back, not even the first time, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp as she feels the familiar sting and the pleasurable ache, the good ache. 

He lets go of one hand and moves it down to grope her breast, squeeze it in his palm and she uses the freedom to pull on his hair as her legs move up higher and her ankles dig in his back. 

Once all she wanted was a baby. When she lost the first all she wanted was a child of her own to take care of and love and dote over like a proper lady wife. She wanted his baby, and he gave it to her. Then later, when he was gone, she though one was enough, that Freia would be all she'll ever need, she’d be grateful for just one. And it's true, but as he moves inside her, slowly, lazily, she knows that she's perhaps a spoiled woman, for there is nothing she wants more than another, she wants more than enough. 

She didn't tell him back then, how she wanted that, out of fear of his disapproval and she didn't want him to think she desired him for only that. She never could. There is nothing that makes her feel as beautiful as this does. 

It doesn't matter that she's not as skinny anymore as she once was, that her breasts are much bigger and her belly no longer as tight because Freia stretched it all. He doesn't mind and that shouldn't make her feel as grateful as it does, she knows that, but still. Her body is no longer that of a young maiden. 

He still wants her, after all these years, he still tells her how fucking perfect she is and how he loves to be inside of her, he still tells her all these things that made her blush so much when she was only seventeen. 

His face shows her a concentration and a focus she recognizes from all these years ago. Dead-set on doing a really good job, making her feel good. She was always the more submissive one in the sense that she always let him do his thing. He knew more about it anyway, and she has never had the courage to ask him where he found that knowledge. She'd lie there and let it all happen to her, she'd let him try his hardest and give his everything. She'd let him pull her across the room or she'd push him down on his back and take control if he seemed to need it. But usually… usually he was the one who let her know what rhythm they'd take, and he seemed to base it on his guess of what she needed and he was usually right. Tonight, he is right again. 

Their bodies know each other so well. They are like two puzzle pieces and they fit. They belong together, they move together, breathe together. Their love is flawed, vulnerable, powerful, intimate and perfect. It's right. It makes her feel strong and powerful. 

He says her name and it makes her whimper. He needs her too, she knows that, he doesn't say it but she sees it in the way he looks at her, as if his eyes are begging her to love him.

 _We’re meant to be_ , she thinks, _whatever happens, that I know._.

‘I-I love you.’ She tells him, ‘Give me a baby.’

He waits a moment longer to pull back out when she whispers it to his opened mouth, but then he pushes in more roughly than ever before and the roughness makes her gasp and moan. He always makes fun of her when she's being loud, but not now. 

He wants to become a king, does he not? He already is, has been for years now. She'll be his queen if they let her, and she'll give him sons too. She knows she could do it. She’s strong, her hips wide, her womb as eager as ever, she's done it before, she’ll do it again. They can make children together, they already did. She'll give him an heir- or two, maybe three. As many as he'd like. 

It’s raw, so intense and emotional yet good. It's always so good, even better every time, still. She feels her body shake and tightens her legs around him to pull him closer, digs her nails in her shoulder blades as she trembles in his arms and when he succumbs and lays down on top of her, his head between her breasts, she knows that what he likes doesn't matter as much. She doesn't want a baby because he needs an heir.

‘You want that too?’ 

‘Hm?’ 

‘A baby.’ She whispers, ‘I want one.’ 

‘You already have one.’ 

‘Freia is nearly three.’ She says, ‘She's not a baby.’

‘She's not nearly three, she's not even two and a half.’ He mutters to the skin of her left breast before he takes her nipple in his mouth. 

Sansa grins down at him and pulls his face up to hers by his hair, ‘Please?’

He presses his forehead to hers and takes her face in his palm, ‘Are you begging? I couldn't resist begging.’

‘I don't have to beg.’ She says, ‘For you not to be able to resist me.’ 

He leans down on his side, rests his head on his hand and looks down at her lying there with a pleased, almost proud look on his face. 

‘I just want you to want it too.’

He doesn't say anything, only lets his smile grow wider. 

‘We may have just made one.’ She tells him, ‘Or last night, or this morning, last week-‘

‘We’ll make one in the morrow.’ He says as he lays down on his back and moves his head on his pillow to make it comfortable. 

‘Really?’

‘Aye, I promise.’ 

She turns to him and wraps herself around him, ‘You want to?’

‘I always want you.’ He tells her hair. 

‘I don't mean me, I mean a child. I want one more.’

'Just one more?'

She grins and presses her nose to his cheek, ‘You too?’

He nuzzles his face down and gently strokes some hair from her face, ‘If it's yours… I'll always want it.’

She beams at him and her smile makes him smile, ‘Really?’

‘Of course.’ He yawns. 

‘Even if it's another girl? You'll be happy with a girl too?’

He nods and closes his eyes as he butterfly kisses her cheek. 

She tucks hair behind his ear, which never makes him look handsome yet she always does it, ‘Freia will be a wonderful sister.’ She says.

He doesn't respond, only smiles and she kisses his smile before she turns her face down and lays her head on his chest, on top of his steady heartbeat. 

He sighs then, and pulls her even closer, wraps his arms around her and she lets her finger draw circles on his stomach, around his belly button and over the ribbles of his ribcage, ‘Are you sure that is what you want?’ He then asks. 

‘Yes.’ She breathes, ‘I am.’ 

He doesn't say anything for a while during which she feels almost scared and then he whispers, ‘I just want you to feel happy again.’

‘I am happy.’ She insists, and she believes herself. 

‘Do you?’ She looks up and realizes that he does not believe her, ‘Because if you are not… there's no shame in in. I want to help you… please let me help you?’

‘You _are_ helping me.’

‘Do I? Doesn’t feel that way.’ 

‘You make me happy.’ She says she knows it's true, yet he visibly doesn't and that hurts so much. 

‘Really? Do I still make you happy? Because I don't-‘

‘Jon…’ she nuzzles her face in his neck and kisses his jaw, ‘Always, remember? Please don't… please.’ 

He presses his lips to her forehead, ‘I'll always be there for you, you know that, don't you? You can tell me anything.’

Sansa nods, it's not that she doesn't trust him. It's simply that some things cannot be described by words. Once she finds them she'll tell him, but she has no idea where to look for them, that is what stops her the most. 

‘We could have a boy,’ she says and she rubs her face to his chest, ‘Maybe it'll have your hair again. We could name it after father and you'll be there when it's born. You'll be there this time.’

‘I will be.’ 

‘Freia is so big now, it happened too fast.’ She looks up and sees him smile in her hair, ‘I'm young, I could do it, I know I could.’

‘’Course you could.’ He says and when she looks up she can see him having closed his eyes again. 

‘At least five, or six, how many do you want? First two boys, because if we have two boys in a row they can play together. Then maybe another girl, because after two boys you want a girl. Unless she'll be like Arya of course. And then maybe a boy again? Or maybe it won't matter by that time because we already have both. I do want another girl, girls are so lovely. Maybe we can have two girls after the two boys so they can play together too. Of course they shouldn't differ so much in age, not more than three years, or else they're too far apart. Obviously, that didn't matter so much with Arya and me so perhaps I shouldn't think about that. We could have twins too! Though two at once will be quite something, I don't think we should want that. No twins right?’

‘I don't think we have a say.’

‘Perhaps we don't. I'll have to make the clothes all over again, I just realize, I left them all in the Red Keep. It matters not, I'll have nine moonturns for that. And mother can help me now. You'll rub my back again won't you? Freia was such a good baby but I have heard stories and they don't all sound as fun. Once she was a little sick and she couldn’t stop crying… We can do it together this time. We can, that helps. And the Septa of course, wetnurse and everything. Gods Jon, they are so irritating, you have no idea, always trying to rip the baby from your breast just when you’re comfortable.’ Sansa entangles her fingers through his, ‘I'll grow as big as a castle again.’ She whispers, ‘So you'll have to rub my back constantly like you did last time, you will, won't you?’

He doesn't respond and when she turns her face she sees his careless face sleeping. He always looks like he has no care in the world when he sleeps. He only looks like that when he is sleeping and when he plays or cuddles with Freia. 

When Jon sloppily kisses Freia’s cheek she pulls a disgusted face and roughly wipes her face dry with the back of her hand. She doesn't always let him show her how much she is his favorite person in the world, she's often too busy with her dolls or her tea party and she doesn't like it how it holds her up in her busy schedule of running around the castle and dancing through life. 

Yet when she's tired, and she's sitting in his lap and she lays her head on his chest, all small and petite against him, she sucks her thumb as he reads her a story and she lets him cuddle her and she cuddles him back. ‘Love you papa.’ She tells him then as her energy fails her and she falls asleep in his arms. 

When she's sleeping in his arms he can sit there and Sansa knows he forgets everything and everyone. That is when she wonders why they care about that throne at all, when all he ever wanted, all he’ll ever need, is right there in his lap. Family.

Perhaps that is why she wants another baby. Because seeing him like that makes her feel like the whole world is right. She never saw him with a baby in the crook of his arm, a tiny one, that can do nothing but eat and sleep and keep you awake at night. She wants to see him sit there like that and be happy the way he is when he's with them. She wants to make him happy so badly. She'll make him as happy as he makes her, because he does. It took some time, it took two moonturns, but he makes her happy, as ridiculously happy as always before. She'll give him all he ever wanted, a family, a home, in her arms, with their children, that they made together. Big and happy and careless and theirs and theirs alone. 

 

**Catelyn**

‘How are you and Jon?’ 

Catelyn made sure Arya was out of the room before she asked. She hasn't asked the question directly, not like this, and she has good reason not to. Who is she to tell them what to do? She has no reason to think she knows what is best for them. She has never been in their situation. She shouldn't advise them on how to rebuilt their relationship, and the trust and devotion. They seem to rekindle it all well without her interference.

It took them some time, but they seem oddly happy. Perhaps they truly only need each other to be happy. Perhaps Catelyn envies them for that, as they can be all innocent and pure despite all they lived through. Still young lovers, still undisturbed in their affections. He still makes her blush and she still makes him smile and they're a family now. A perfect small, precious and extremely handsome family that seems so unaware of these storms that creep up on them. 

That first week Catelyn feared they had been damaged among repair. She knows Jon feared that too. She still fears it sometimes because it is as if they're actors in a play, a play only they are a part of, only they are playing it and as she sees it unfold it sometimes physically hurts her. 

They don't talk. About nothing it seems sometimes. They don't tell each other how they missed each other, how hurt they are and how they went through all the seven hells and back. They don't talk about what they saw, they don't talk about their scars, visible and invisible, nor about their fears and doubts for the future. They will have to eventually, one day one of them will burst. 

Probably Jon. Jon was never much good at role playing. When they were little Sansa always tried to make the boys sit down and she'd force them to be their knights or princes and they'd either make fun of her behind her back or they'd run off when she looked the other way. 

‘Good.’

Sansa doesn't say it with the convincing cheerfulness Catelyn was expecting. She looks up from her needlework and frowns at her daughter who keeps her eyes on her own lap as she sits in an armchair in front of the fire, her hair braided from her face. 

‘Is something amiss?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You seem a little down.’ It's a correct description. She hasn't been saying much, stared down at her lap as she pulled and pushed the needle in the exact way she wanted it to. 

'Oh.'

‘Are you feeling well?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘You can tell me.’

Sansa bites her lower lip and lets the fabric slide through her hands before she sighs and drops it, ‘My moonblood came this morning.’ 

Catelyn instantly understands, ‘You shouldn't want it too much, that never helps.’

Sansa frowns at her, visibly decides to ignore the comment, lifts her work up again and avoids to look her mother in the eye. 

‘You have only been together for two moonturns. That is not-‘

‘I know that.’ She says, ‘I know.’

‘you shouldn't let it-‘

‘I'm not.’ She sighs again, a little more frustrated now, ‘It's just that… I never believed I would ever- I know I shouldn't want it too much, but I cannot help myself.’ 

‘It's only been two moons, you're a little older now than you were the first time.’

‘I'm _twenty-one_.’

Catelyn smiles to herself and decides not to say anything, ‘Why not is a question that will always be left unanswered, so it's better not to discuss it too much.’ 

‘I shouldn't want it this much.’ Sansa shakes her head at herself, ‘Not with everything that is happening. And he'll leave soon, he'll have to go back to the front, he's been away far too long, he has stretched his stay here to two weeks, but they need him there when they attack Sarsfield or _something_ , and Casterly Rock, they've prepared it for moons and moons and now it's just… he’ll _go_ and-‘

‘And you wanted him to leave you behind with a full belly?’

‘I don't want to be left behind!’ Sansa says, her voice loud and high, ‘I won't let him. We won’t be parted ever again.’

‘Sansa…’ Catelyn sighs, ‘He'll have to.’

She shakes her head, ‘No.’ she says, ‘Rhaenys is at the front. If she can be there so can I.’

‘You want to be parted from Freia?’

‘Freia can come too.’ Sansa insists.

‘Don't be silly, she's not even three.’ 

‘We'll go to Riverrun first, that way we'll be closer to him, and there are other castles we could-‘

‘You can't bring Freia to danger.’

Sansa's eyes widen and Catelyn knows she has said the wrong thing, ‘I won't be left behind.’ Sansa says, her eyes not nearly as calm as her words, ‘Not ever again.’

Catelyn tries to find the right tone in her voice but decides she'll only anger her more, she won't convince her either way. It'll be Jon’s battle to wager, one to start of the string of many more to follow, ‘We don't have to discuss it now.’ 

‘We don't have to discuss it, ever.’ 

‘Have you talked about it, with Jon?’

Sansa shakes her head. 

‘What do you talk about?’

‘We talk plenty, thank you.’

Catelyn is not convinced, not nearly, ‘I think you must listen to him.’

As Catelyn predicted, the advice only annoys Sansa, all her advice annoys her lately, no matter what it is about, and yet… she is so much in need of advice. Having a family is hard. Sansa is a wonderful mother and it has a tendency of making Catelyn emotional, so proud is she, but Sansa has lived through too much, she needs help, she can't do it on her own. No woman should have to. 

Sansa doesn't shy away from rolling her eyes, ‘I don't need you to tell me how to treat my own lord husband. I know him far better than you.’

‘I'm sure you do, but I have seen more of him in the past two years and he needs to talk about that.’

‘Jon is not a talker.’

‘That must be why he hasn't lost his wits yet.’

‘Don't be ridiculous.’ Sansa crosses her arms and leans back, ‘If he were so eager to speak he would.’ 

‘Would he? Or is he afraid you won't understand? Maybe he fears you are angry, or disappointed, or-‘

‘I am not disappointed.’ 

‘Tell him that.’ 

‘Why ever would he think that?’ Sansa asks.

Catelyn only needs to give her a certain look for her to understand why and she groans before she turns her head away. 

‘I'm not disappointed in _him_ , I couldn't be, it's just…’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘We were never much good at telling each other how we feel. We can always… we always _knew_ and if we didn't… father always told me to talk more to him as well.’

That makes Catelyn smile. The notion of Ned makes her feel warm and sad both at the same time. Lonely too. Perhaps that is why she needs Jon and Sansa to be their old selves again, because she doesn't want them to be as lonely as she is, ‘You love him, you don't want to lose him, do you?’

‘I won't lose him, never again, _ever_.’

‘Tell him that too. Tell him how much you missed him, tell him how horrible you felt, tell him what they did to you, what being away from him did to you, tell him about your darkest, deepest thoughts.’ 

‘I don't want to.’ Sansa simply says. 

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ she seems to struggle with the answer so Catelyn gives it to her.

‘Because you don't want him to think you've changed into someone else? Someone he may not like?’

Sansa’s face tells Catelyn she hit the right boxes.

‘He has changed too, hasn't he? But you still love him. If you don't want to lose him-‘

‘I can't.’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘. I'll die.’

Sansa should say it to him with the exact same passion, fear and pain in her eyes as there is now, ‘Have you said that to him?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘He knows that.’ 

‘I still think he'd like to hear you say it.’ 

‘He asked me… he asked if it’s still us, asked if they didn't destroy us. I said no one ever could.’

Catelyn nods, ‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing much, I got up and left before he could say more.’ 

Catelyn sighs and pushes her needlework away, ‘Don't you want him to know?’

‘I…’

‘Whatever it is Sansa, whatever happened… I understand you… surely, of all people, you can tell him?’

Sansa blinks and then a tear drops down, one that Catelyn didn't seem coming, she seemed to annoyed to cry, ‘He’ll be upset about it. If I tell them about how they hurt me and hit me, how they mistreated me, he’ll get so angry.’

‘Let him be angry. He deserves to be angry, he loves you and they hurt you. He wants to be angry.’

‘I don't want him to be angry. He has enough to be angry about as it is, enough to be concerned with, he already sleeps two hours every night. He always worries too much and I can't give him more reason to-‘

‘Knowing is better than guessing.’ Catelyn decides, ‘He knows what they did, he is no fool. If you tell him you can talk about it and he won't have to make it up in his head. You see… I think he needs you to tell him to stop blaming himself for that.’

‘Why ever would he blame himself for that?’

‘Don't you blame him?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Sansa… you were there, waiting for him to come and get you and he never came. You had to go to him instead. He feels as if he failed you and I don't truly believe you have never for a moment believed that too.’

‘I never believed it. It flashed through my mind perhaps but… if he came for me they would've taken his head! They would have made me watch the ravens eat his eyes out.’

‘Yet you waited and-‘

‘I was a stupid girl. I know better now. It won't make me… I could never blame him nor think he… never. I have forgiven him.’

‘So, there were things to forgive?’

‘It’s Jon. I know he… he'd do everything he could to protect me, anything he… he promised. He never broke the promise.’

‘I think he feels he has.’

She shakes her head, ‘I don’t… he'd tell me.’

Catelyn watches her struggle for a moment, ‘You have to talk about it before he leaves. Don't send a man off to war with a wandering soul, that's cruel and you want him to come back to you.’

‘I'll come with him.’ She suddenly says again, ‘And he won't die, he can't. If he'll die I die and if I die… well that would be much of a shame after all I went through to die of a broken heart.’ 

Catelyn sighs, ‘We’ll have to pray none of us will die.’ 

‘I must pray for a son.’ 

‘Sansa-‘

‘If he'll die and I won't have a son in my belly or my arms… he'll have died for nothing.’

‘He'll have died protecting you, his kin.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘This pointless war will have been pointless if I just... they're fighting for what their father wanted. That Jon’s line is to continue to sit on the Iron throne, it's my duty-‘ 

‘Duty is never a good reason to want a child.’ 

‘It's not.’ Sansa says, ‘It's not, I… I want to have a baby, and if he’ll leave, then at least he'll leave me with a full belly, as he always does, when he leaves me, he always leaves a part of him behind. The first time too… when he… that's a long time ago.’ 

‘It is a long time ago.’ Catelyn bites her lower lip before she says, ‘He won't take you with him when your pregnant.’ Catelyn agrees with Jon’s predictable response, ‘It could be dangerous.’

‘Especially not after last time. He was so anxious when I carried Freia, I know it was because of the first one, the one I lost. He blamed himself for that.’ 

‘Well, it wasn't Jon's fault.’

‘Of course it wasn't, but you know what he's like.’

‘That’s nonsense.’ Catelyn wasn't aware the boy’s self-sacrifice went so deep, surely he didn't blame himself for so much? That would be cruel. 

'It was just… I didn’t him to go, I asked him to stay, practically begged and then when he left and it all went wrong… I suppose he blamed himself for not being there, for leaving.’

‘Well that has nothing to do with what happened, he can't possibly have ever done anything to stop that, not without knowing.’ 

‘I suppose so.’ Sansa frowns at her as if she doesn't quite understand what she's saying, ‘But Jon always needs someone to blame and he prefers to blame himself when he sees opportunity. It's such a long time ago now, I don't think it still bothers him, but he'll worry more because of it.’ 

‘Well, certainly he blames himself no longer, after finding out what they did to you.’

The moment she says that she realizes what she has done. Catelyn hears herself gasp yet she doesn't notice the feeling and she digs her nails in the fabric of her skirt that she holds in her hand. 

‘Sansa I-‘

‘Who did what to me?’

‘It is of no matter.’

‘I think it is.’

Catelyn gulps. How could she have known? Was it foolish of her to assume Sansa knew? Perhaps she could've easily guessed that Jon would never tell her, that he'd make the decision to spare her from ever finding out. Perhaps that was the right decision. Perhaps there is no price high enough for bringing that nightmare back to broad daylight.

‘I should not have mentioned it.’

‘What did they do? Who did it?’

‘The Lannisters. The queen.’ Catelyn whispers. She was never much of a liar and she refuses to lie about this, all that’s left to her is pray it won’t break what was not yet broken, ‘They… I thought Jon told you.’

‘What did he not tell me?’

‘They…’ Cat closes her eyes when she says it, ‘Took your baby from you. With poison, I think. It was them.’ Catelyn gulps again as she feels her throat tighten, looking at her daughter all terrified suddenly, distressed as well as so ridiculously angry, ‘Sansa, I am so sorry.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... that was that. I'll be back two weeks from now, I'm sorry to leave you with a bit of a cliffhanger, that was not intended. :S  
> I any case, I might post some sort of spoiler slash preview on my tumblr (winterfelland-), if I find the time/don't forget.  
> Have a really good two weeks (better than mine will be hopefully) and thanks for reading!


	45. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Sansa…’ he whispers, butterfly kissing her temple, ‘All I have ever done is fail you.’ 
> 
> She hiccups, then presses her hot lips to his, ‘Life failed me, Jon Snow.’ She says, ‘Not you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo!  
> I know I was going to not update for two weeks but I suppose I changed my mind. The only excuse I can come up with is that I had to just stop studying for a while. I suppose I also just really missed updating. I'm going to have major withdrawal symptoms after I posted the last chapter, I think.  
> This chapter is 90 percent dialogue, I'm just telling you so you can mentally prepare. If you don't enjoy dialogues much, this chapter is not for you. I still suggest you read it though, cause they say some important things.

**Jon**

Jon opens the door to their bedchamber and sees her lying on the bed, her back towards him, one miserable pile of heartbreaking sadness and he feels his throat tighten and his skin tickle with goosebumps. Again, as he has ever since Catelyn told him with wide and terrified eyes, he curses himself.

‘I'm so sorry.’ He doesn't know what else to say, what she needs to hear. Lately, he always seems to say the wrong things when she's upset. He doubts she's ever been this upset with him.

She doesn't say a thing and he walks further into the room to sit down on the bedside. It is when he sees her face that he curses out loud, ‘S-sansa…’ 

She clutches a handkerchief in her pale fists but doesn’t use it as her tears stain the pillow below her head. 

He rubs his upper legs with his hand and digs his nails in the fabric before he closes his eyes to find the strength to say, ‘If you don't want to see me, I'll go.’

‘Why didn't you tell me?’ She asks, her voice raw, high, soft and somehow, not angry, just sad, and that makes him feel worse, if possible. 

‘B-because…’ he catches himself trying to think of the right thing to say but then he decides there is only one right thing to say. 

This is it. He is not ever going to hold back anything ever again, he's not going to lie, about nothing, not even stupid things, he won't even lie about too much wine, headaches or feeding Freia honey from the jar. He can't do it anymore. He didn't manage to protect her by keeping things from her, so perhaps that was the stupidest thing he's ever done, perhaps that was the most gruesome mistake of all.

‘Because it happened. I couldn't turn back time. I felt I failed you and if I told you… I figured it would be easier for you to give it a place if you didn't know… if you continued to believe that-‘

‘It was no one’s fault?’

‘I… yes. I think so.’

He feels an incredible urge to touch her, hug her tight, rock her and kiss all her tears and pain away. He’d do it, if he believed that was something she would every possibly maybe want. 

Sansa shakes her head and when she finally looks at him her eyes scare him, so angry and upset are they, ‘But I thought it was _my_ fault. I thought _I_ \- I thought that… it was my job to protect her and I couldn't.’ 

‘That's not true.’

Her voice is no longer soft when she says, ‘I suppose I know that now!’ 

‘Sansa…’ he feels his fingers tremble when he stretches his hand to touch her face but she turns it away from him, hides it away behind her hand, her nails digging in the pale skin of her cheek.

‘Please hold me?’ She asks then and she doesn’t need to tell him twice.

He lays down and drags her shaking, sobbing, miserable body against his chest, his arm wrapped around her to lock her in the tightest of grips in some desperate attempt to comfort her. 

She lays in his arms, sobbing, crying and shaking, for what may or may not be hours, until she opens her mouth, and her whispers prove him wrong, when he believed he couldn’t possibly hate Cersei Lannister more.

‘All that time… I was there as that woman- and she… she knew what she d-did to me. You have no idea how- she killed m-my baby.’ Fresh tears fall down her cheeks and she grabs his hand and squeezes it so hard he feels tiny bones creak, ‘How can… how can someone do such a thing? My baby was… she was innocent.’

‘I know. It’s… I know.’

She turns around as she continues to softly cry, muffling the sounds in the crook of his neck. 

‘I should've told you.’ He says as he strokes her hair from her moist face, ‘I think I knew that, but I couldn't Sansa, your pain’s so much worse than- I couldn't bare the idea of your heart breaking. It was horrible enough as it was, and when I found out- that was when you were finally doing a little better, you were happy again and you smiled and you were _you_ again. I couldn't… I just couldn't tear all that down. I was being weak.’ 

He lays his hand in her neck as she keeps her gaze down, softly sobbing as her shoulders shake of all her hiccups. 

‘I'm so terribly sorry.’ He says again, ‘I know I was wrong. Please forgive me?’

‘D-don't.’ She says, ‘I want to be a-angry with you b-but I just…’

‘What?’

‘I can't.’ She pushes herself closer to him and the feeling of the press of her body makes him close his eyes. There is something intimate about this embrace that they haven't shared since they reunited. 

‘You can be- you should be.’ 

‘I know.’ She says, ‘B-but I think I need you too much. If I'll be angry I'll have to pull away and you won't hold me and I n-need you to hold me.’

‘I'll always hold you.’ Her soft sobs grow louder suddenly and he cups her head in his hand as he kisses it, ‘I just couldn't stand to see you hurt.’

She doesn't say much again and he feels a shudder go through her when he pushes her braid away from her damp face and kisses her bare neck.

'It wasn't your fault, never, not then not now and... I don't know what to say.'

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ Sansa says but he disagrees. 

‘It was wrong.’

She doesn’t deny it. 

'Rhaenys told me at the... When Daenerys and Viserys got married.’ 

‘ _Rhaenys_ …’

‘I asked her not to tell you. She said she never planned… she agreed.’ 

‘That’s disappointing.’ Sansa says, ‘You all thought I was stupid.’ 

‘ _No_.’ He says, ‘Never, no, please don’t believe that. We all wanted to protect you, more than anything.’ 

‘I _was_ stupid.’ Sansa hiccups and the sounds of her crying are like a stab in his lower belly with an icicle. It’s as cold as a frozen river yet the pain burns like the bright green of dragonfire. As green as Cersei’s eyes, ‘I was a stupid girl, with stupid, foolish dreams. I didn’t want to hear the truth about the world, that was my own fault. I was a child and you all treated me like one. My mother too, and my _father_.’

Jon can only shake his head as he moves with her when she sits upright. It’s not because he realizes how much these things must have pained her, it’s because he refuses to ever admit to it. It’s not true, ‘I could not ever think of you as stupid. _Never_.’  
Sansa rubs her eyes with her hands in a way that may or may not remind him a little of Freia when she is extremely displeased, ‘When we married… You were the first person who listened to me. You listened and you _told_ me things. You didn’t roll your eyes at my blindness or my ignorance and _nescience_.’

‘You were none of these things, you were innocent, not ignorant.’ 

‘It still… That was- that meant the _world_ to me.’ 

‘I didn’t tell you everything.’ Jon says, ‘I never… You asked so many questions.’ He feels an urge to smile at the memory of Sansa, in this room, drapes in hand, clad in a white nightgown, buttoned up to her chin, eying him with a nervous, shy smile. She asked questions that took him days to answer. And he didn’t _want_ her to know everything. The same way he doesn’t want Freia to know everything. So yes, perhaps he is, after all, guilty of treating her like a child. For that, he will always, to the last day of his life, feel ashamed to the bone. 

‘I understand.’ She says, her voice hoarse and soft. 

‘I can’t believe I made it worse, Sansa I… I always wanted to protect you, it’s the only thing I’ve ever- and I have failed at it from the very beginning on. If they poisoned you it happened because I couldn’t-‘

‘ _No_ ,’ Her eyes are two icy blue sapphires, ‘Don’t you dare. If you won’t allow me to blame myself then... You can’t do it either.’ 

He nods once and they sit there, staring at each other for a while, her red, puffy eyes glare at him and he refuses to turn his gaze down, he fears that if he looks away she may become that closed shell again that he has been trying to break for weeks. 

‘Cersei watched me as they… Joffrey let his guards beat me and… he did all the… She took everything from me. After doing that, such a… She had to take everything.’ Sansa’s bottom lip trembles, ‘I don’t u-understand what I did, what I have done wrong, for her to… for the Gods to allow her to do all that to me. To hate me so. I have never-‘

Jon manages to shut her up by holding her tight and she sobs in his shoulder, her face hidden in the fabric of his tunic. It’s _him_ , he knows that. Cersei did all that to her because of him. It’s his fault too. 

‘I forgot how much it hurt and now it’s as if it happened yesterday.’ 

Jon can still feel her sweaty hand palm in his as she lay in her bed, barely awake, barely alive, her skin looked like parchment, her eyes wide, pupils big, lips white. He feared he would lose her that day. The Gods refused to take her then and Jon recalls dropping down on his knees in the Godswood, his hands fists, feeling so _angry_. How could they have believed it necessary to hurt her so much? She did not deserve it, she never did. Marrying him caused her more pain and heartache in four years’ time than most people go through their entire lives. 

That was the first time he failed her and he swore he’d never do it again. He failed her many times after first time. He has to stop failing her. He has to do what he promised himself, that day in the throne room when his father told him he was going to be wedded. 

Sansa can always count on him. She’s his responsibility, he won’t let her down again, and he’ll never hurt her again.

‘Sansa…’ he whispers, his eyes shut tight, butterfly kissing her temple, ‘All I have ever done is fail you.’ 

She hiccups, then presses her hot lips to his, ‘Life failed me, Jon Snow.’ She says, ‘Not you.’ 

He opens his eyes and sees her smile. It’s the saddest smile he’s ever seen, ‘Do you mean that?’

She nods once, ‘You have made it all bearable for me.’ 

‘That can't be true.’

She nods again to tell him that it is true but then sinks away into some deep dark silence that terrifies him. When she finally ends it, he wishes that he didn’t wait for her to do just that. 

‘Sometimes I forget that it happened.’ Sansa says, ‘Sometimes when I… when I look at Freia. I feel like she is my only baby but then I… every now and then I realize that I might’ve… _should_ have had two… and then I know that Freia would never have been born and that makes me scared… I think- I don’t know. I love Freia more than anything in the whole world, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.’

‘Me too.’

She smiles for a flash of a second and then says, ‘I feel like sometimes I… I wonder if maybe it should have been this way. You understand? That I was… _am_ supposed to be Freia’s mother.’

‘Of course you are.’ He says, he never supposed, he didn’t even assume. 

‘After I lost that first baby all I wanted was a child. Freia was so wanted.’

‘I know.’ Jon feels he has been saying that and nothing else ever since he walked in here, ‘It’s alright to... I forget it too sometimes.’ 

'When you were gone... When you were north, at the wall, I was… I was so sick all the time. I think I… I wonder now if maybe I just _knew_. I think the baby was dead for quite some time before I started bleeding. I was… I used to lay in my bed, and I… I lay a hand on my flat stomach and I prayed for it to grow, but I think I knew somewhere, somehow, that it wasn’t going to.’

‘I should’ve been there.’ He told her that so often three years ago. He told her every day. He told himself even more. 

‘It wouldn’t have helped.’ Sansa says, her eyes are wide, bulging almost, as they stare at the fireplace, into the flames in a way that reminds him a little of Viserys, ‘You couldn’t have saved it. No one could.’ 

‘I still should’ve been there. I never should have left. I should have been the one to lift you from that bathtub.’

At the mention of that word, _bathtub_ , another tear drops down and she closes her eyes, ‘It’s too late for that now.’

‘Doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive myself.’

She finally looks at him and sighs, ‘Oh Jon…’ Is all she says and she lays a hand to his cheek. 

‘I should never have left you.’ He says again, looking back now he doesn’t understand how he ever even managed. How did he find the strength to leave her? He feels like he’s glued to her, as if he needs her to breathe. 

‘There is only one thing you can do now to make it better.’ 

‘What is?’ he asks, and the moment he asks in the moment he realizes. She doesn’t need to answer, he knows, yet she still says it. Of course she does. 

‘Don’t go.’ She says, and then, finally, her eyes find his face again and it’s almost as if her stare sinks through him, ‘Don’t leave me behind again.’ 

‘Sansa…’

She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls herself close to him again, ‘I won't lose you.’ She says, ‘Never, right? Tell me.’

‘You won't lose me.’ He says and he pulls her braid away when he presses his nose to her bare shoulder, ‘But we can't go on like this.’

She nods and kisses his cheek before she pulls away, ‘You'll go.’ She says, ‘Soon. Back to the front, I mean. We both know it and we have ignored it but I… I want you to take me with you.’

He saw that coming, he prepared his response, ‘No.’

‘Yes.’ 

‘You have to stay with Freia.’

'Freia can come too.'

‘ _No_ , never no, not over my dead body, I can’t bring her to danger like that, I can't bring _you_ to danger like that.’

‘Rhaenys is at the front! Why can't I go?’ Her voice is high and husky when she raises it. 

‘Because you have to stay with Freia.’

‘Riverrun is perfectly safe!’

‘Not as safe as Winterfell.’

‘I'm coming.’

‘No, you're not.’

‘You'll leave me behind again?’

He feels the way his lungs try to suck for breath but they won't fill because it's as if a hundred stones lay on his chest.

‘You promised you wouldn't. You always promise, you always tell me you'll never leave me again. Then you go and... everything just falls to pieces right in front of my face. I won't let you do it again, I won't be left behind, you're not leaving me again, ever.’

‘Sansa I-‘

‘You _promised_. You're not breaking it, I won't be parted from you again, you and I belong together. Every time we're not the whole world spins and...’ 

‘I won't forgive myself ever if something should befall you, either of you.’

‘Plenty has befallen me, I can handle this. I mean it, if you leave me behind I won't be there waiting for you when you return.’

He frowns, ‘And where would you go?’ 

‘I mean… that I'm coming with you.’ 

He shakes his head, ‘You're safer here. This is your _home_.’

‘I belong with you. _You_ are my home, you and Freia, we’re your home too.’ She snuggles close to him as if this isn't a topic they'll fight over to the top of both their abilities, ‘Home isn't a place, it's the people you love, remember?’

‘It's a stupid idea. Robb and Rhaenys won't agree and your mother-‘

‘I don't care about Robb and Rhaenys.’ She says, ‘I can't do it Jon, I can’t live without you anymore. I won't. I'll die.’ 

‘You won’t die.’ He says, ‘If you die I die and that would be such a waste of this fucking war.’ 

‘This is all a waste anyway. It won't destroy more than it already has.’ 

He looks at her, ‘I’m not saying yes.’

‘I don't need you to. I'm the one who's saying yes, I decide where I’ll go, the world owes me that much.’

He bites his lower lip and sighs, ‘Obviously.’

‘If you leave me now… if we're separated now… I refuse to break what was once unbreakable.’ 

‘Sans…’ 

‘Don’t leave me.’ She shakes her head and then kisses his cheek, ‘Don’t leave me Jon, don’t leave me.’ 

He wants to swear to her that he’ll never leave her but then he remembers what he promised himself. He was never going to lie to her ever again. He can’t make more promises he might break. What if he’ll die? He won’t find his grave breaking promises to her. There’s only one thing left for him to promise her.

He turns his head to breathe in the scent of her hair as she lays her head on his shoulder, whispering her name over and over again until it’s almost as if she sings it. If only she were singing. She used to sing all the time. Now she only does it when she brings Freia to bed. 

Jon blinks to keep his eyes from watering when he asks, ‘I want to make it better, do you know how?’

‘You said it, you can't, it’s such a long time ago.’ 

‘I mean us.’ 

At that she looks up in his eyes, ‘Us?’

He nods, ‘I… we need to talk.’

‘What is there to talk about?’ She pushes herself up and he wants to slap himself from ruining it. Too soon, this is far too soon. 

He gets up too, taking her upper arm in his hand in fear of her leaving him, ‘So much. _Everything_ , I… we don't talk at all.’

‘Yes we do.’

He shakes his head, ‘No, no we don't. We talk about Freia, the weather and about what you've been knitting lately but we don't _talk_.’

‘We’re talking right now.’

‘I know.’ He says, he pulls her hands in his lap in the hope of forcing her to look at him but it doesn't work, ‘That's why I'm saying I… I _miss_ you.’

‘Jon, don't be ridiculous.’ She'd roll her eyes at him if she hadn't just cried them out. 

‘I'm… I'm not- no, _listen_ ,’ he pulls her arms and drags her down when she tries to get off the bed, ‘I need you to listen to me, _look_ at me.’ 

She looks up and there is a sudden coldness again that scares him, ‘What do you want to talk about? About what happened? Why should we talk about that? To reminisce? I don't want to, I want to forget it happened, I want to pretend… pretend it didn't- it didn't nearly _kill_ me.’

‘Because I want to.’ He says, ‘because it did happen, because… _especially_ because it nearly killed you. You can't pretend, you'll lose your wits, I want to… I want to tell you.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I missed you.’ He says, ‘I missed you so much it physically hurt. I… I cried myself to sleep like an infant and I thought of throwing myself from some window, or I thought… I wanted to… I don't know what I wanted. I missed you, I did, and I feel I have you back but you're not _you_ and we’re not _us_ , it's as if… it's as if you and I have just… I don’t know, Sansa don't torture me.’

‘I'm not torturing you.’ She says, ‘You're doing that on your own, _you_ want to talk.’

‘I want you to talk back.’

‘I am.’

‘You're _not_ , you don't want to. You want to pretend it never happened but it did happen and that's not… we’ll have to let it make us grow stronger.’

‘ _How_?’ She shakes her head, ‘Sometimes things don't make you stronger, they simply don't make any sense, all they do is hurt.’ 

‘Not talking about it won't make it go away. I want you to tell me.’

‘I don't want to tell you.’

‘Ever? Or just now?’

‘I don't know that yet.’

‘Sansa, I love you.’ He says, ‘I need you to talk to me, I want _us_ back.’ 

‘I want… I don't think I….’ She blinks to get rid of her tears, then she shakes her head and moves closer to him again, ‘I want that too.’ She hiccups. 

‘It's been two years. I can't pretend, I tried, but I can't do it no longer.’ 

‘But we’re together now. E-everything should just be… everything should be the way it's ought to be.’ 

‘I… I need you to tell me what you're thinking.’ 

‘You used to just know that.’ 

‘How can I know that when I don't even know what they did to you?’ 

‘You'll kill them all, won't you?’ She asks suddenly, ‘I always told myself in my head, I said, _Jon will kill you all_ , and you will. You'll kill them, right? You promised me.’

‘I… I'll… I've promised Rhaenys Cersei’s head.’ He grabs the handkerchief and pulls it away from her as he dries her cheek with his palm. 

‘And s-ser Meryn and… and everyone else.’

‘Aye. I… I can’t kill Joffrey no more.’ He says, ‘I'm sorry.’ 

She stiffens suddenly and nods. 

‘What did ser Meryn do?’

She raises her eyebrows and then suddenly decides to knock down her own wall, ‘He stripped me bare in the throne room and lay his sword on my thighs for all the court to see.’ She waits a moment during which he doesn't speak, because he knows there's more, ‘My clothes they… he broke the seams, and I… I was still nursing Freia.’ Sansa lifts the hands she dropped in her lap and cradles her breasts, ‘I held my breasts in my hands and everything was c-covered in milk.’ A stream of tears escapes at the memory of the embarrassment and Jon feels blood in his mouth, there where he bites the inside of his cheek and he immediately grabs her cold and trembling hands in his own. 

Jon gulps, ‘I’ll kill ser Meryn.’

Sansa only shakes as her cries make her shoulders wreck and he wonders if, in that moment, she relives it all.

He turns to her and lays his hand in her neck, ‘It's not about killing them.’ He says, ‘It won't make you feel better, or me. _You_ make me feel better, _you_ give me hope and a sort of... you give me a reason to keep going, not revenge. You're what I need, not their deaths. I want to protect you.’

She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, 'I want to go to Freia.' She then says, which is not at all what he expected, ‘I want my living child.’

He nods once. He knows that she’s not trying to escape this conversation. He understands. Of course she wants Freia. He would want Freia too.

Freia lives, she was born a healthy baby, with a set of lungs, a beating heart, ten fingers, ten toes and eyes that can be furious and extremely happy. They didn’t kill that baby. They couldn’t. What was it Rhaenys said? That same day Viserys and Dany got married, with raindrops falling down.

‘ _You may not like it, but you can’t protect her on your own_.’ 

‘Hey, you.’ He tells Freia, whom they find sitting on the floor of her own small bedchamber, surrounded by her dolls. 

‘I am drinking tea!’ She tells Sansa enthusiastically, ‘You?’

Sansa nods and gratefully takes the empty tea cup. 

She smiles her toothy grin and wobbles towards Jon, where she sits down on his knee. 

Jon kisses her hair, ‘Are you hungry? It's time for supper.’

Freia pulls on the laces of his doublet and then shakes her head, ‘I was… I seen... in kitchen and _bleh_.’

He grins, ‘Not good?’

Freia shakes her head, sticks her tongue out. She plays with her own braid and glances at Sansa, who still has these red and puffy eyes, ‘Mama is sad?’ She asks, real soft, as if Sansa won’t hear it that way, which may or may not be her intention. 

‘Mama’s tired.’ Jon says, ‘And she's… we're all sad sometimes. There is nothing wrong with that, we're sad and we cry and then we stand up and smile and we keep going.’

‘Mama smile?’ 

Sansa smiles and Freia grins again, looks up at Jon who smiles too and she gives him another empty tea cup, ‘I love tea.’ Jon says. 

‘Hmmmm, tea is nice.’ Freia says and she feeds her doll some imaginary tea. 

‘Where's Bells?’ jon asks.

‘Bell is outside? I don’t know.’ Freia says, ‘You too? Outside?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Nah, I'm going to take the supper, I'm hungry.’ 

Freia nods and looks from her father to her mother and back.

‘Where's grandmama?’

Freia shrugs, ‘Kitchen?’

‘Why were you in the kitchen? Were they stuffing you with cake again? Should I get angry with the kitchen maids?’

Freia grins at her father and shakes her head aggressively, ‘No! No cake, no, no cake ever, only carrot.’

‘They gave you a carrot?’ Jon asks, straightening the burgundy red cotton of Freia's skirt.

Freia nods and her wide and worried eyes find Sansa when her mother moves over and she seems to relax when Sansa takes her small hands between her own and kisses the back.

‘Who else eats carrots, Freia?’ Sansa asks, her smile is so sincere when she looks at Freia.

Freia glances up at her father, seems to think thoroughly, ‘Papa?’she suggests. Jon whispers the answer in her ear and she loudly proclaims, ‘Rabbit!’

‘Yay rabbit!’ Jon says, he kisses Freia's temple and puts her down again, ‘How about eating something other than carrot, hmm?’

‘Papa carrot is orange and apple is green.’

‘Really?’

‘Hhhmhh, and toma-ro is red and red is also… red is…’

‘Strawberry?’

‘Strally-berry!’

‘Why don't you we go down to the kitchen and get some cucumber?’ Sansa suggests.

‘Cu-tumber?’

‘The green one.’

Freia nods, jumps up and down to let Sansa know she wants to be lifted up, then wraps her skinny arms around Sansa’s neck and hugs her tight, ‘Mama…’ She whispers and it’s clear she doesn’t want Jon to hear her, ‘Gran-mama saying make-up kisses aaaaalways help.’

Jon watches Freia feed Ghost a slice of cake, a cheerful audience of kitchenmaids around her, as he sits on a stool at the big wooden table in the kitchens when Sansa moves to sit in his lap. 

‘We’ll stay at Riverrun.’ Sansa says, ‘We’ll be safe and we’ll be together. We're a family Jon, the three of us, we belong together.’

He decides to repeat, ‘I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.’ 

‘Anything can happen. You left me behind under the wings of your father, my father and Rhaenys and look what happened. We could be dead tomorrow, I could… I could drown in my bathtub and you could fall down stairs and someone could poison the both of us, I don't know… all I know is that wherever you go, I go and where I go Freia goes.’ 

'If you drown in your bathtub it won't be my fault.’ 

‘It could be, if we’re in it together.’

‘I-‘

‘We’re in _this_ together, aren’t we? I’m your wife.’

‘Sans-‘

‘Don't Sans me, I've made up my mind. You don't get to tell me where I can or cannot go.’

He grins at that, ‘Fine.’ He says, ‘One condition, though.’

She leans her head to one side.

‘ _One_ condition.’

‘What is it?’

‘If I tell you to get your ass out of Riverrun and go back North you go back North.’

‘You'll come with me?’

‘It's my only condition.’ 

‘Fine.’ She says and she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, longer than before, softer than before and she places multiple ones across his face, ‘Make up kisses, Jon.’ She says, ‘I’m giving you make up kisses.’

He can’t help but grin and pushes her away, ‘Don’t, you taste of strawberry pie, I hate strawberry pie.’

‘You mean strallyberries.’ Sansa says and they grin at each other. Then she presses her nose to his, ‘Jon?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You are... Can I tell you that you are an amazing father without you thinking I'm saying it because it surprises me?’

‘I think so?’

She smiles her most beautiful smile then, and the redness of her eyes causes them to look bluer than ever, ‘You are, I should have said it before, I know, but… I'm so proud of you, Freia is… she's the luckiest girl with you as her papa.’ 

He shakes his head and looks at Freia who’s patting Ghost’s head with her sticky hands, ‘I have so much time to make up for.’ 

Sansa places her hands in his neck, sighs and her smile disappears as she scans his face, her thumbs rub his jaw lines, ‘I think you have already done that. She'll never remember how you- to Freia you’ve always been her father, now, always, forever, and you’re making me proud. I think… I think your father would be proud, and your mother too.’ 

‘You never knew my mother.’ Jon says. 

‘No, but I am a mother myself, and when I see you with her I know that… I know that she'd be proud, and father too, father would be proud of you too.’

‘I wish they could've known her, they could've used some Freia in their life.’ 

As Freia starts dancing around Ghost and orders him to ‘Sit! Ghost! Ghost! Sit! Sit!’ the kitchenmaids giggle and offer Freia a sugary strawberry when Ghost obeys. 

Sansa smiles, ‘We are blessed, are we not? Is that not all we should think about? How blessed we are? We’re together and I never thought we'd ever be, not in this life, so I want to feel thankful.’ 

‘I am thankful.’ He says, ‘But I don't want to pretend. It's going to be hard, and this is all… it's not over just because we're together.’ 

‘The worst part is over.’ 

‘Don't tempt faith.’ 

‘I need to believe that,’ Sansa says and she scoops her hands down to place them in his neck again, lower now, ‘I won't be able to do it again. I thought I lost you once and I died. I can't die again.’

‘You won’t.’ He says and he pecks her mouth so quickly it puts a smile to her lips, ‘It so happens to be that I learned from my mistakes, every time I left you it was because someone else told me to go- but no one gets to tell me what to do anymore, nobody.’ 

‘You can be king of the world for all I care, you'll still have to listen to me.’ Sansa says, she smiles but he knows she means it all the same.

That makes him grin so wide he feels the skin around his cheekbones stretch, ‘Fine. You're smarter than I am anyway.’ 

‘I'm not smart. I'm a stupid and foolish woman, I married a man who is politically involved, only stupid women do such a thing, everyone knows the political ones are either cruel or die young.’ 

It's his turn to take her head in his hands now, ‘I'm not a political man at all, I _certainly_ wasn't when you married me.’ 

She grins at him and grabs his wrists with her hands, ‘You’re just pretending, aren’t you?’

He nods, ‘If it was up to me I'd take you and Freia with me and we'd live in some cabin in the woods with ponies for Freia and a river where I'll teach our ten sons how to fish-‘

‘You can't fish.’ 

‘-and you can embroider all day and if we want to sleep, we'll sleep, and if we want to eat, we'll eat, and nobody cares, nobody, because we're ordinary and simple.’

‘You could never be simple.’ She says, looking at Freia again, ‘You’re Rhaegar’s son and I… I should’ve known from the start.’

‘Would you have been less disappointed in me, then?’

Sansa smiles, though her eyes don’t smile along it’s still a real smile, ‘You proved to be a very pleasant surprise.’ She shakes her head and he frowns when she kisses him firmly, she takes his chin between her thumb and forefinger and presses her forehead to his temple, ‘With you… I could be happy anywhere. A worthless castle or the capital.’ 

‘Are you sure it's not a bit early to make such promises? We have our whole life ahead of us still, I might grow ugly when I'm old- or I’ll grow mad too, like they always do in my family.’ 

‘You won't grow mad! I'll keep you sane, make sure you'll always stand with your feet firm on the ground.’ 

‘By unpleasant experience I can now say I know I really am going to need you for that.’ 

She giggles then and presses multiple kisses to his smiling lips before she wraps her arms around him and hugs him again, ‘We’ll be fine Jon, we just need to be together. As long as we're together.’

‘You think that?’

‘Of course I do.’ 

'I'm still so sorry about not telling you... I can’t believe you're not out of your mind angry with me.’

‘I can't believe it either.’ She says, watching her fingers play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

‘Are you?’

‘No.’ she says, ‘I'm not because I think I… I think I understand. I wish I never found out.’

‘I wish that too.’

He looks at Freia, still dancing around, as happy as a child with her strallyberry, and then sighs, ‘You can tell me. I know there's something… something you think you can't tell me but you can. I promise you can. Whatever it is.’

Sansa pulls her hands back, ‘I know that.’

‘Do you?’

She bites her lip and nods, ‘There are some things you have done that you wish you wouldn't have, aren't there?’

‘Course there are.’

‘Big things, I mean.’ She says, ‘Things you want to forget, that make you feel scared and nervous when you only remember?’

‘I… some things, yes. Do you want me to tell you?’

Sansa smiles, ‘No, it's fine.’

‘Maybe you can tell me if I tell you?’

‘I don't think so.’ She says, shaking her head. 

Jon feels scared suddenly, and worried, above everything he feels so terribly worried, ‘If you tell me I'll stop imagining.’

She grins, though it's an uncomfortable grin, ‘I don't think… I don't believe you have done anything of the sort. I will… I just erm… it doesn't matter.’

‘It matters greatly.’ He insists, ‘I want to help you.’

‘You are helping me.’ She insists, ‘I mean that.’

‘I hope you do.’ He says and he moves his hand to her hair, feeling the silkiness of it in his palm, sliding through his fingers, ‘You don't… you don't have to tell me, not everything, not now, not unless you're ready. I do want to tell you, though, because I am ready, and I need to tell you because I always told you everything and I want that back. Is that alright?’

‘I think so.’ She rubs his cheek with her thumb, ‘When I was at court I heard stories about raping and whores and these things.’ 

‘These things?’

‘They said your army rapes.’ She explains. 

‘Every army rapes, mine a lot less than Tywin’s did, I promise. I try to control it but that's impossible sometimes, especially when you have an army that’s a combination of very different ones that have not always been fond of each other.’ 

Sansa nods, ‘I _know_ , it's just that I heard stories, people talked about it.’

‘They told you I rape?’

Sansa shakes her head, then nods, then shakes her head again, ‘They say Rhaenys’ uncle has slaves from Volantis, whom he beds.’ 

‘Did they tell you I win battles because I use dark magic and sorcery, too?’

Sansa smiles to herself then, ‘ _Yes_ , I never believed _that_.’

'My father hated slavery, there are no slaves on the continent of Westeros, I promise.’

Sansa nods again, ‘I'm sorry to bring it up.’ 

‘Don't apologize.’

'So there was no one else?’

‘I already told you.’ 

She smiles to herself, ‘So no one… just me?’

‘Only you always, forever.’ 

She grins, kisses his cheek and presses her nose to the skin behind his ear.

He hates it that she asks. Absolutely hates it, for it would, truly, be the last thing he could ever do. 

Sansa is hiding something from him. He has wondered about it. All sorts of options crossed his mind, and he can't shrug of that one thing. He doesn't believe she would do that, she wouldn't have to do that, but he swore to himself that if she did… he'll forgive her anything. She seems to be able to forgive him anything too, the least he can do is the same. So, whatever it is, whatever she did, he can handle it, as long as she tells him and stops the endless and unbearable guessing, he'll handle it and he'll forgive her, he'll understand her too… for who is he to judge? 

She forgave him too. 

‘I miss you.’ He says again.

‘I miss you too.’ She admits and that’s good, he thinks. 

‘I'll never keep anything from you again, I promise, I swear it Sansa.’ 

 

**Sansa**

Jon presses an itchy kiss to her cheek and it makes her moan. 

‘You sleeping?’ he seems to adapt to Freia’s grammar sometimes. 

‘If I was, I wouldn't be anymore.’ She turns on her back to see him get off the bed he leaned over to reach her and he starts undressing himself. 

‘Sorry.’ He says, giving her an apologetic smile, ‘Got a call from the stables.’

‘Stables?’ 

‘Yeah, the erm… the mare delivered.’ 

‘Foal or filly?’ 

‘Foal. All black too, weirdly.’ 

‘Wasn't the stallion?’

‘No, grayer, though it could change of course.’

‘Why did they call you for the birth of a foal? What did you have to do with it?’

‘Hm? Nothing. I just told them I wanted to be there, thought it’d be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Sansa snorts, ‘That poor thing, got ripped open and all and men think it could be fun to watch.’

He frowns, ‘That's not what I meant.’

‘You said it, though.’

He lets himself fall down on the bed next to her, ‘What was it like with you?’

‘Probably quite much like with the mare, except more screaming and more swearing, I doubt anyone found it fun to look at.’

‘Swearing?’

‘Oh yes.’

He seems rather distressed about that comment, ‘Did it hurt much?’

‘Did it look painful with the mare?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well then.’

He pulls her real close suddenly as if the idea makes him feel scared, ‘I'm so sorry about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Putting you through that, I mean, I don’t have to, I just do my thing every night and afterwards-‘

Sansa giggles and pushes him off her, ‘Don't be ridiculous! It was all worth it. The moment I heard Freia cry-‘

‘Why was she crying?’

‘They always cry when they’re born. That is how you know they live, how you know your bore a healthy child. When Freia cried, real loud you cannot imagine, I forgot about the pain.’ 

‘You forgot it?’

‘Well no, I mean, it's excruciating and truly the worst pain I've ever felt but still, I'd do it all over again if I need to.’

‘You may need to.’

'You'd want that?’

‘I told you I do.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘You told me you wouldn't mind making one.’ 

He grins and kisses her cheeks multiple times, ‘I want a hundred babies.’

‘We really do not have enough time to make a hundred babies.’ 

‘Don't challenge me.’

Sansa giggles as he kisses her face and her neck but then she remembers and she pushes him away a little, ‘Not anytime soon.’

‘Hm?’

‘My moonblood came.’ 

‘Oh.’ He sighs and then turns to his back, ‘I don’t have the energy to undress. I’m too tired.’ 

She frowns and pushes his hand away, ‘You're not disappointed about that?’

‘huh? Oh… maybe? No, I don't think I am, why?’

‘Because I'm not pregnant.’

‘Did you think you were?’

‘Well I should be! We tried an average of three times a day before, when we-‘

‘I wasn't trying to get you pregnant!’ Jon says and he leans up to look at her face, ‘I was trying to make you feel good.’

‘Well I-‘

‘Were you trying to get pregnant?’

‘Of course not.’ 

He frowns and she can see it from the corner of her eyes and she sighs. 

‘Forget it.’ He watches her patiently until she finally puts together all the nerve she needs to tell him, ‘After Freia, the queen had some measter look at me to… to confirm that I can still… you know.’

‘I don't know.’

‘Make children.’

‘And they said you can?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would they doubt it?’

‘Well, Freia was stuck, so they had to pull … she had to be turned around and I split and that kept bleeding for days on end, so they wanted to know if I was perhaps barren.’ 

‘You _split_?’

‘I didn't actually feel it. Not _really_. It happens quite often.’ She shurgs, ‘It's alright. It was nice to know.’ 

‘So, why are you telling me this?’

she shrugs, ‘You said you want a baby too. When I asked... You said it.’

He grins and kisses her shoulder, ‘Don't worry about it. Please, I mean it, it's not going to help anyway.’

‘Mother said I shouldn't want it too much.’

‘She would know… What else does your mother say?’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugs.

‘She told me we don't talk enough.’

‘So, she's on my side?’

‘Are there sides now?’

‘No!’ He presses his nose to hers and she loves the way he doesn't shy away from looking into her eyes, he never did, ‘No sides, just you and me.’

‘And mother?’

He laughs, ‘No, not your mother, me and you and Freils.’

‘Don't call her that, her name is Freia.’ 

‘Jon, Sans and Freils.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘A bit. The waiting took longer than I thought it would.’

‘It doesn't just roll out, no.’ 

‘I'm falling asleep.’

‘Well, good night then.’

‘You too Sans.’

Sansa closes her eyes and has almost accepted that she'll fall asleep like this when he randomly tell her.

‘When you asked me what I am most ashamed about… can I tell you?’

‘Do I want to know?’ Her voice is amused and it doesn't reach him because he calmly states, 

‘No.’

‘Then why would you want to tell me?’ 

‘Because I don’t want secrets.’ 

‘Is it… I'm not sure if you should… well, just say it then.’

‘After Daenerys told me you were dead…’ he waits a few seconds to consider how to put it, ‘She kissed me too.’

Sansa feels her body stiffen but she refuses to give in to the urge to jerk up and scream, instead she counts to ten, clears her throat and slowly asks, ‘Well, did you kiss her _back_?’ 

Jon turns to his back, still laying on top of the furs, strangely, ‘No.’

‘Why?’

He moves his hand behind his head and usually she loves it when he does that because the muscles in his upper arm flex and she loves the muscles in his upper arms, they're bigger than they used to be, perhaps they're much bigger, she doesn't really remember. She looks at his arm, at the veins she sees there, when he simply says, ‘I didn't want to kiss her.’ 

‘That's not what I mean, I…’ Sansa tries to calm herself, ‘Why did she believe she could?’

Jon shrugs, still lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, ‘She… was a little upset. She told me she loved me. And I-‘

‘You said you'd never love her, ever, even if I died.’

‘I may have said something like that, how do you know?’

Sansa shrugs and says nothing again, then moves and lays her head down on his chest, ‘I know you.’ She lies. A lie again. He's telling her this because he doesn’t want secrets. Sansa can’t help but hate herself in that moment. 

‘I pushed her down, not on purpose, but she fell backwards. She was pregnant too. I think that whole conversation is what I feel most embarrassed about in life.’

Sansa moves her hand to his flexing upper arm and caresses it with her fingers, ‘Thank you for telling me, but that’s not quite what I meant.’

‘What did you mean?’

‘I meant something you've done that you wouldn't ever forgive someone else doing- something that… something you never thought you could.’

Jon shrugs, ‘I suppose I have killed my fair share of good men, braver than me, in battle mostly. But I would never not forgive any other man for the crime.’ 

So, he is perfect then. Maybe she likes it that way. She’ll be the flawed one and he can make up for that. 

‘Anything else that embarrasses you?’

‘I hanged too many wildlings when I was at Castle Black, women too.’

‘Women?’

‘Spearwomen, wildlings have female warriors.’ Jon can’t stop telling stories about wildlings to Freia, sometimes these stories include giants and mammoths and she wonder if he lost his senses.

‘Rhaenys must love that.’ 

‘I'm sure she does.’ He waits a few moments and then adds, ‘I should've gone to Rhaenys sooner.’ He admits, ‘I never should've waited so long with releasing the Kingslayer, had I done it sooner he might've… I allowed Robb to tell me what to do, I regret that very much. I regret… I regret wanting to be Stark and therefore neglecting my sister, and I regret taking Freia from you.’ 

‘Jon-‘ she starts but he doesn't let her.

‘-And I never should've left you behind with my father dying and Ned being… Ned. And Rhaenys being Rhaenys. I never should've left you behind in King’s Landing of all places.’ He sighs and wraps his hands around hers suddenly, ‘That is my greatest crime. Breaking my vow to you, the only vows I ever took.’

‘You have not broken these vows.’

‘Aye I have. I swore to protect you did I not? I failed.’ 

‘I'm safe now. You did all you could. Had you come to me they'd have cut your head off. I would have lost my sanity like a true Targaryen dragon queen.’ 

‘When Daenerys told me you were dead I died too.’ He says. 

‘You believed her?’

He shakes his head, ‘Not for one moment.’

Sansa presses her face in his shirt, ‘I couldn't possibly have died. You'd make a mess out of yourself without me. You need me to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself… to end the brooding.’

‘So true.’ He agrees.

‘And I need you because you make me feel strong.’ 

‘You could be Sansa the conqueror. I'll be your sister wife.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ 

He laughs, ‘I know but I wanted to make the joke.’ 

Sansa pulls on the blankets, ‘Get under the covers, it’s cold.’ He obeys and moves to lay on his stomach, the way he always sleeps, and he wraps an arm around her hip. 

Sansa wants to let her newfound knowledge go, mostly because she feels he’s not planning on asking more questions, and she prefers it that way, he also seems tired, tired enough to sleep and she needs him to sleep. He doesn’t sleep enough. 

Yet, she can’t help herself when she whispers his name through the dark.

‘Hmm?’ he asks. 

Her smile grows when she says, ‘The kitchen maid was all giddy last week when I found you in her cellar and I felt jealous.’ 

‘I was in the cellar because I was going to get you your grapes.’ 

Sansa smiles some more and snuggles closer, ‘She looked at you as if you were standing there naked.’

‘I'm sure she stopped once she spotted you.’ He opens his eyes and they’re two black twinkling diamonds, ‘I have your name on my heart. When I die they'll cut me open and they'll find it engraved in the flesh.’

‘Where did you read that line?’

‘I heard it in a song, I think, I don’t remember.’ 

She grins and then throws all her self-worth out of the window when she asks, ‘How many women have you kissed in your life?’

‘Too many.’ He admits and now she really giggles and it brings a smirk to his face. 

‘You always say women only ever looked at Aegon!’

‘They did!’ He says and he turns to his side to pull her to his chest.

‘Then how?’

‘Aegon didn't kiss women, for _reasons_ , so I was their second choice.’ 

Sansa giggles again, it has been so long since she giggled like this, ‘Second choice! What fools.’ 

‘I'm glad you think so.’ The grin on his face is making her belly do funny things.

‘So how many?’

‘I don't know Sansa, why do-‘

‘You don't _know_?’

‘I never counted.’ 

Sansa smirks and his face reddens, she can see it even in the dark, ‘Were they pretty?’

‘Not as pretty as you, not even close.’ 

‘Liar.’ 

‘I'm not lying! I forgot all about them once I saw you.’ 

She raises an eyebrow but still smiles, ‘So there were things to forget?’

‘I lived in the capital, and I _was_ the king’s son.’ 

Sansa nods now, ‘I remember, when father told me I'd marry you he said you were a prince in all but name.’ 

‘I was never a prince.’ Jon says, he lifts his hand to curl a strand of her hair around his finger.

‘I know, you climbed to the top of the chain swiftly and now all of these fool women are pining over you and I don't like it.’ 

‘Sansa, it is not in your nature to be jealous.’ He says and he lightly pulls on her braid. 

‘Yes, it is.’ She says and she starts painting his face with her fingers tips, ‘It was simply never necessary before.’

‘It will not be necessary _ever_. May I remind you of all these lords you danced with during those godsawful feasts?’

‘That’s not fair! It was… only because you didn't want to dance with me! And you were the one to bring me to bed every night.’ Sansa remembers vividly.

'Everyone was jealous of me.’ He says, ‘Nobody understood why the bastard of Winterfell ended up with you of all women.’

Sansa shakes her head, a smile to her lips as her fingers trace the line of his jaw, ‘I still remember what they all said before we married, _Sansa, you're so lucky he's soooo handsome_!’

‘Lucky… I suppose you were lucky, at least you’ve never had to share. Had you married Aegon you would have had to share him with Renly.’ 

'I doubt that would have been the worst part.’

He laughs, turns on his back, moves his arm to give her access as she curls around him and he pecks her forehead. 

‘Let’s go to sleep.’ She says, rubbing her cheek to the cotton of his tunic.

'Sure.' He says, ‘Let’s, but you have to move off my collarbone because it hurts like the stranger’s hell.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that! It was really one of these chapters that I, as the writer, just had to get out of the way.  
> In any case, see you next time and do let me know what you think! XX


	46. Crosses and Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wanted _you_ on the throne.’ Sansa believes Jon needs to be reminded of that every now and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was always going to have a sort of 'surprise update!!' Update when I reached 2000 kudos, but I know the magic may be not so strong since I've been updating randomly rather often lately.  
> In any case... omg 2000 kudos!!! That's... I have no words.  
> I really want to do a bit of a rewrite thing because I feel the first chapters desperately need it, I honestly don't understand how you all managed to read that. -- I have done some rewriting in the past, you may find that chapter 5 looks a bit different from the way it did in October, when I posted it. Anyway... I really truly do not have any words to describe how grateful I am.  
> I still love writing this as much as I did when I wrote chapter 1.  
> Thank you for all the love!x

**Sansa**

It takes them another full week to actually depart from Winterfell and it all doesn't go as smoothly as Jon would have liked. 

‘I've been away far too long.’ Jon says, ‘I should have been there at least a turn ago, Rhaenys is going to skin me alive.’ 

Sansa looks forward to seeing Rhaenys again, though she doesn't look forward to saying goodbye to her mother, Bran, Rickon, even Arya. It is odd how quickly they returned to their old relations. Rickon is still her baby brother, Bran the smarter, younger one, too wise for his age, and Arya… still Arya. 

Freia will miss Arya, Sansa thinks, they are oddly alike. Arya is very sweet with her, though never careful and Sansa can't stand to watch her throw Freia around as if she's a doll, not a toddler. 

Sansa will certainly miss her mother the most, she'll miss the help, the support, even the advice. As annoying as it was, it was well-meant, and, often, needed. 

She'll have Jon though, Sansa realizes, and they have fallen in such an easy way of parenting together, as rough as the start was, so naturally is it now. 

Oddly, Freia is mostly upset over the separation from the pony she sat on for one second only. 

‘I have to brush Harry!’

‘The stable boys can brush Harry.’ 

‘NOO! _I_ brush Harry!’

‘Stop it Freia, we can't bring a pony with us.’ 

Freia lately has a tendency of screaming- just screaming- loud and high, without forming any kind of word, she just yells, to let the world know she's displeased. 

‘That's enough!’ 

Freia crosses her arms and sobs loudly, ‘NO ONE CAN BRUSH HARRY!’

‘Everyone can brush Harry, don't be silly, it's just a pony.’ 

‘MY PONY!’

‘We cannot bring a pony, it doesn't fit in the wheelhouse.’

‘But Bell misses Harry!’

‘Bell has to stay here too.’ 

Freia screams then as if someone stabs her in her face, jumping up and down, her face red, her eyes shut and her hands swaying fists. 

Jon is so much better at scolding her, she suspects it’s because his deep voice is ten times more impressing and Sansa hates and loves it both because she knows she shouldn't need it, yet it's so awfully nice when he saves her, ‘Will you stop that? One more word and you'll regret it!’

Freia only sobs and glares at Jon as if she despises him with all her heart, screams some more and runs away. 

In the end, it's definitely Rickon Freia has most trouble saying good-bye to and it makes Sansa feel a little guilty, because she just doesn't want Freia to be lonely and Rickon has been the only playmate she's ever known. 

Sansa simply never realized how cruel it really is, to take Freia away from this place she loves, where she feels secure and happy, surrounded by people who are good and kind to her, a playground with hundreds of rooms, stables, horses, cats and other beasts for her to run after, pat or stroke. Sansa is taking all that away from her for the selfish reason that she refuses to ever be parted from her husband again. 

‘Mama, mama… can Rickon come? I tell him he can come!’

‘He can't.’ 

‘But I want to.’ 

‘We don't always get what we want.’ 

‘B-but... I want to.’

Freia cries a little in her desperation and, though Sansa feels the urge to get annoyed she kneels down and wraps her arms around her crying baby, ‘I'm sorry Freia…’ she whispers, ‘I know it's going to be hard to say goodbye, but… don't you want to stay with papa?’

‘Papa staying…’

‘Papa can't stay, that's why we'll go with him, because we belong together. We'll never be without papa again.’ 

Freia doesn't remember the time that they were not with papa, so she doesn't understand the urgency, she doesn't understand why Jon has to go and she doesn't understand why Rickon can't come, ‘Rickon… Aaaall alone.’ Freia shakes her head at the cruelty of reality.

‘No! He has uncle Bran and aunt Arya and grandmama…’

‘Gran-mama staying?’

‘Yes, it will be just you, me and papa.’ 

‘NO!’ Freia sobs some more, ‘I want all and everyone is staying…’

Sansa sighs and decides to just hold her as she cries. 

Jon suggests a different tactic, ‘We’ll make the prospect exiting.’ He says.

Jon tells her about all the horseys she’ll see, about big mountains, brave knights, wide fields to run through, wild rivers, and flowers and birds in all the colors of the rainbow. 

‘Freia, when we are with uncle Robb and aunt Rhaenys you can sit on a pony again, how ‘bout that?’

‘I sit?’

‘Yes! Mama promised me, and I'll teach you how to ride and all, you'll like that, wouldn't you?’

She gasps and dances, ‘I sit! I sit! I sit on Harry!’

‘Not _Harry_ , but a pony.’ 

‘Pony?’

‘Yes, a big, real big one, hmm?’

‘Sooo big?’ She spreads her arms out and when Jon nods she jumps in his arms and kisses his face as if he promised her the world. 

Until they leave she cannot stop talking about the pony ride Jon promised her and she proudly babbles about it to Rickon who seems genuinely happy for her. 

Rickon is such a sweet thing. As wild as always, but ever so kind. It was nice to have him distract Freia, to keep her busy, they could wear each other out. Sansa will have to do that by herself again, once they leave. 

She will not regret it though, she knows that. She looks forward to being with Rhaenys again, to be by Jon’s side as he fights and wins this war. It's where she is ought to be. 

Nobody treated her as a queen at Winterfell, though the servants continued to have a tendency to call her your grace, she didn't feel very graceful. She knows that may soon change. 

‘I always pretend I am my father.’ Jon confesses to her as they break their fast together, just the two of them, the morning of their departure, with Freia still asleep. It's still so early That’s its dark outside and a candlelight makes shadows dance on his cheeks. 

‘I should think he is the only example you have.’ 

‘And what an example… it seems to be what they want to see.’ 

‘Rhaegar?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Rhaegar's son.’ 

‘Well, you have no pretending to do then.’ 

‘I think I do. It's not me they want, they want a king.’

Sansa bites her lower lip, ‘They want a queen too?’

‘You are… you are raised to be the queen of some king.’ Jon says, ‘I was never meant to have all this. It was all supposed to be Aegon’s. the iron throne, the armies, the bannermen, loyal knights sinking down at my feet, the titles, the castles and all of it. Rhaenys would never have done for me what she has now if he'd been alive and… parenthood too. I wasn't supposed to ever father children, for the possibility of any Blackfyre rebellion come again.’

‘You could call this a Blackfyre rebellion come again.’ Sansa says. 

‘No.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘Tommen is the bastard, as fond as my father was of him, he never would have wanted him on the throne.’ 

‘He wanted _you_ on the throne.’ Sansa believes Jon needs to be reminded of that every now and then. 

‘Even you.’ Jon says, ‘You were meant for Aegon too. You would have been Aegon’s if he had not… if he had been a little less _Aegon_.’ 

It's Sansa's turn to shake her head, though he's right, he's wrong, ‘Never.’ She says. The idea alone terrifies her. 

‘It's true.’ 

‘No Jon, no.’ She drops her spoon, walks over to him and sits down in his lap, both her hands taking his face to cup it, ‘We’re meant to be, remember?’

He nods once, closes his eyes then and sighs, ‘I want it to be over but… I don't think it ever will be.’ 

‘Of course, it will. Once the war is won-‘

‘I mean the _game_.’ He says and there is a loathing in his voice when he says the word, ‘It never stops.’ 

‘Once the war ends-‘

‘You don't win the game by winning the throne. The game is not… it doesn't ever stop. I'll play the game until I die, and even when I die it won't stop, I'll pass it on to our children as our enemies will to theirs.’

_Our children_. Sansa shivers. Is that what she wants? For him to play the game until he dies? To pass it on to Freia? Does she want Freia to be a pawn the way she once was? 

Freia already is a pawn, Sansa realizes. When they released only her and not her mother, they played with not only Sansa's chess piece- they played with Freia’s too.

‘Your father-‘

‘Only pressed this all down on me at the last moment he could.’ Jon says, ‘If anything ever… if he ever gave me the impression of his care and love for me it was that. He wanted to spare me, he always kept hoping that he could spare me, but in the end… I'm not Rhaenys, I don't enjoy the game, I never will, power is a duty, not a right.’

Sansa nods, ‘He told you that?’

‘He _taught me_ ,’ Jon says, ‘The way he failed to teach both Viserys and Daenerys.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘My father was an awful father.’ 

‘You are nothing like him, not with Freia.’ Sansa says, she feels she can never say it enough.

‘I know that. But he was a _good_ king, I always knew that, and if _he_ believed I could do it… he may have been right.’ 

‘He had faith in you.’ Sansa agrees, ‘To do what is right.’ 

‘He was right to presume I would always try, yes.’ 

‘He loved you, Jon.’ 

Jon can only huff but Sansa shakes her head and uses her fingers as a comb when she moves it through his hair. 

‘It's true, he told me.’

The expression on his face changes when she says it, ‘How? When?’

‘Before Freia was… when you were gone. Before he died he… he asked for me and we spoke.’

‘Why did he ask for you?’

Sansa wants to shrug and say she doesn't know, because she has never quite figured it out, but looking at his face, with the dark grey eyes, she suddenly realizes, ‘To ask me to take care of you.’ 

Jon doesn't huff or snort again, he seems almost sad, ‘He didn't need to ask.’ 

‘I told him that.’ Sansa says, ‘I think it pained him that he never got to see you again, before he went. I think there was much he still wanted to tell you.’ 

‘I can only imagine.’ 

‘I asked him why he never loved you.’ Sansa says then and Jon avoids her gaze when she adds, ‘He confessed he tried not to love you but that he never could.’

Sansa has seen Jon cry before, she remembers, four times in total. The first time when their first baby died, the second time was when Rhaegar told him he was ill beyond healing, the third when Aegon killed himself and he was sad because he wasn't sad and the fourth time was when they lay in a bed, clinging to each other after two years of separation as if they were the only oxygen they could possibly ever need. 

He cries now too, a single tear drops down his cheek as he still fails to find the nerve to look her in the eye and Sansa kisses his forehead before she says, ‘I told him I understood. You're terribly easy to love, you know.’ 

‘I don't know.’ Jon says, ‘I've never…’ he doesn't finish and she doesn't plan on forcing him. 

‘I'm sorry I haven't told you before I… I wasn’t sure how.’ 

‘Please don't be sorry.’ He says and Sansa wipes the tears of his cheek with the back of her fingers. 

‘He said you were safer without him.’ 

‘He was right.’ 

She's not sure if she's doing the right thing by telling him. Yet she believes Rhaegar told her because he knew she'd tell him, so she knows she must, ‘he said you were never meant for the black or… or the white cloak. He said you were supposed to be married. He said that you were not as unpredictable as you think you are.’ 

That brings a humorless smile to his lips, ‘He knew me well.’ Jon says, ‘I have always been aware of that, I promise.’ 

Sansa closes her eyes and she can almost hear Rhaegar’s voice, _He is the best thing the Gods ever granted me._

‘He said he didn't want you to join the watch because he wouldn't let you do that to yourself.’ 

‘Of that I _am_ grateful.’ Jon says. 

‘He said you reminded him of your mother. He said that he send you to Winterfell because he hoped you'd be happy here, because he thought he owed that to you. He thought you hated him for what he did to your mother.’ 

‘He's not the one who killed her.’ Jon says, ‘In the end, that was me.’ 

‘You don't really believe that.’ Sansa says, shaking her head, ‘he said he let you hate him because he believed he deserved it.’ 

‘He did.’ Jon says, and he means that, though it still hurts, she sees that in his eyes too. There's so much in his eyes and she regrets not having this conversation sooner. 

‘He said you're a Targaryen, that you belong in the south and that you're a… he said- he called you his son and a… a dragon.’ 

Sansa looks at Jon’s face as he processes all she tells him and then he just leans forward and kisses her. Not long, but soft and sweet, before he says, ‘He gave you to me, for that I will always be grateful.’ 

Sansa lays her hands in his neck and presses her forehead to his, ‘It was not your father who brought us together.’ She says, ‘I am not grateful of him, I'm grateful because you are you.’

Jon did not love her when he married her but he grew to love her all the same, that is all that matters. 

A true smile spreads across his face then, ‘Because we’re meant to be, remember?’

Sansa nods and grins, ‘It was never all meant for Aegon. It was always meant for you, the Gods fashioned you to succeed your father. You were meant to be a father and a husband and a king. I believe that, truly.’ 

Jon wants to respond but Freia squeals when she runs into the parlor and Sansa hops off his lap. 

‘Hey you! Are you ready?’ Jon is always so good at plastering a wide and happy smile on his face when Freia runs in unexpectedly, interrupting something between them. _Anything_.

‘Hhhmhhm.’ She twirls to show him her brand-new cloak. The child grows like a newborn, she fast and so big, it makes Sansa almost sad. It seems only yesterday that Freia lay in her arms, dresses in swaddling clothes, her hand wrapping around her mother's thumb, eagerly drinking from a swollen breast. 

‘That's so pretty, look at you, you're one handsome thing.’ 

Freia twirls to show Jon her new steel blue cloak, ‘Gran-mama make it for me!’ 

‘Have you said thank you?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good.’ Jon lifts her up and sits her down on his knee, ‘Now you are all ready to travel the world.’ 

‘Aaaaaall the world! Papa we see all the world!’

‘Oh yes, de-fi-nite-ly.’

‘I woke her up myself and helped her get dressed.’ Catelyn tells Sansa and Sansa is surprised to find tears in her mother's eyes,  
‘Look at her… I'll miss her terribly.’ 

Sansa smiles then and grabs her mother's hand, ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’ 

‘Will you?’ Catelyn shakes her head, ‘Jon will take you both with him to that godsawful place they call the capital.’

Sansa has not even truly realized that yet. The future Rhaegar had hoped to promise Jon, in Winterfell, where he wanted to be, his _heart’s desire_ , had failed. It spat apart like a bubble. 

Jon is right, Rhaegar hoped to never make Jon his heir, not because he didn't believe Jon could do it, but because he didn't want to do that to Jon. Perhaps that is why he waited till the very last moment. If only he had not waited until the very last moment. 

Sansa watches Jon kiss Freia’s hair as she babbles to him and Sansa smiles to herself at the sight of the two of them. 

_He will be a better king than I ever was._ Rhaegar said, _He is good. He is like her, she was good too, sweet and kind but fierce and brave as well._

‘Have you seen the wheelhouse? You and mama can sit in the wheelhouse and play cards and read books.’ Jon says, ‘And we’ll sleep in all these new places, so many places you've never seen before. Is that not exiting, Freia?’

_He will be as good a father as he is a man_.

Freia bounces up and down in her excitement, ‘And then I see stars!’

‘Yes! All the stars, I'll teach you their names, like I promised.’ 

‘You pro-wis!’

_Lyanna wanted to call him Freia… she loved that name_.

'Sansa…’ Catelyn whispers, and she takes her hand, ‘Don’t go mad.’ 

‘What do you mean?’

‘I went mad once. After losing Bran, after his fall and I… I promised you then that I would never lose myself like that again. Do you remember?’

Sansa nods.

‘You can't lose your mind either, no matter how great the urge. Freia needs you, you have to be strong for Freia.’ 

‘Do you think I will go mad?’ 

Catelyn shakes her head, ‘It's only that I was constantly at the brink of it, I can only imagine how it was for you.’ 

Jon points at his plate, ‘Do you want an egg? Shall I peel it or can you do-‘

‘Myself!’ Freia says and she eagerly takes the egg from her father, ‘I can do the egg and peel it aaaaall by myself!’

‘Yes, look, let me show you, you do _this_ … and now you can peel.’ 

Sansa nods again, 'I won't go mad.’ She says. 

Catelyn smiles and kisses her cheek, ‘Take good care of her.’ She looks at Jon who helps Freia eat her boiled egg, ‘I’ll miss her terribly.’ She says again, ‘All of you.’ 

'I'll miss you too.’ Sansa says, ‘But I have to go with him. You understand that, don’t you?’

Catelyn is not very convincing when she nods, ‘Give my love to Robb?’

Sansa feel a little nauseous at the mention of that name, and she cannot bring herself to promise, though Catelyn doesn't notice for she walks over to Jon and Freia, who proudly tells her, ‘I drink milk.’ 

‘Is it good?’ Catelyn asks. 

‘Hhhmhh.’ Freia hold the cup up for Jon to share, ‘You? Milk?’

‘No, you drink it.’ Jon says and Freia takes a sip as he holds the cup for her. 

‘I have a mu-rach?’

‘A what?’

‘Like you!’ She says and she pats his cheek. 

‘Here, let me clean your face.’ He says and he wipes her mouth with a napkin.

’You must do your duty and help him in the future. The Gods know he’ll need it.’ Rhaegar said.

Sansa remembers how she promised, ‘ _I will, don't worry._ ’ she said. 

Catelyn kisses Freia's face all over as she holds her when they all stand in the courtyard. 

‘Miss you, gran-mama.’ Freia whispers and a single tear drops down her chubby cheek. 

‘See you soon, sweetling.’ Catelyn says, ‘Reaaal soon, remember?’

‘I sleep nights and nights and wake up and you are there!’ 

‘Exactly!’ 

Sansa hugs Bran and Arya and ruffles Rickon’s hair, ‘Take care of each other.’ She makes them promise. 

Sansa can't keep her own tears in anymore when Rickon hugs Freia, tight and long. She was so selfishly determined to come with Jon, that she had not realized how hard it would be to leave her home, her family, all behind, to once again follow him to some place unsafe. 

‘Here Freils…’ Arya says, ‘I and gran-mama made it for you.’ 

Freia takes a stuffed wolf from her aunt, a fluffy toy, softer than her unicorn, as grey as Lady once was. 

‘It's a Stark direwolf.’ Arya unnecessarily explains. 

‘Is a wolf?’

‘Yes.’ Arya grins and kisses her niece’s cheek, ‘It's a gift.’

Freia hugs the wolf close, ‘Is for me?’

‘Yes, you can hug it and pretend it's me.’ 

Freia hugs Arya and Arya pretends it crushes her bones, which makes Freia giggle. 

‘Come here.’ Jon whispers when he lifts Freia, dressed in her new cloak, clutching her new toy, into the wheelhouse. 

‘Safe travels.’ Catelyn tells him and he kisses her cheek like a son kisses his lady mother.

‘I'll miss you mama.’ Sansa whispers. 

‘I'll miss you more.’ Catelyn whispers in her hair. 

The hug Sansa receives from her mother the moment before she allows Jon to help her into the carriage too, is a hug that warms Sansa on the long ride south.

###### 

It takes them more than a moon’s turn to arrive at Riverrun alone. The wheelhouse is slow, and the snow is arrogant, cold and hard. 

Freia cried the first few days, but then accepted her faith and decided to take advantage of the many possibilities the wide and free world of the road offers her. 

She runs off a lot, into open fields, off to pluck flowers, or chases after wild beasts. 

‘Sans, it’s fine, Ghost is with her.’ Jon always says, but Sansa can’t help but run right after her each and every time. She needs a septa, she knows that, to do the running for her, but where does one find a decent septa on the road, traveling the North, during time of war? 

Freia adapts surprisingly well to the new and constantly changing environment. Though the long sitting bores her and makes her irritated, she has her two naps during the day, which means she’ll sleep and often Jon plays with her to wear her out, which helps. She has her unicorn, a doll and her new stuffed direwolf. The wolf, doll and unicorn are the best of friends. They have tea parties and share the most interesting conversations. Sansa often has to bite her lip to keep her laughter in. 

It is, in some old though clean inn, that Sansa writes down an extra cross on a piece of paper, there where she should have drawn a circle. She stares down at the paper in her hands, her fingers trembling as she tries to scream at herself for being such a fool. 

She missed her moonblood, and the next day, it doesn’t come either, nor the day after that. She keeps adding crosses until there are eight too many and she can’t help but drag herself to some small, dusty sept. She kneels down in front of the statue of the mother, her hands wrapped tightly together, her eyes burning… and she prays. She hasn’t prayed for so long, for nothing. 

_Please_ , she keeps repeating the word in her head, whispers it under her breath, begging all the Seven Gods, the mother most of all. 

She can’t bring herself to tell anyone, not even Jon, nor a measter, because most of all, she fears the disappointment. She can only imagine what his face will do and she prefers to avoid that at all cost. Better be sure first, and though she knows she needs a measter for that, she promises herself not to lose her mind over eight crosses. Just eight crosses. The measter will probably tell her it’s because of the stress, the traveling and the weather or something else.

The measter wouldn’t be able to tell, to be sure, that is how early it is, but Sansa knows. This is the third time, and this is her body, she recognizes the feeling. Sansa _knows_ and it equally terrifies and excites her. 

Asking a measter won’t help no soul, it won’t stop the anxious waiting for something that hopefully will not come. Sansa misses her mother even more then, because Catelyn would have known what to do. 

All Sansa can come up with is pray as if her life depends on it. _Please_ , she looks at the stone face of the cloaked mother, _give me a baby, a healthy one, please_. 

At Riverrun Sansa is greeted by her uncle, her mother’s brother, the lord paramount of the Riverlands, as if they are long lost friends. They’re not. She has never before seen the man, Jon knows him far better than she does. 

Freia, tired and cranky because of the sitting still in the wheelhouse, refuses to give him a hand, hides behind Jon's legs instead and Edmure pretends to find it endearing, not embarrassing. 

Sansa takes Freia with her, as Jon spends four hours straight talking strategy and numbers, looking over maps and letters, with people who Sansa has never met, yet look so very important.

That night Jon walks into her temporary bedchamber as Sansa’s sitting in front of a mirror, brushing her hair. Freia lays sleeping in the middle of the big bed, her thumb in her mouth. 

‘I thought It would be better for her to sleep here? It’s a strange castle, you don’t mind, do you? The bed is big enough.’

He nods and doesn’t say much. When Sansa looks up and watches him stand there undress himself with a troubled look on his face she can see instantly.

‘You look serious.’ Sansa tells him. 

As if to prove her wrong he presses a smile to his lips and shakes his head, ‘Rhaenys will be here tomorrow, she’ll escort you to the army camp, I really cannot delay my arrival any longer.’

‘You’re going ahead?’

He nods, ‘I have to, I’m sorry.’

‘how long will we-‘

‘We’ll we apart for five, maybe six days, it doesn’t matter, it’s not long, could you-‘

‘I understand.’ Sansa says, though she feels her throat tighten, ‘It’s not that long.’ 

‘You’ll be there before you know it.’

‘Don’t worry about it, I can- I understand.’ 

He nods and crumbles a letter in his hand, ‘The imp is there. Apparently, he has offered us his support.’ 

‘That is... could we have not seen that coming?’ Sansa asks. 

Jon shrugs as he pulls his tunic over his head, ‘Perhaps. I didn’t think he'd manage to escape Cersei, really, not since he’s a dwarf with no nose, there are few of these in this world. But now he's here and… Rhaenys has decided to pass the decision over his faith to me.’

‘Tyrion?’

‘Yes. Whether he'll… he'll live or die.’ 

‘You'll execute him?’

‘He knows too much, I can't execute him, but I don't know if I can trust him either. He helped Joffrey for far too long, and he remains a Lannister.’ 

‘Then don't kill nor trust him.’ Sansa says and Jon turns to look at her and smiles. 

‘I won't.’ He says and he moves over to the bed and sits down on the rim, where he moves his finger to rub Freia’s chubby toddler cheek, as gentle as someone of his seize could possibly ever be and it still makes her feel emotional to watch him do that.

Sansa used to think the sight of them made her emotional because she never believed she would ever have the chance to see that, but lately reality has sunken in completely, she knows it has, and yet it still makes her teary eyed to look from some distance how Jon runs after her, catches her and then lifts her up, kisses her cheek and makes her giggle. The way Freia looks at him with a face of pure joy, beaming and happy… it still makes her all wonderfully emotional and perhaps that will never fade away, perhaps she shouldn't want it to. 

‘He never hurt you, did he?’ Jon asks.

‘No.’ Sansa says, ‘He didn't he… he sent my letters to you, he was kind.’ 

Jon nods, ‘I cannot help but think he did all because he knew it might come in handy later.’ 

‘It's likely.’ Sansa doesn't believe saying that is a lie, truly, it _was_ most likely part of his reasoning anyway, he is smart enough to do that, she knows it, Jon knows it. 

‘But if this war ever ends we can't remain enemies forever and I'd rather make peace with Tyrion than Cersei. He knows the Westerlands, knows the Lannister army and Casterly Rock- he could be useful.’

‘Then make him useful.’ Sansa says and she stands up, ‘He was once your friend, was he not? He has nothing to lose, his sister wants him dead, you're his last resort.’ 

Jon nods and stands up too, ‘So I won't kill him.’

‘And you won't trust him either.’ Sansa says. 

He smiles again and looks down at the sleeping figure of Freia down in the bed, ‘She must’ve been tired, after all these new things to take in and all.’ 

Sansa smiles too, ‘She was completely exhausted.’

‘She fell asleep standing, didn't she?’

‘She’ll sleep for half a sun’s turn.’ Sansa says.

'Remember what you promised?’ Jon asks. 

‘Hm?’ 

‘If I tell you to get out of here and go back north you'll go back north.’

‘I remember.’

‘Good, because so do I.’ he says it with his mouth close to her bare neck, his breath is hot to her skin.

‘You won't do it unless you'll have to, right?’

‘Right.’ He says and he snuggles his face in her neck, ‘Rhaenys can explain to you how life at the camp is. You’ll struggle.’

‘How?’ She asks and he looks up, clearly surprised at the question. 

‘You're accustomed to your comfort.’ 

‘I have survived King’s Landing, we’ve been traveling and… surely I can survive an army camp.’ 

‘Hmmhhm.’ 

Sansa takes a step away from him and glares, ‘You don't think I could?’

‘What? I mean Sansa I… I just told you, you're accustomed to your comfort, you won't like it, you just won't.’ 

‘Did you allow me to come because you knew I'd go back after some time, not being able to handle the lack of comfort?’

He shamelessly grins now, ‘You think I'm so much smarter than I actually am, I’d never do that.’ 

‘Yes you would.’ She says and she turns away again, which makes him laugh, though he muffles the sound. 

‘It's not funny!’

‘Careful, you'll wake Freia.’ 

‘She sleeps through everything.’ Sansa says. 

‘She'll sleep through the thunders of the army drums too, unlike you.’ 

‘I will too!’

He laughs again and wriggles himself closer to her, ‘Sans, you'll be perfectly alright.’ 

Sansa can't help but snort as she moves back towards to chair, to sit down and brush and braid her hair for the night. 

Jon lies down in the bed, his hands gently stroking Freia’s hair, messing with the carefully put together braids in the process. 

When Sansa stands in front of the big mirror he looks up and grins and the look in his eyes makes her blush. Doing that makes her feel foolish. He still makes her feel foolish and she hates to love him for it. 

When he turns around and can no longer see her, she can’t help but place her hand to her flat stomach. She turns to her side to see how there is nothing there yet, not even a small bump or a swell or anything. Still so tiny. She wishes she could tell him but she knows it's better to wait. He might not take her with him then. He reminded her of their deal again today, surely, her being pregnant is reason enough for him to freak out. It has been reason enough before. 

Sansa remembers learning how Dothraki women never leave their khalasar while pregnant, that they keep riding their horses or walk along on foot, under the hot sun and even through the rain, before they give birth laying in a grassy field below the stars. 

Surely if these women can do that Sansa can be pregnant in an army camp. She's a woman too, after all. 

 

**Jon**

the moment Jon arrives in the army camp he's greeted by the news of the death of Sansa’s aunt. 

‘She killed herself, poor ol’ lady Arryn.’ Lord Galbart Glover tells him. Jon appreciates the man for his skills and considers him a good, loyal, and steady loyalist, yet the lack of feeling on his face rather shocks Jon. 

‘Killed herself?’

‘Threw her weight right down the moondoor, couldn't find the truth no more in her madness, lady Arryn lost her sense years and years ago, your grace.’ 

‘So I've been told.’ Jon says, which is a lie, because he has seen the truth, saw it develop, in front of his own eyes.

‘Lord Edmure Tully has send word to his sister’s widow in the Eyrie to ask for her remains… it has, as of yet, been left unanswered.’ 

Jon nods. He needs to discuss this with Rhaenys as soon as possible. With Lysa dead Robert Arryn will have different advisors, he may have his new father-in-law as one, and that could cause for quite some differences in the pieces on the board. Jon tells himself they don't need the Eyrie to win this war, but of course it couldn't hurt to have the extra dolls. Couldn't hurt at all. It's not worth getting his hopes up, but it can only fall in their favor, he believes. He'll have to wait until Rhaenys returns before he mentions it to anyone. 

‘The imp has requested to speak with you, your grace.’ Lord Galbart’s brother and heir Robbett Glover tells him and Jon only nods to let him know he heard. 

‘I shall speak to the bannermen first.’ He says and he can't imagine anyone objecting to that. 

Jon has no great desire to see Tyrion for he knows how the conversation will go and the mere idea of it makes his head ache. 

Lord Glover and prince Oberyn guide him through the camp settlement the moment he arrives, following him as he makes a round on horseback and he catches himself pretending his father is riding out in front of him, making it seem to himself as if they're all bowing for Rhaegar, and he's only the bastard son nobody ever notices or cares to look at, following not only his father but all his true-born brothers too. 

Jon speaks to bannermen from all layers of his army, trying to put up all the different sort of kings they all seem to want him to be.

Most seem content, which is good, except that the small fights between soldiers from the Reach and soldiers from Dorne seem to get worse on a daily basis, which they probably should have been able to predict. He's going to blame Rhaenys for that, she told him not to be bothered by it, but if anything, no one should be surprised at these century long enemies acting like children.

'We need to separate them.’ Jon tells Robb once no one can hear, it's one of the first things he's said to him at all. He prefers to avoid Robb for now, him and his questions, the pleasing look in his eyes, ‘Put their tents at complete other sides of the camp, avoid all contact, and I’ll have Rhaenys speak to her uncle about it, I’ll mention it to lord Florent and discuss it with lord Rowan and lord Caswell.’ 

Prince Oberyn is there to complain the most and Jon lets him go on and on about soldiers from the Reach, armor, horses, closed of roads and stealing smallfolk until he cannot help but loudly ask, ‘My prince, rumors of rape and reaving are worst around your men, do I need to repeat my clear instructions yet again? My people are not to be treated as kettle, and rapists are hanged. I need you to control your troops.’

Jon tells the man that he ought to bring his complaints to Rhaenys, for it is she who promised him to take care of both the peace among the men and the comfort of her own kin. Jon adds that he shall punish betrayal in his army, reminds Lord Franklyn Fowler, who stands there, looking guilty, all crossed-armed and pouty, not to forget. 

After that Oberyn only glares but nods all the same, bows, calls him ‘your grace’ and then even decides to tell him it's good of him to come back, goes on to give notion of Prince Doran’s dearest wishes. Jon responds with asking after not only Oberyn’s paramour but all his daughters too, which seems to be the right thing to ask and Rhaenys’ uncle answers him with something one might identify as pride. 

After that it's Lord Manderly’s turn to complain, this time about a lack of food provinces and again Jon listens to it all, nods, tells the man he understands and waits until it's over before he mentions his cousin this time, ‘You must ask lord Stark, he is responsible for keeping the Northern soldiers fed, I would have expected him to come to me if there were any complains.’

‘Lord Stark told us he'd solve it with you, once you'd show here.’ 

‘I suspect you must have faith that we shall, then.’ Jon says. 

'I wanted to propose a move of the camp? Preferably a little more south? Winter is almost upon us, this autumn is bitter and cruel, the grounds we have lived on lately are emptying.’ 

‘We shall move east as soon as we can, does that work for you, lord Manderly? After that it's south, so the cold cannot concern you there.’ 

Lord Bolton awaits his turns and starts complaining over the lack of sacking his men have been allowed to do, ‘I command an army, not a horde of savages.’ Jon tells him. 

‘The soldiers were expecting more, your grace.’ 

‘Expecting more in the form of what? Lawful sinning? They are not from the IronIislands nor raised beyond the wall, am I right? We shall behave as the Gods have pleaded with us.’

‘Are you indirectly stating that the sacking of Lannisport will not involve-‘

‘That is what I am saying. Do you not pay your army enough, lord Bolton? Or else I see no explanation for the problem?’ Jon has heard of the man’s recent marriage to an extremely fat Frey woman, he doubts he's lacking on coin, ‘I hear congratulations are in order for your wedding.’

‘Thank you, your grace.’ The man says, a displeased frown on his face yet he bows out all the same. 

Then Jon makes his way through the muddy field to Robb’s tent, feeling his face heat up as he passes the many soldiers of their army, bowing their heads at him. 

Robb spreads out the battle plan for him, with all their top many bannermen watching them, their arms crossed, their emotions well-hidden behind their invisible masks. Everyone allows their emotions to flow as they give their opinion, complain some more, yell, accuse, admit, confess, declare, demand, state, wonder, question and answer. 

Jon feels his head may fall from his neck any moment now and he purposely tries to avoid drinking more wine. He has not missed this one bit, not at all. 

There is something in the attitude of the men around him that reminds him of the way men used to behave around Rhaegar. Surely not all are pleased with the way things are going, and not all are as pleased with him as their leader as the man they stand beside, but still, everyone, maybe especially those less fond of him, seem so terribly eager for his favor. 

Though Oberyn is not happy with the favors the Reach lords receive, he still offers Jon his favorite Dornish wine, and though Glover wants more food supply for his men, he still bows too deep for his old knees and declares how good the Gods are for sending their king back. Even lord Bolton, the nasty little man, keeps nodding his head at everything Jon says. They all nod at all Jon says, they all listen to him too and though they are not afraid to state their disapproval or disappointment, none of them are brave enough to press the subject when Jon ends it. The word _bastard_ does not fall, not even once. 

It still feels weird to have them look at him like that, to speak to him in this manner, to watch them and talk to them and know they hear all he says and listen outmost carefully. Perhaps this is what power feels like, perhaps power means that even those who don't like you, desperately want you to like them, because they have accepted the importance of that favor. 

The imp is brought up and when Jon announces that he shall decide what to do Tyrion once he has spoken with him, mutters arise, yet they all laugh when Jon says he doubts the ‘giant of Lannister will be much intimidating’ and the subject is passed over surprisingly easy. Jon knows many of these bannermen want Tyrion dead, if only for revenge over the release of the Kingslayer. Jon has been forgiven for that vile betrayal only because there would not be a war to fight if it was not for the help he managed to arrange for them. The trade they all violently fought against is the one that brought their new queen and princess to safety, and anyone who dares complain about that is a fool man. 

After that Daenerys is mentioned and the few concerns that men name are woven away by many more, ‘she has no ships’, most conclude.

‘She _has_ dragons.’ 

‘Those dragons form no threat for us so long as she remains at the other side of the pond, she seems to show no desire to cross the waters and return to the land of her birth.’ 

‘We must pray she’ll stay there.’ 

Jon sees no reason to doubt that. There is nothing for Dany in Westeros, it's Essos that she dreamed of all her life, where else would she be? 

Jon informs them all of the battle of Castle Black, after which the lords demand to have a drink to celebrate victory. 

The sun has gone long down when Jon and Robb walk back to their tent, side by side, accompanied by a peaceful and desired silence between them. Silence was always comfortable between the two of them. 

Robb breaks it when he asks Jon how his mother, Bran and Rickon were doing and Jon asks how Rhaenys has been coping. 

'Rhaenys can survive in a hole underneath the ground if you tell her she cannot.’ 

Jon smirks, ‘Can you imagine?’ 

‘No.’ Robb says with a grin, ‘We have been doing better. At first our marriage was strained.’ He looks at Jon ask as if he expects a long response to that information, but when nothing comes he adds, ‘As you must know, obviously. But it's better now.’ 

‘I'm glad.’ Jon says, which may or may not be a lie, he's not so sure. 

'Jon I… There are so many things I have to tell you.’ Robb starts, ‘Things I should have told you years ago.’ 

Jon knows what he means and he shakes his head, ‘Safe your breath for Sansa.’ He says. 

‘H-how is she?’

‘Better. She wasn’t so good at first.’ Jon won’t lie about that.

Robb’s face reddens when he asks, ‘Do you think she wants to see me?’ 

Jon shrugs, he doesn't know, he hasn't asked, he really should have. It's just that he learned to wait until she starts, to let her know he’ll listen to her when she was ready, without force.

Robb nods, ‘She should hate me.’ 

‘I agree, but Sansa was always too good for this world so you never know.’ Jon says.

‘It’s all my fault.’ Robb says, ‘The whole trade-‘

‘Robb...’ Jon sighs, ‘We’ve all made mistakes.’ 

‘Not as unforgivable as mine.’ 

Jon presses a cup of wine in his hand, ‘Consider it forgiven.’

‘You’ve lost your mind.’ 

Jon shrugs, ‘Forgiven not forgotten.’ He has felt that way for a long time, it took him more than courage to admit it, however.

Robb nods. They sit there, speaking no words, drinking their wine for a long while, comfortable in their silence, until Robb suggests, ‘I think you should speak to the imp.’

‘I think that too.’ 

‘Have you truly not decided whether or not to keep him alive?’

‘He won’t die.’ Jon says, ‘He may know things, we must manipulate all that out of him.’ 

‘Before we kill him?’

‘We won't.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘After this war is over there needs to be peace, I see more future in a peace with lord Tyrion than one with Cersei.’ 

‘Peace with the Lannisters?’ 

‘Peace with the Rock- _after_ we take it- the way my ancestors did.’

‘Your ancestor had three dragons.’ 

‘And two wives, can you imagine? What more could a man want?’ Jon grins at Robb’s frown and grabs a map of the Westerlands, and makes a headgesture to Ser Malcolm, ‘Let's visit my uncle, hmm?’

Again people bow and call him ‘your grace’ as he walks by and Jon feels that if he pretends not to feel uncomfortable he might start feeling less awkward about it. 

Tyrion is bound to a pole, his arms to his back, though he doesn't look nearly as neglected as Jon remembers Jaime doing. 

Tyrion lifts his head to the stream of light that falls in the tent the moment Jon enters, Robb hurrying after him. 

‘Your grace.’ Tyrion says and he grins. 

‘You _have_ lost your nose.’ Jon says and he doesn't mean to mock it, it's just that the idea seemed incredulous to him, ‘I thought Sansa was joking when she told me.’ 

‘I have learned to do without.’ 

Jon nods and makes a head gesture to the guard, ‘Loose him and leave us.’

‘Your grace.’ The guard breaks the ropes and then leaves, walking backwards, his head bowed. 

Jon clears his throat, glances at Robb who holds the pommel of his sword in his hand and then walks over to the table in the corner, spreads out the Westerlands map and points at it, ‘I suppose it won't surprise you that I shan’t kill you… that is, naturally, only because I accept your supposed worth.’ 

Tyrion grins still and it annoys Jon a little, ‘I can help you.’ He says, ‘You know it.’ 

Jon grabs the end of the map, ‘I don't believe I know you, not after these two years I've had.’ 

The grin disappears from Tyrion’s face, ‘Jon-‘

‘Don't _Jon_ me.’ Jon hopes that the tone in his voice keeps the imp from smiling for the duration of this meeting, ‘You’ll live because your knowledge is of value, not because I like you and not because you saved Sansa.’ 

‘I had to convince Jaime, I spend hours-‘

‘I don't care.’ 

‘Jon-‘

‘I said, _don't Jon_ me!’ Jon knows Robb shivers behind him and he marches a few steps towards Tyrion, to emphasis their height difference, ‘Do you want me to be grateful? For _convincing_ Jaime? You did not need to convince Jaime, you were hand of the king-‘

‘Not when-‘

‘When Sansa was their hostage! I have seen her scars, she’ll carry those for the rest of her life, and she was innocent, she had nothing to do with me, my father, her brother, none of that, she harmed no one. You know how Joffrey treated her, you saw it, you allowed him to do that, you allowed them to separate her from our daughter.’ Jon wishes the imp was taller so Jon could look him directly in the eye, ‘They hit her, humiliated her, pulled the clothes off her body in the throne room for all the court to see, left her bleeding on the floor and you… you gave her my letters and _convinced_ Jaime.’ Jon feels the urge to spit on the ground the imp stands on but it would be a waste of effort, ‘Don't you dare for a minute think I am grateful, don't for a minute think I owe you anything at all, don't you dare even say her name, I want you to stay away from her as far as you possibly can and if I find out you have spoken to her I'll behead you still, the gods know many would love to witness it.’ 

Tyrion nods then, ‘I want to help you.’

‘Rhaenys told me that you want to rape and murder Cersei in return.’ 

Tyrion says nothing, Jon wonders if it is guilt that he sees on the imp’s face, but it's hard, because it's so scarred and the tent is dimly lit by only few candles.

‘I promised Rhaenys Cersei’s head and I keep my promises. As for rape… you're too smart to mistake me for your own father.’

‘I know I-‘ 

‘I offer you your own head. If that is not enough, we can chop it off in the morrow and I'll do it myself, cleanly, I promise it will not hurt.’ Jon says, and he walks back towards the table, ‘Many doubt you have something to offer me but I disagree. I dare you to proof to me that I am right.’

‘You want my help?’

‘I want you to show to me that you can, because till now your promises are empty.’ 

Tyrion walks over towards the table and points right at Casterly Rock, ‘Don't take Casterly Rock.’ 

Robb scoffs at that, ‘He's not even trying to pretend now? I want his head.’ 

Jon says nothing but raises his eyebrows. 

‘No one has ever taken it, not since my ancestors took it from the Casterlies a thousand years ago… I say you must- you must take Lannisport instead.’

‘It's so close to Casterly you can see it across the pond when the sky is clear.’ Jon says. 

‘It's a city, cities can be sacked, they can surrender, they will when hunger strikes, but a castle… they can hold for moons and moons, time you can't waste, you don't want to waste, the Lannister army is regrouping and with the support of Highgarden you'll have a hard time sacking King’s Landing when the time comes.’

‘The Lannisters are bankrupt.’ Jon says. 

‘They are, that's why you must try to sack Lannisport, you’ll end their greatest trade area, the army is not big, but it's well equipped, take that from them and you'll make them a hundred times more vincible.’

‘You want us to leave Casterly Rock aside?’

‘There is no need to take the Rock if you have all the castles that surround it, all the gold mines and Lannisport, you'll leave a screaming child amidst foes. The Rock is no one to anyone when it's unreachable and surrounded by enemies.’

Jon looks at Robb and is thankful to find him look interested. Jon said what he needed to say, made his feelings clear, but Robb finds it harder to keep his skepticism off his face, and Jon suspects him to feel a burning need to repeat more multiple times how he wants to see a head on a spike. 

‘Taking Lannisport will save you time, time you must put in taking Highgarden.’ 

Jon feels the urge to smile at that, because it's such a strategical plan, a plan they already have, and Tyrion’s suggestion ensures him that it has not leaked, ‘The Florents are in Brightwater Keep, they did not travel to the capital to watch the Tyrell girl marry Joffrey, nor did many other high lords from the north of the Reach. Do you want to know why?’

There's almost an exited glimmer in the dwarf’s eyes, because obviously, he doesn't know why, but he must've wondered.

‘After we ensured the Westerlands we will help them take Highgarden from the Tyrells.’ He says, ‘The Tyrells shall lose half the army they promised to Cersei- to _you_ , because they will learn the hard way that bannermen feel an urge to be convinced before they offer you meat to send to slaughter on the battlefield.’ 

‘That is clever.’ 

‘The Tyrells will be allowed to keep their heads because I shall grant them mercy. I will not be so forgiving to Cersei.’ 

‘And Highgarden will go to the Florents?’

‘Those loyal to the rightful king.’ Robb says and he moves to stand behind Jon, points at the map, ‘You want us to take Lannisport? Tell us how.’ 

Tyrion nods and moves his hands to smooth the map out, then he points at the nearest Gold Coast, ‘Close that first.’ He says, ‘Without it trade will freeze and it will lack the ships in the harbor, you want as little ships there as possible, they will expect you to attack Casterly Rock, it will be prepared to defend itself, food supplies will be raising to the roof- but knowing my sister she'll let the peasants of the city starve, gladly.’

‘She's not very strategic.’ 

‘She's too stupid to realize a city is more valuable to the war effort than a castle.’ 

‘And you are trying to tell us now she has nobody to inform her of this?’ Robb asks, an incredulous look on his face. 

Tyrion shakes his head, ‘Father is dead, after releasing me she'll fail to trust Jaime, she has plenty of others who shall try, but she’ll choose not to listen.’ 

‘Is she that stupid?’ Robb looks at Jon now as if he's asking for confirmation. 

‘Stupid is not…’ Jon presses his lips together before he sighs and says, ‘Cersei Lannister has more problems than this war alone, am I right?’ 

Tyrion ignores that question, ‘You must attack from the eastern side, the south is well guarded after your alliance with Dorne and the North has been closed off ever since the war started, the only border they do not fear is the one east.’ 

‘The border with the Reach that stretches out to Old Oak, which is our allied ground, we can attack from that side.’ Jon says. 

Robb nods, ‘And we have taken Oxcross moons ago, Golden Tooth is clean of Lannisters, all we need is castle Sarsfield and we can move from there.’ 

Tyrion grins again now that he realizes they are actually listening to him though Jon feels they must consider it only for now. He needs to discuss this with Rhaenys and the million bannermen they need to please, yet he has to admit, this may be a solid plan. If they surround the rock and move on… they don't need to be the first to conquer it since the arrival of the Andals, and it would be nice to get rid of that faith in luck. 

Tyrion points out all the areas in the Westerlands that they should be able to take quickly, the ones that might cause them trouble. Areas that will be a strategic win or a burden to uphold, areas that are of value and those that will surrender when they merely point arrows at the gates. 

When Jon and Robb walk back to their own tent he notices a discomfort of which he knows by experience that he'll only find out what the cause of it is if he asks, ‘I know you wanted me to behead him.’ 

‘I knew you wouldn't, you have too much self-control to kill anyone of value.’ 

‘I killed the hound.’ Jon says. 

‘He was of no value.’ 

‘Yet I lost my self-control there.’ 

‘Have you told Sansa of that beheading?’

Jon nods, ‘She seemed to like the news, which shocked me a little, I never expected her to be pleased by the news of someone's death.’

‘The hound hurt her.’ Robb says and he shrugs, ‘And Sansa is not the way we remember her to be anymore.’ 

Jon stops walking and Robb follows the example, ‘You have not seen her in three years, you shouldn't say things like that.’ 

‘I have to tell you something… about Sansa.’ Robb then says and he avoids to look Jon in the eye, ‘Rhaenys and I… we decided I'd be the one to tell you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do not know when I'm going to update next, my life is a mess right now (in an exams kind of way). I think, maybe Sunday, maybe not until next week, it really depends. Next week I will go back to the Wednesday+Sunday update schedule we're all used to.  
> So yeah, see you next time, please let me know what you think and thanks for reading! (And giving kudos, obviously :)


	47. Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys always speaks the truth, and sometimes that is simply not what you want to hear, sometimes the ugly truth is false, sometimes people forgive the unforgivable, because they're strong, because they are weak, because they love, because they're family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you had a pleasant Easter (if that is something you celebrate of course), my exams are over so I hope to update regularly again.

**Sansa**

As much as Jon has physically changed, so little has Rhaenys. She looks perfectly the same, with her golden locks still so long it reaches her lower back, braided from her face with Dornish bells that make a musical sound when she turns her head. Her pale blue eyes twinkle with a lilac glow and her shoulders are straight, her head held up high as she glares at sellswords. She wears a shorter skirt than Sansa remembers, it's dark red, the color of fire, combined with silky black breaches underneath that give her a freedom to move of which she takes full advantage. Her cloak is black, with a scale-like pattern that reminds Sansa of the way Aegon used to dress. A ruby choker in the shape of a black dragon decorates her pale neck. 

Rhaenys looks like she's ready for war, as if she's about to jump on a dragon and join the battle, as if she's hungry for blood, for revenge, ready to take back what was stolen from her… then, she smiles, she grins, and she hugs Sansa and she's the sweetest, gentlest older sister again, the one Sansa always wanted. 

Rhaenys takes Sansa's head between her cold hands, presses her forehead to hers and it's almost as if she's proud, she smiles the way she used to smile when her father told her to take over the small council meeting for him, all on her own, like a proper Targaryen queen. Rhaenys is the proper Targaryen queen Sansa will never be, they both know it, there's a certain understanding between them about it, a knowledge of how they both know what roles they have to play… and that has always been fine, good, perfect.

‘I've missed you.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘It is as if I saw you yesterday.’ Sansa says, and she means that. Rhaenys has changed hardly at all, and it's as wonderful as seeing her, hearing her husky, warm and hoarse voice. 

In some parlor in rooms at Riverrun, she seems to have declared her own, considering the Targaryen dragon banners that decorate the walls, Rhaenys pulls Sansa close and they just grin at each other like two little girls. 

‘You look amazing.’ Rhaenys says, her cold hands cup Sansa’s face, and she actually seems to mean it, it seems to surprise her too, ‘You must tell me what your secret it.’ 

_Sex_ , Sansa wants to say, but that would be not only unmannered but uncomfortable too, so she merely smiles and kisses her sister-in-law’s cheek. 

'I cannot believe I’m seeing you, I feared I wouldn’t recognize your face!’ Rhaenys breathes a laugh at her own nonsensical fears.

‘Im not _that_ old yet.’ Sansa says. 

‘Not _old_ … _I_ am old!’ Rhaenys takes Sansa’s braid between her fingers and softly tugs on it, ‘It’s not quite what I meant… as you know perfectly well.’ 

‘I have learned that two years’ time can rush by like a galloping Dornish stallion or move as slow as pond water…’ 

Rhaenys opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again and sighs, shakes her head and rubs Sansa’s cheek as if she’s her little sister, there’s a silence between them that says more than words ever could, answers unspoken questions and comforts as well as reassures, ‘Where's Freia?’

‘Asleep. She was very upset when Jon left, she misses him.’

‘So I reckon he's still playing nurse?’

‘Don't be hard on him, he's so wonderful with her, there is no shame in it.’ 

‘I wasn't saying there is!’ She says all quickly and she pulls Sansa down with her on the sofa, ‘I’m awfully glad you think so.’

‘It still feels surreal.’

‘I can imagine.’

Sansa slowly shakes her head, ‘I doubt that.’ 

‘I think… fatherhood is something Jon always wanted. He feels he has much to make up for.’ 

Sansa shrugs, ‘I wish Jon did not feel as if he has things to prove because… I do know he thinks so and… At first it was a little hard, I won’t deny it.’

‘What was?’

‘Sharing her.’ Sansa admits, she only before admitted it to her mother, but then, telling Rhaenys things she does not even tell Jon is something that, even after two years, still seems to be a matter of course, and that feels like coming home, ‘Becoming a family when you have always been one but never could- that was surreal and harder than I ever expected it could be. It’s all so easy now. Unforced, unpolished, unpretentious… _simple_. It’s as if we were never apart. Of course we _were_ , but it’s pleasant to be ignorant every now and then.’

‘Every… every now and then?’

Sansa grins, ‘Freia likes him far better than she likes me.’

‘That doesn’t make you jealous?’

‘Why would it? I can only sympathize.’

‘Sympathy is the most worthless emotion anyone has ever felt.’ 

Sansa rolls her eyes, ‘I disagree.’ 

‘I'm glad you do, someone must every now and then, it's one of the reasons why I missed you as much as I have.’

Sansa grabs Rhaneys’ hand and squeezes it tight, ‘I can't believe I'm seeing you, you look so well… I've missed you terribly.’ 

‘Me too.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I always knew I'd see you again.’ 

Sansa looks down at their entangled hands and only smiles. 

‘We’ll follow Jon to the front in the morrow with the wheelhouse. Can't put Freia on a horse, of course! And his presence was asked for… Eventually there always comes a point where men either die or run when they've listened to a woman giving them commands for too long.’

Sansa grins, ‘Are you sure it's not _you_ more than ‘a woman’?’

‘Quite sure.’ Rhaenys says, eyebrows raised, ‘These bastards are all the same.’ 

‘How much quicker are his travels without the wheelhouse?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘I’d say he travels twice as fast without it. It doesn't matter much, you'll be without him for five, maybe six days, I'm sure you can handle a small week after two years.’ Rhaenys smiles as if that comparison is funny and Sansa can only bat her eyes. That coolness is exactly the way she remembers it to be, frustrating, but refreshing too. 

‘It it alright.’ Sansa says, ‘Freia doesn’t understand, it was hard to explain… but I suppose there's nothing wrong with her getting used to that separation for some time.’ 

‘Most things are hard to explain to a two-year-old. How many words does she master exactly? About fifty?’

‘A little more than that!’ Sansa says, ‘I would dare you to count them but that seems a little impossible. She makes words up too… it’s adorable.’

‘I’m sure.’ Rhaenys seems both amused and not much impressed, which in an attitude Sansa usually finds frustrating when it’s regarding her own toddler.

‘You gave her a kitten?’

‘I had one of my own when I was her age.’ Rhaenys tightens her grip around Sansa’s hand, ‘I hope you'll ever find the strength to forgive us for the time it took us to get you back where you belong.’ 

‘There's nothing to forgive.’ Sansa says, ‘Not when it comes to you.’ 

Rhaenys nods and she seems to think, but just like Sansa she remembers, it's impossible to know what she thinks exactly, her face is as iron as the throne of the dynasty that she belongs to, ‘Robb remained at the front, he's desperate to see you.’ 

Sansa feels her smile fade slowly, ‘I cannot believe you wedded him.’ 

‘Me neither, truly.’ Rhaenys says and her loud sigh makes Sansa laugh. 

‘He is a good man.’ She says, ‘He is so much like Jon in many ways... Robb is my brother.’

‘Well,’ Rhaenys says, ‘I never much liked Jon, did I?’

‘You always _said_ you don’t, yes.’ Sansa remembers perfectly. 

‘And I happen to disagree, Robb and my brother are like the moon and the sun, thank the gods they are.’ 

‘In what way, exactly, if I may ask?’

‘You may ask but I’d rather not say.’ 

Sansa grins, she rubs Rhaenys’ palm with her thumb, ‘Does he fear I am angry with him?’ She asks, ‘For refusing to trade me? Has he spoken to you about it?’

Rhaenys looks at her with troubled eyes, and then does not answer her questions but tells her instead, ‘He has missed you so. He cried tears of joy when we were told you safely returned to the North.’ 

‘Thanks to the trade.’ Sansa says, ‘I returned because of the trade. _Jon's_ trade.’ 

Rhaenys nods, then frowns and shakes her head, ‘We don't need to speak of it, not if you don't want to.’ 

Sansa doesn't believe she wants to, ‘Truly, I cannot believe you married him.’ 

‘It was all quite incredulous, yes, but it seemed logical at the time.’

‘Logical? How awful, to be married out of logic.’ 

‘A simpler reason than the one behind yours.’ Rhaenys says, an eyebrow raises. 

‘At least I ought to envy you for having a say. I cried for a full turn when they told me, begged my father to please not do this to me, even threatened to run away if they'd go through with it.’ 

‘With marrying Jon? You’ve never told me that.’ 

Sansa smiles at the memories, never would she have believed back then that she'd remember them almost fondly, ‘Then I met him in the courtyard and his smile was the sweetest I'd ever seen in my whole life and I never shed a tear on him after.’ 

‘Now that could be the heaviest bag of nonsense I’ve ever heard.’ 

Sansa laughs, ‘Very well, not a tear of displease at least, I have always felt blessed to be his lady wife… There are some hideous men in this world.’ 

'Yes, I suppose out of all the hideous man—creatures in Westeros, Jon may actually not be so bad.’

‘Oh Rhaenys…’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘The Gods were good to me when they changed faith and gave him to me.

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘ _Faith_ … You are still the romantic and I’d say that disappoints me were it not that it might actually be a relieve… you're as hopeless as I remember you to be, bless you.’ 

‘Do tell me you've grown to understand?’ Sansa asks and she moves closer and rubs the gold of a dragon-shaped brooch on Rhaenys’ chest with her fingertips, ‘Robb is gentle to you, is he not?’

‘As gentle as anyone has ever been.’ Rhaenys says and her own words seem to shock her but Sansa can only beam and she kisses her sister's cheek.

‘Now you are truly as much my sister as you could possibly ever be.’ She decides, that is a happy thought, perhaps something happy came out of this after all. 

‘I suppose I am.’ 

‘I always wanted a sister like you.’ 

‘Do tell Jon… He doesn't appreciate me enough.’ 

Sansa giggles, ‘I came back just in time did I not? You two would have killed each other if I had not.’ 

‘Not _murder_. I would never fatally harm him.’ 

Sansa giggles some more and shakes her head, she has missed Rhaenys so much, her skepticism and honesty, her wit and most of all her never-failing talent in dramatizing effectively and entirely everything, ‘Thank you, Rhaenys.’ She says. 

‘For what?’ 

‘For taking care of him when I couldn't… _don't_ deny it! I know you have.’

‘It should not have been necessary.’ Rhaenys says during a silence in which she clearly accepts that denial is no option. 

‘Of course not, but _still_. Jon’s a man, remember? You so often told me men make a mess of everything when you only just turn your face away for the slightest second. He told me he regrets not coming to you sooner.’

Sansa knows it’s hard to get Rhaenys to admit to emotions or deeper meaning so she’s not surprised when she snorts, ‘A great number of people are sorry for that- not among the least my lord husband.’ 

‘Your lord husband… how often do you feel a need to mock him?’ Sansa will have to see the two of them in a room together before she'll truly comprehend.

‘Fully depends on my mood, I’m ashamed to admit. When I’m bored… it can be entertaining.’

Sansa laughs some more, ‘But he _is_ good to you, is he not?’

‘He tries.’ Rhaenys says, ‘You can imagine I don't always let him.’ 

‘Now you know.’ Sansa says and the realization makes her giddy, ‘All I've told you. I remember how you thought these were lies or exaggerations, but now you know. It's amazing is it not?’

Rhaenys doesn't smile, only frowns and Sansa believes it must be because she's still being such a prude about it. When Sansa mentioned it in the past Rhaenys often only just managed to stop herself from covering her ears with her hands and sing loudly just to not have to hear another word. 

‘Can you keep a secret?’ Sansa asks, just to wipe the discomfort off her face and also because she is desperate to tell someone, anyone, a woman, preferably.

‘Of course.’ Rhaenys says. 

Sansa grins and pulls her sister’s hand in hers up and places it to her flat belly, ‘I want a baby.’ She says, ‘And I pray every day the Gods give me one and I suspect they have granted me.’ 

‘Y-you're pregnant?’ 

‘I'm not sure _yet_.’ Sansa admits, ‘But then I just… women know these things.’ 

'Are you saying you missed your bleeding?'

‘Just once, but I'm many days late, I'm never late, and I feel… I can feel it.’ Sansa knows she beams and she wishes Rhaenys would too but her smile is forced. 

‘It's wonderful news.’ She says though she's not much exited.

‘I'm not sure!’ Sansa says, ‘You mustn't mention it to Jon. Promise?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Promise.’ She says. 

Sansa feels her face warm up, ‘I'm so terribly happy.’ 

‘So this is your secret?’ Rhaenys asks, and her lack of enthusiasm disappoints Sansa, but she decides not to shower it with attention. 

‘Maybe…’ Sansa says, ‘I’ll feel sick soon, I won’t look good then.’ 

‘You have not told Jon yet?’

Sansa shakes her head. 

‘When will you?’

‘When I'm sure. You cannot disappoint your lord husband, that is a cruel thing, best keep it to yourself.’

Rhaenys looks outright inwardly tortured now and Sansa lays a hand to her cheek. 

‘Does something trouble you? If this… if hearing me speak of this pains you, you must tell me to shut my mouth.’

Rhaenys seems to realize that she has lost control of her face and she shakes her head to remove it and puts a plastered smile on, ‘Heavens, no! I'm delighted, terribly happy for you, of course I am.’

Sansa drops her hand from her cheek and grabs Rhaenys’s hand, ‘You'll be next, I’m sure.’ 

‘No.’ Rhaenys says then, ‘I won't.’ 

‘Sometimes it takes a little longer, but that is not-‘ 

‘It won't happen, ever.’ Rhaenys says and she pulls her hand back, ‘I am barren.’ 

Sansa doesn't know what to say and her mother so often told her that, when you find yourself in a situation where you do not know what to say, that is what you must tell the person you're speaking to, ‘I don't know what to say.’ 

‘Then say nothing.’ Rhaenys pulls on her red skirt, takes a deep breath and strengthens her back, ‘It is of no matter to me, I have accepted it long ago.’

‘But Robb-‘

‘We could have an annulment once the war is over.’

Sansa feels angry suddenly, ‘I cannot believe Robb would use you like that! For strategical gain, that is cruel and just-‘

‘He doesn't know.’ Rhaenys stops her, ‘And he won't.’

‘Then how?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘It was the only way. Jon was set on saving his cousin’s ass and we needed my uncle’s support to do it, they refused to help because they did not see why so I had to marry him. If I had not we'd still be fighting in the North to gain the lands back your brother lost. He was losing the war, and it… it seemed logical at the time.’ 

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I do not understand.’ 

‘What part exactly?’

‘He doesn't know? Don't you believe you owe him the full truth?’ Sansa asks. 

‘That's rich, coming from you.’

‘What?’ Sansa cannot remember Rhaenys looking at her with so much coldness in her eyes since that very first tea party, years ago.

‘We all have things we'd rather not speak of.’ 

‘I don't-‘ Sansa stops when she realizes she does. Her worse than most, ‘So you lie to him?’ Sansa asks. 

‘I don't speak of it, which is not at all the same. He'll be better of not knowing, once we'll have the annulment-‘

‘Won't that be embarrassing? Won't you feel insulted?’

‘I'm not the marrying kind.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I'll leave that sort of life to women like you.’ 

‘Women like me?’ Sansa sits up now too, ‘Is that supposed to insult me? Women like me are no less strong than women like… women like _you_.’

Rhaenys seems to realize what she said and she grabs Sansa’s hand again, ‘That is not what I meant.’ She says, ‘Not at all. I always knew you were strong, never doubted it for a moment. What I meant is… I'm not good at being the obedient kind.’

‘I am not obedient! That is not what marriage is about,’

‘Marriage simply is not for me, as motherhood isn't. That is alright as much as… as desperately wanting it is.’

Sansa nods, ‘How come?’ She then asks, ‘Why can't you have a child? Is there… a reason?’

‘Because…’ Rhaenys sighs, looks at her hands and then explains, as if it is a plain fact, not a monstrosity, ‘Because when they killed my mother they raped her and me both.’

Sansa feels extremely cold, goosebumps tickle her arms and she needs to refine her breath to whisper, ‘That's the most barbarous act I have ever heard of.’

‘Perhaps.’ Rhaenys only says, ‘But they ripped it all open and destroyed what little there was that still needed to develop and grow and ruined it so it never would. The measter at Sunspear found out when I- I was supposed to marry Quentin Martell. We all went the Dorne for the wedding- Jon too- and as is the custom the measter of Sunspear looked between my legs to see what my worth was worth and saw that I was not only damaged goods but worthless too.’

‘That is-‘

‘So we packed up everything and went back North to the Red Keep where I drowned my sorrows and swore I'd never need any man in my life to feel worthy.’ 

‘I'm so sorry Rhaenys.’ 

‘Wherefore? It's not you who did it. They were all men. Those who forced themselves on a girl as old as Freia, those who embarrassed and humiliated me in Dorne… and those who have made my life a living hell after too.’

Sansa clenches her jaw at the mention of Freia. How could men ever… anyone who would dare think only of doing such a thing… monsters, they do exist, not only in old nan’s tales. In the real world. They even win too. 

Sansa knows right then and there that she won't sleep a wink that night, simply because Rhaenys nestled the idea in her brain of having to watch men rape a child. _Her_ child. If anyone will ever hurt Freia like that, and she won't be able to do much more than watch and scream and _die_ … she'll go mad. 

Sansa has not often spent time remembering Elia Martell, but in that moment she wonders if she has ever in her life pitied anyone more. Imagining brings a taste of sickness to the back of her throat. 

‘It's why I always preferred to surround myself with women,’ Rhaenys goes on, ‘I know it makes no sense but there is a certain feeling of safety and understanding both that is between two women when they speak and talk and are simply spending time.’ 

‘And Cersei?’ 

‘I make exceptions of course.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘For Cersei but for Aegon and Jon too. Though Aegon at times was a thousand times more of girl than I will ever be. And at many occasions I have hated loving Jon, though I loved to hate him at the same time, he's quite impossible.’

Sansa grins, ‘Well, so are you, I suspect it's a family trait.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Rhaenys says and she smiles too, then she looks all the more serious, ‘I was wondering… wondering if things have happened that you… you wish had not?’

‘The past two years.’ Sansa says. 

‘I know, that is… it's not what I mean. I mean to say that- you can tell me. Whatever it is you lived through. I have spoken to your sister Arya, and I have asked her my questions and I will spare you the same, but if there is anything I should know, or Jon, even Robb, do tell me. I urge you.’ 

‘There's nothing. I have told Jon everything.’ Sansa says and she swallows these words away. 

‘Are you sure?’

Sansa nods. 

‘You see, Sansa… bad memories are like a broken mirror after it’s fixed. You can see your own reflection perfectly but the cracks will never disappear again, and you need to learn how to live with them… with a different face staring back at you, every day for the rest of your life. Denying the glass ever shattered is not right.’

‘I know that.’

‘Do you?’ Rhaenys nods, ‘Very well then.’ She gets up, ‘I'm going to bed. Tomorrow we'll leave to the front, Jon said you want to come too, so we better prepare you a little.’ 

‘Prepare me?’

‘Yes… I could be mistaken and you are already accustomed to the battlefield, but I’m never mistaken.’

‘We won't go to the battlefield, will we? Just to the army grounds… to the camp.’ 

‘Have you ever slept under the stars before?’

Sansa tries to smile, ‘I slept in a tent.’ 

‘With thousands of horny and eccentric nutcases at the other side of the canvas?’ 

‘No.’ Sansa admits. 

‘Yes, you see, I wanted to tell you I highly disagree with bringing Freia, but since she is not my child I've decided it's not my responsibility to make decisions concerning her whereabouts.’

‘So… this will be the only comment you'll make about it?’

‘I’ll try, I won’t promise it, however, you know how I feel about promises.’

Sansa smiles, ‘Good, because I will not change my mind. My place is with my lord husband and my child’s place is with me.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘And people have the courage to call _me_ stubborn…’

###### 

Sansa arrives at the army camp and it is exactly the way she expected it to be… and perhaps a little worse. Rhaenys tells some sellsword to bring her and Freia to their tent and then leaves instantly to look for Robb. 

Their tent is relatively big, with two cots, one for her and one for Freia, a table with two chairs and a vase with bellflowers on top. As Sansa walks over towards the bucket, a small smile on her face because Jon knows her so well, Freia jumps up and down her cot, holding the fluffy stuffed wolf toy that was a gift from her grandmamma.

Sansa fears Freia might grow lonely, she used to love Rickon’s company so much and now she has absolutely no one of her own age around. Hopefully soon, Sansa will be able to do something about that.

The tent is red on the inside and it gives it an overall warmer, almost cozy appearance, especially with the wooden interior poles that she takes in her hand to lean against it. It's cold, however, and when Sansa kneels down to pick up the hat and gloves Freia threw on the ground she lays them on the table, so she can find them back as soon as the tiny fingers turn blue.

Sansa sits down on the free cot and watches Freia jump up and down, singing a song in her own language, and sighs. The first thing that pops up in her mind is _what have I done_? It will be cold at night, hopefully there are some jugs that she can fill with boiling water. They never had to do that at Winterfell because of the hot springs, but here it's only the cold wind that flows through the walls. 

Freia cried a little because of the ‘scary men’ but calmed down when one soldier gave her a flower, called her ‘little princess’ and patted the top of her head. The man told Sansa he has a daughter just the same age and she felt sorry for him then, because he so obviously misses his family. _This war does nothing but rip families apart_ , she thinks and she tries to shake it off by wrapping her arms around herself. 

Freia hands Sansa the gifted flower and demands she puts it in her hair. 

Sansa takes out he braid she put in Freia’s hair this morning and holds the flower in place before she twists the little bouncy curls around it. Perhaps it would be nice to put a hairnet on her soon, or something else that keeps her hair from getting filthy in the muddy surroundings they are in now. Sansa then wonders how often they’ll be able to wash, and in that moment, she longs for a nice, hot and steaming bath, with soap smelling of vanilla. 

Freia keeps moving her head so Sansa constantly has to start all over and she doesn't even mind, she loves playing with her daughter’s hair and it's usually the only time of the day, aside from bedtime, that Sansa gets to have her to sit still, and listen. 

‘Remember what we agreed? You will...?’

‘Stay close!’

‘Yes, and you cannot just...?’

‘Chase off!’

‘That's right, you’re a smart girl.’ 

‘Where's papa?’ Sansa promised Freia Jon would be here but as of yet they have both not caught a glimpse of him and Freia clearly feels betrayed. 

‘He'll be here soon, he's out there doing kingly things.’ 

‘You always say he is here but he is nowhere.’ Freia says, ‘You are the liar.’ She has recently learned the concept of lying and now she accuses Sansa of lying every time her mother tells her something she doesn't want to hear. 

‘No, he'll be here soon, I promise, I'm sure he has missed you too.’ 

Freia crosses her arms and glares ahead. Sansa finishes the hairdo and admires her own work. Freia's hair is not the easiest to work with but there is no lack of bounciness and the longer it grows the heavier and it no longer sticks in all directions but falls to her shoulders instead. Sansa has learned how to control it and it's always so shiny and lively. Perhaps soon, it would be good idea to cut it.

Sansa hands Freia the beloved unicorn and Freia loosens her self-hugging to grab it.

Sansa kisses her forehead, ‘We’re in a dangerous place now, it is important that you listen to all I say… You will, won't you?’

Freia frowns but nods and the realization that Freia is clearly not as aware of the actual dangers as an adult would be makes Sansa feel anxious. 

When the triangular tent flaps open and become a door Freia jumps up enthusiastically but is left disappointed when she sees who it is that enters, ‘You are not my papa!’ she accuses Robb, her forefinger pointing at him, and he sheepishly smiles. 

‘I'm sorry.’ He says. 

Freia doesn't tell him he's forgiven for the betrayal of not being Jon but walks around the camp bed to sit down on the side, moping and sulking in her childlike displeased manner that Sansa finds oddly endearing. 

Sansa grabs the fabric of her sleeves as she somehow finds it hard to look her brother in the eye, if it is her brother at all... he's truly unrecognizable and she wants to shoot herself for not expecting that. 

‘Sansa…’ he says, ‘I… if you want me to leave I'll leave.’ 

She ignores that, mostly because she's just not sure. 

‘I don't know what to say.’ 

Robb has not forgotten their mother’s lesson either and it gives her the strength to look up and tell his face, ‘Sometimes there are no words for things.’

It's been nearly four years, the last time she saw him she was seventeen and lost her first baby, now she's twenty and has lived through too much to have the energy left to feel anything remotely like anger towards him.

She expected to be furious, to hate him, hit him, scream, yell, cry. She's never felt so nailed to the ground below, as if it pulls her down, forces her to crawl, to dive away. She should be screaming, she knows that. She ought to yell, throw things in his way, cry, sobb. She should feel fury. Sansa realizes... that she can't. She wouldn't know how to. 

'Freia...' Sansa whispers, ‘Come here sweetling… you… Come meet your uncle Robb.’

Freia turns around, watches Robb with wide and curious eyes, surprises Sansa by obediently jumping off the bed again and she’s wonderfully bold as she stretches out her hand for Robb to take it as he crouches down, ‘My name is Robb.’ He tells her, ‘Your name is…?’

‘Freia Tar-taryen.’ Freia tells him and even at two, there’s already a certain pride in the way she says it.

‘I’m lord Stark, your mama’s brother. We met before… but that’s a long time ago. I don’t think you remember?’

Freia rapidly shakes her head and closes her eyes when she does so, possibly because she expects bouncing braids hitting her face. Her braids are tugged in an updo, so it’s unnecessary, though a few curls have already escaped and frame her puppy-fat chubby, freckled, blue-eyed face. 

‘You look exactly like your papa.’ Robb then says and a smile appears on Freia’s face. 

‘You are uncle… uncle…’

‘Robb.’

‘Uncle Bobb?’

‘ _Robb_.’ 

‘I am Freia.’ Freia repeats and she points at Sansa, ‘Is my mama.’

‘I know! Your mama is my sister, that’s why I’m your uncle.’

Sansa takes a shaky breath when Robb lets go of Freia’s hand and moves up. When he walks over to her and wraps his arms around her she melts in his grasp. He feels stronger, far bigger than she remembers. He has a beard too, like Jon, and the leather of his doublet to her cheek is soft after all the use. It reminds her of the doublets their father used to wear. 

‘Sansa, please forgive me.’ he says as he leans his cheek to the top of her head. 

‘Don't ask me such a thing.’ She says and she presses her face to the fabric that covers his chest, which smells so much like Winterfell, ‘You are my brother.’ She knows Jon punished him for what he did, and truly, she is not as strong as Jon, she can't bear to fight with Robb, no matter how much his betrayal hurt her, she's had enough time to grow past it, and they’re together now, all she wants is to feel grateful of that. 

Sansa feels like she stands there hugging him for hours until Freia squeals, ‘Papa!’ And she looks up to find Freia throwing herself in Jon’s arms, ‘Papa, papa, papa! Mama, look! It is papa!’

Sansa smiles through her teary eyes, ‘Yes.’ She says and she looks at Jon almost shyly, but the truth is she missed him nearly as much, if not more than Freia. The first night without him she actually cried, and that made her feel silly, because they were only going to be apart for little less than a week, she couldn’t stand herself for being an exaggerative fool. 

Sansa wants to run to him and hug him tight, kiss him too, by there is something about him that stops her. 

Jon smiles at her and somehow, he seems to be the one feeling least at ease, perhaps that is why he only moves towards her, Freia still in his arms, and pecks the top of her head as if they haven't seen each other for a few mere hours, not six whole days. Jon then quickly redirects his full attention to Freia, ‘Do you know who is here, too?’ He asks. 

‘Aunt Rhae-lys?’ Freia doesn't seem at all excited about that prospect and it makes Jon grin. 

‘Yes, but someone else special too.’

‘Ghost?’

‘Ghost was always with you, was he not?’

Freia nods, ‘Ghost always… Ghost outside, mama saying he having supper.’ 

‘Ghost is hunting.’ Jon says and Sansa doesn't know how to inform him that she prefers to tell Freia Ghost is simply either breaking his fast or having supper. Freia's too young to understand what hunting means. 

‘Hur-ting?’

‘No! Hunting. He's finding his own food in the woods. But that's not what I meant, I meant someone else, someone who has missed you terribly.’ 

‘Who?’

‘It's Harry.’ Jon says. 

Freia gasps, ‘Harry!’ She throws her arms in the air out of pure enthusiasm and joy and takes Jon's head between her hands, ‘Harry is here?’

‘Hhmmhh, well not exactly Harry, Harry has changed a lot since you last saw him, but I think you'll like this Harry too, maybe even more, he's a little bigger now and he's all white but still so super nice.’ 

‘Nice?’

‘Yes, we can ride.’

‘Sit?’

‘If you want?’

Mama! I can sit! Mama Harry is here!’

‘That's amazing.’ Sansa says, pressing a smile to her face as she rips her eyes off Jon’s face. It's not because of Robb, she knows him too well to assume and hope it's because of Robb. He's tense and she's not sure if he's angry but he's obviously avoiding to look her in the eye. 

‘You want to come?’ Jon asks. 

‘Yes! Mama can I go?’

‘Of course.’ Sansa says, and usually the confirmation that Freia still feels she needs her mother's approval to sit on a horse would bring her relieve, but now she feels too lost at Jon’s attitude to feel anything other than worry and nervousness. 

‘C’mon.’ Jon means to walks out of the tent and Sansa moves to follow them but he shakes his head, ‘You stay here, settle in, Rhaenys will be with you soon, she can show you around and all, don't worry about us.’ 

She wasn't worrying, not more than the usual amount, but the message is clear, he doesn't want her to come, so she nods her head once and turns back to her older brother when Jon leaves the tent, with Freia waving at them over his shoulder. 

‘You look really well.’ Robb says and he grabs both her hands in his.

Sansa smiles and moves over to kiss his cheek, ‘So do you, you look so _old_ , though.’ Last time she saw him he was a boy, such a teenager, now he’s a man grown. 

‘Old? You're old, you have a child and Rhaenys says… Rhaenys says you'll soon have another.’

‘She told you that?’ She feels surprised but then realizes they are married and all and she only made Rhaenys promise to not tell Jon. 

Robb nods and he broadly smiles at her, ‘You have your proper family, the way you always wanted.’ 

‘I wouldn't call it proper, but it is exactly the way I always wanted all the same.’ 

‘I don't know Freia very well, I had to leave to the front to take Jon’s place temporarily when they traded her, so I haven't seen much of her, but Rhaenys says she's clever and kind.’ 

‘She's very clever,’ Sansa confirms, ‘And the sweetest.’ 

‘Exactly like her mama, then.’ Robb says and he takes her face between his hands, ‘I’ve missed you, little sister.’ 

‘I've missed you too, big brother.’ 

The smile fades from his face and he scans her eyes, ‘You should be so angry, so angry you’d… I expected… I feared you would never want to speak to me again.’ 

Sansa shakes her head and wraps her arms around his shoulders, ‘Never, you're my brother, I could never… _never_.’ 

‘Rhaenys told me you'd never forgive me for everything I did.’ 

‘You shouldn't listen to what Rhaenys says.’ Sansa tells him and finally she understands why Jon always said the same. Rhaenys always speaks the truth, and sometimes that is simply not what you want to hear, sometimes the ugly truth is false, sometimes people forgive the unforgivable, because they're strong, because they are weak, because they love, because they're family. 

‘Jon was never going to forgive me, and I deserve that.’ 

‘Perhaps you do, he'll grow some grey hairs between now and the near future and I'll blame you for it.’ 

‘The only thing he likes more than his hair is you.’ Robb says and she feels him grin against her forehead. 

‘Not true at all, there’s Freia, he definitely likes Freia more than he likes me.’ 

‘That seems natural, doesn't it?’

‘I've not been jealous for one single moment which still shocks me every now and then.’ Sansa admits and she loosens herself to look him in the eye, ‘Has something happened? Something I should know? Have people died? He seemed so tense.’ 

Robb looks a little uncomfortable again and avoids her eyes, ‘I don't think… the confrontation with the imp was hard for him. He looked forward to you two being here, though he doesn't like it at the same time, he doesn't think you should be here, he thinks it's dangerous and I agree.’ 

Sansa nods, ‘I understand.’ 

‘But you simply do not care?’

Sansa shrugs, ‘I suppose not.’ 

Robb grins at that and shakes his head in disbelieve, ‘You're a stubborn ass.’ 

‘So be it.’ 

Robb pulls on her braid, ‘You won't survive a day and a night in here.’ 

Sansa slaps his pulling hand away and crosses her arms, ‘I look forward to proving you wrong.’ 

‘I look forward to being proven right.’

‘You won't be.’

‘I think I will.’ 

‘I think you won't.’ 

‘I'm sure I will.’ 

Sansa hits him across the shoulder and he only laughs. 

 

**Jon**

Freia manages to sit still on the pony for a full three seconds before she starts shaking her head and yelps. She's making progress and he was prepared for the response now so he immediately pulls her from the saddle the moment her eyebrows disappear behind her hair. 

Freia simply prefers to pad the horse and brush it, which is fine, it's lovely, it's much safer and it won't give him marital issues so he's glad to help her and watch her whisper to the pony. 

‘Sweet Harry, sweet horsey… I brush you!’ 

Jon feels stones being lift from his abdomen by the simple company of Freia. He missed her, even though he only had to miss her for no more than six days. She still seems to have grown though and he hopes she hasn't learned something new with him away. Her hair seems longer too, or perhaps that is because it's pulled from her face in a different way, much less Northern, it looks more like the way Sansa used to do her hair when they were in the capital. Her dress is not so furry either and it's soft and blushy pink with embroidered little silver stars. A dress like that won't survive long in a place like this, but it makes her look so lovely, like a little princess indeed. 

‘Papa, I saw rivers!’ She tells him, ‘Soooo big!’ She spreads her arms wide, ‘And the castle was there and so many people, and I saw a cow too! But he makes no sound.’ 

‘It didn't mow?’

Freia shakes her head and it still clearly disappoints her, ‘They only stand in the grass.’

‘That's dull.’ 

‘Hhmmhm.’ Freia nods and hands him a brush, ‘You brush!’

Jon takes the brush from her but moves his free hand to pull it through his daughter's hair, tucks some escaped curls back in the artsy updo and straightens the white carnation in the middle of it, ‘Anything else you've seen that was new? Do you like the camp?’

‘Camp is big!’

‘I know, I'll show you around if you like?’

Freia nods excitedly and starts singing a song about flowers, ponies and horseys. 

‘If someone is being mean to you, you tell me and I make them stop.’ 

Freia grins her toothy grin and shakes her head, ‘Soldier gives me flowers! They say I am a princess.’ 

‘That's because you are.’ Jon says. 

‘Aunt Rhae-lys is the princess?’

Jon nods, ‘Her papa was a king and your papa is a king too.’ 

‘King?’ Freia doesn't seem to understand what that means but he knows she does, he's told plenty of stories to her that are about kings, queens and princesses.

‘Yes, of the Royhnar, Andals and First Men.’ 

Freia still frowns at him, then shrugs as if it doesn't matter at all and she continues to brush the pony’s leg. 

‘You know what a princess is, don't you, Freia?’

Freia only nods but doesn't look up as she bites her lower lip, her brows knitted in childish concertation. 

‘It means you are a very special little girl.’ 

‘ _Your_ special little girl!’ She says, and she looks up and smiles again. 

‘Yes, you'll be my special little girl always, but you're also special to other people _because_ you are my special little girl.’ 

Freia drops the brush down in the grass and turns around to properly look him in his eyes, ‘You king?’ She asks. 

Jon nods. 

She pats his head, ‘Where is a crown?’

‘I don't like it, it's ugly and heavy.’ 

Freia giggles, ‘Kings have one crown!’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Not all of them, the only thing kings need to be king is other people thinking they are one.’ 

‘Where are the queen? Mama?’

Jon nods, ‘Yeah, she is my queen.’ 

Freia giggles again at the utter silliness of all this nonsense, ‘But…’ she says then suddenly and she squats down to grab the brush from the ground, ‘You are my papa?’

‘Yes, of course I am, who else?’ 

‘You are papa always?’

Jon pulls her against his chest and kisses the top of her head, ‘I’ll always be your papa, forever and ever.’ 

‘Pro-wis?’

‘I promise.’ Jon says and he looks down in her pretty blue eyes, ‘You promise you'll be my little girl always?’

‘Pro-wis!’ She says and she pats Jon’s cheek the same way she pats Harry’s neck, then she wiggles herself loose from his arms and runs over to a basket with carrots and she hands Jon one before she starts eating another herself instead of feeding it to the pony. 

Jon shows her how to feed a carrot to the horses and she feeds a couple, bursting out in giggles every time the horse eats from her flat hand palm. 

‘Papa, you stay here?’ She asks. 

Jon nods, ‘And you too and mama as well, we’ll stay here together.’

‘Together?’

‘Yes, the three of us.’

‘Always and fro-ever?’ 

‘That is the plan, yes.’ He says, straightening the cloak around her shoulders and the answer seems satisfying enough because she sloppily kisses his cheek. 

The rest of the day he shows Freia around in the camp, holding her hand tightly in his and answering all her questions.

‘So many horseys!’ She says and she gets all exited at the sight of the warhorses that are so big she'll probably never grow tall enough in her life ever for him to allow her to come even near them. 

Soldiers constantly give her flowers and she loves it, ‘Thank-you!’ she tells the men, who have been so long away from their homes the sight of a blushing and beaming child may be the most innocent thing they've seen it years. 

‘The Gods bless you, princess.’ They tell her and though she doesn't understand what they're saying she waves and smiles as if she was born to do it. She probably was. Rhaegar told Sansa to make Freia a princess, and they've done that, she's Rhaegar’s granddaughter and the world loves her for it the same way they love Jon for being his son. 

‘Gods bless good Rhaegar’s soul.’ They always tell him, they say it now too. Jon knows that no one would be fighting for him was it not that his father was so dearly loved. People want him to be king because he was his father's son, because Jon is Rhaegar’s legacy, and though he had always respected his father it is only now, that he realizes what being a good king means to your people, that he is proud of his father too. 

‘Papa, I want mama.’ Freia tells him suddenly and, from nowhere it seems, her cheerfulness fades into an immediate childish desire for Sansa that brings a pout to her lips. Jon lifts her up in his arms and immediately makes his way to Sansa's tent. 

In the tent, Freia stretches her arms out for Sansa who takes her from Jon and places her on her hip. She still can, but Jon wonders how long it will be until Freia has grown so big she'll be too heavy for Sansa's skinny arms. 

‘Time for bed?’ Sansa asks, she can see Freia needs her nap with just one glance the way Jon probably will never be able to. Freia shakes her head real fast and Sansa wipes the loose strands of hair around her face from her eyes, then kisses her temple, ‘I'll tell you a story?’

Freia nods and Sansa puts her down on the bed, ‘Mama, soldiers call me princess?’

‘Is that so?’

‘Hmhmhh, and I see horseys. Really big, this big!’ Freia spreads her arms wide again the same way she does every time she wants to emphasis the seize of whatever it is she's trying to describe, ‘But papa says I can't sit, he says too dange-trous.’

‘Papa is right.’ Sansa looks up from taking off Freia’s booties and smiles at him all sweetly in a way that still makes his knees weak. She's so pretty. He missed her so much.

Sansa tucks Freia in, whose eyelids are already heavy as she listens to her mother's soft voice. Sansa lays on her stomach, leaned over Freia in the cot when she tells her about mermaids and Merlings, fighting a war over a secret city deep on the floor of the sea, covered in seashells, decorated by sea stars where a beautiful princess is hidden, captured and stolen by a sea horse and a big beast with tentacles, all black and slimy. 

_The twirling swirling mermaid said,_  
_Stay right there, here and there,_  
_Oh where,_  
_Would you ever want to go,_  
_Down in the sea,_  
_Here below,_  
_Is where you need to be._

‘Where are you going?’ Sansa asks when she looks up and spots him opening the tent flap. 

‘Hm? Oh, I'm eh- I think I'm going out for a ride. I need to clear my head.’ It's always hard to leave the room when Sansa's singing or telling a story. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy and he couldn't rip himself away. 

‘Are you alright?’ He can see the concern on her face and knows instantly she already noticed he's trying to avoid her. He's not actually trying to avoid her, it's just that he wants to have the conversation they need to have when no one else is there and with no one else he definitely means no Freia. He can't talk to her and be nice and friendly without asking. 

Robb has spent the past six days trying to convince him that it simply can't be and Jon found himself nodding stupidly, agreeing too. Robb seems convinced that the likeliness of Sansa doing something so vile and grotesque is simply impossible. But Jon knows. The moment Robb told him it all fell into place and became crystal clear to him. 

When he saw her today, for the first time in days, his feeling then resembled the initial response. Anger, all because she didn't tell him. But more than anything he feels sad and pathetic because he wasn’t that person for her who she believed she could share this with and now, after these days apart… he feels relieve too. Just plain relieve because after all the wondering… this somehow doesn't feel like the worst thing she possibly ever could have done. Not at all. 

He never expected anyone to inform him of his wife killing a man, anyone, least of all Joffrey and if it ever crossed his mind he never would've guessed it would make him feel relieve. 

_How_? He wants to ask. Robb didn’t know. Robb didn’t wonder. 

_Sansa left the capital days before he died, she can't have done it, so why bother questioning._

Robb is wrong. Wrong and right. 

Right when he says that Sansa has changed. She is not a girl anymore, she’s not innocent, nor is she the most innocent person he ever met, she's seen life now, he was incapable of shielding her from it, no matter how hard he tried, and she carved her own way out. Sansa survived, she lived, she managed. She's a fighter.

He understands why she did it. Killing Joffrey was revenge, because once people realize cruelty, they want only vengeance, and somehow Jon is envious, for he wanted to be the one to do it for her so badly.

The only thing he doesn't understand is why she didn't tell him, why she didn't believe she could. The answer to that question is what drives him out of this tent now, almost as if he’s running from it, running away from the truth he’ll hear when she’ll tell him. He never thought he'd ever go out for a ride for the sole reason of avoiding Sansa, but it's not Sansa he tries to avoid, it's the look on her face when he tells her. He'll have to tell her. He'll tell her he can't do it anymore, tell her it's over, _the silence_ , it ends, he can't stand it, not bear it. and she won't like hearing him say it, and he'll have to pretend he doesn’t care.

‘I'm fine, just a bit of a headache.’ He walks back to kiss the top of Freia’s head and then leaves the tent. Sansa does nothing to stop him. Probably because she knows. 

Though he said it because he needed to come up with an excuse he indeed leaves her and goes out for a ride, randomly, the way he used to do when he was just a boy, in the king's woods, avoiding Aegon or Joffrey or even his measter, to clear his head and be alone. During winter, Jon used jump off his horse, stand in the middle of the forest, nothing but the trees for company, listening to the silence of it all and he let the snowflakes drop on his face, closed his eyes as he pretended to be in Winterfell during summer, with summer snow and grey walls that feel warm to your touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im gonna try and update next Sunday, but I'm not so sure if I'll make it though!


	48. A Ruthless Pragmatist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Be careful, Rhaenys.’ Oberyn says again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I sometimes make this bad joke at the end of a chapter where I go all 'if this were a Friends episode...', and that's all cause I had Rhaenys' pov in this chapter named 'The one were Robb and Rhaenys ...(x)' downloaded in my word account. I wrote it a while ago and that has been its name since. I'm gonna leave it to the end of the chapter what exactly the name is though, don't wanna spoil it.  
> In any case... enjoy!

**Sansa**

Sansa's sitting down in her cot, which she pushed closer to the one Freia is soundlessly sleeping in and the moment she notices his presence she pushes the dress away, sits up and hopefully smiles at him. 

Her smile disappears again once she sees the look on his face. She opens her mouth and closes it again. 

‘I spoke to Robb.’ Jon says and he can see her swallow. 

‘I know you are still- I don't want to be angry with him. I don't think I can do that.’ 

‘I don't care how you treat him.’ He'll be the last to tell her how to handle that. He would've forgiven her had she pushed him down in the mud, used all the few swearwords she knows… and he’ll forgive her for forgiving him too, she was always better at these things than he is and somewhere he always knew she'd forgive Robb the moment she stood in front of him. Jon doesn't want to think about that now, this is not about that. 

‘What did he tell you?’ Jon realizes she believes he's angry, ‘Jon?’

‘Let’s go somewhere else.’ He suggests.

‘I don't want to leave Freia.’ 

‘She’s not alone.’ He makes a head gesture to Ghost. 

Sansa doesn't seem reassured but when he takes her hand in his to pull her with him she doesn't resist

‘Where’re we going?’ She asks as he takes her with him into the light of the camp world and he wraps his arm around her shoulder to shield her a little from the peeking eyes of those strangers around them.

‘Just my old tent.’ He says and it’s only a few steps from hers. He opens the flap for her to enter. 

‘You slept here this week?’ She asks and she turns around to take the environment in, ‘I want to be back before she wakes.’

Jon sighs and closes the flaps behind him so they're as alone as they could possibly ever be in this awful place. It’s hard being back after spending so much time at Winterfell and he hates being weak and bringing his family along too. 

He fills her a cup, ‘Here, have some wine.’

She takes it, drinks not a sip and then eyes him, ‘What did I do? Just tell me.’

‘Sit down.’ Jon makes a hand gesture to the single chair. 

‘Are you angry with me?’

When he shakes his head, she sits down and he moves over towards her to kiss her hair. 

‘You want me to go back to Winterfell, don't you?’

‘Sansa-‘

‘Please don't send me back… please let me stay with you.’ 

‘It's not about that.’ 

‘Something with Freia?’

He shakes his head again, ‘Nothing of that sort there is nothing… nothing new, not for you, at least, but for me… they’ve told me something and I believe it could be true but I want you to tell me.’ 

‘Jon-‘

‘Is there anything I need to know?’ he asks and his voice is all dry and heavy. 

She blinks but doesn't say a thing, keeps her lips firmly to each other. 

‘Anything that… that you know I would want to know, that you have kept from me? For whatever reason… is there?’

She swallows again and presses the glass down on the table next to her chair, ‘What did Robb say?’ 

‘Something that I… something that I need you to tell me. If it's true.’ He takes one step away from her, he fears he'll start shaking her when he doesn't move away, ‘If you tell me it's not true I’ll believe you.’ 

‘What has he told you?’ She asks again. 

‘Whatever it is, you can tell me now, and you'll be the one who told me, not Robb, not Tyrion.’

‘ _Tyrion_?’ 

‘Tell me.’ He orders, ‘You know I could never force you to do anything, but now, Sansa, after _everything_ … I mean it… I need you to tell me now or I'll just- I'll… Sansa I feel like-‘ he pushes his hair from his face, it has never annoyed him as much as it does now, ‘I feel like you don't trust me anymore.’ 

Tears glitter in the corners of her eyes and her bottom lip trembles before she hides her face behind her hands.

He knows he needs to march over to her and take her in his arms, comfort her and stroke her hair and all that… but he can't. He won't, ‘Tell me.’ He says again.

Her shoulders shake when she sobs once and she looks up, ‘I wanted to tell you.’ She whispers. 

‘Don't lie to me.’ 

‘I'm not!’

‘Yes, you are!’ His voice is all loud now, he doesn’t want it to be.

She shakes her head then and her eyes are all fierce suddenly, ‘I have never lied! About nothing, never!’

‘You kept this from me!’

‘I had to!’

‘You had to?’ He feels the urge to laugh, ‘You're still lying.’ 

‘Jon, n-no.’ She says and she gets up and moves over towards him but he takes a step back, ‘That’s not true.’

‘I don't understand how you could-‘

‘Kill Joffrey?’ Her eyes are wider than he's ever seen them before, colder too, and full of hate, ‘You don't understand how I could kill him? Plot to have him poisoned? You can't believe I did that?’

‘I can’t believe you didn't think you could tell me.’ He says. 

‘Now you are lying.’ She says and she raises her chin up in the air, ‘You think differently of me now.’ 

‘I think I do.’ but not in the way she assumes. 

‘ I didn’t think you could-‘

‘Handle that?’ he asks, ‘To know you wanted someone dead? I’ve wanted him dead far longer than you.’ 

Sansa shakes her head, ‘No you haven't, not like I did.’ 

‘Sansa…’ he's not sure how to explain to her that this is not the part he feels so betrayed over, she could have killed all the lordlings and ladies in King’s Landing and he’d find a way to understand. 

‘You don't understand.’ She says, ‘It wasn't Joffrey, it was about Cersei.’ 

_Cersei_ …

‘I wanted her to die.’ 

‘Then why didn’t you-‘

‘She took my baby from me and it killed me.’ Sansa says, ‘So I took her baby from her.’ 

He feels a pain in his neck when the muscles of his throat and chest tighten. He'll have nightmares about this moment, he's sure of it. He'll hear her speak those words many times more during the night, they'll echo through his brain and even with his eyes closed… _especially_ with his eyes closed, he'll see the look on her face now, the most terrorizing thing he's ever looked at. 

‘It was my revenge. He deserved to die and she deserved the pain. I wanted her to feel what it’s like, to feel what I felt, to know and understand what she did to me.’ 

Jon only nods once and he fears he might die of suffocation when he realizes he can't breathe, ‘I understand.’ 

‘You don't, you _can’t_.’ She says, ‘Nobody understands, not _really_. You don't know what it was like, when they… when they pulled her from my arms and she never stopped crying… she _cried_ , Jon, so much and she… she _called_ for me, screamed my name and they just- ripped her from my arms and I didn't think I'd ever see her again.’ 

She's right. He doesn't know what that's like, but he can imagine. She said it felt like dying, he thinks it must've felt like being murdered. 

‘I was alone, they took everything from me. She was what kept me going, the only lightness in my world, my reason to open my eyes every morning and Cersei… she _smiled_. She looked at me and she was so _pleased_ , she did that to me and she liked to see me suffer, she believed she destroyed me, she wanted that- and she did. She destroyed me, so I destroyed her.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘I am not innocent nor foolish. I may have been once but-‘

‘You were never foolish.’ 

‘She thought she could play with me. She thought I was a stupid girl. She didn't think I could do it, like you, like me, I didn't think I could do it. But I _could_. The only thing I needed was hate. I wanted revenge.’ 

‘And?’ He asks, ‘Did it feel good?’

That question seems to surprise her, ‘What?’

He shrugs, ‘Did it make you feel better? Knowing you killed him, did that make you feel better?’

A tear rolls down her cheek and she shakes her head.

‘Was it worth it?’

‘Don’t ask such a thing.’

‘Did it give you what you hoped for?’

‘No,’ she whispers, ‘I… nothing made me feel better but holding her again, not even _you_.’

That comment doesn't even sting, he can understand, he just needs to know what killing did to her head, ‘When you found out he died… when I told you… what did that feel like?’

‘It didn't feel good.’ She admits, ‘I expected it to feel like justice but all I felt was shame.’ Then suddenly she turns the wells on and tears stream down her face like tiny rivers that join each other on her cheeks and drop from her face at her chin, ‘That is why I couldn't tell you. Not because I did not trust you but because… I don't want to be a murderer.’ 

‘I know.’ He says, he can't deny her to be one, he wishes he could, though, ‘ _How_?’

'What do you mean?'

‘You left before he died. How did you poison him?’

‘I put the poison in a hairnet… gifted it to Myrcella when she arrived to the capital from the Eyrie… and told her to wear it during the wedding. She did. I suppose she… someone else put it in his cup.’ 

‘Who?’

‘A servant or a loyalist, a _rebel_ … I don’t know. Joffrey had few friends. I was supposed to do it. When I escaped, I believed the plan failed but… Suppose it did not.’

‘Who gave you the poison?’

‘Littlefinger.’

‘ _Littlefinger_?’

‘He offered me the… it was his idea.’

‘His idea? Why? Joffrey was-‘

‘Do you think his reasoning concerned me? Little to nothing concerned me. He promised to help me escape… he did not need to promise. I would either be free or punished and murdered for treason and… I didn’t care. I told you remember? I just wanted it all to be over. No matter what happened, this would end it all and if I died, at least I’d take him with me to the grave.’ 

'I see.' He nods once then pulls on her arms, ‘Anything else?’

‘What?’

‘Anything else you feel you must tell me?’

Sansa gulps, ‘I killed a peasant too.’ She confesses then, and the ease with which she says it makes him feel like screaming. 

‘Why would you… did he attack you?’ 

Sansa nods, ‘After we send Myrcella off to the Eyrie. We were in a mob and they dragged me off my horse and recognized me as your wife… it’s such a long time ago. The man pushed me down and I had a dagger in my stockings so I just… I pressed it through his eye. I didn't think I actually killed him but the hound said I did-‘

‘The hound?’

‘He congratulated me with my first kill.’ 

‘He is… he was a godless man.’ Jon decides. 

‘I must be a godless woman.’ 

He shakes his head at that, ‘No Sansa no, never, you’re most certainly not.’ 

A sob escapes from her throat, ‘He wanted to rape me. They all wanted to hurt me… they didn't know me but they hated me all the same and I dropped to the ground and I just… they were raping everywhere, I saw it, the way they forced themselves and it was awful, just awful, and I tried to tell myself there was no other way, but I didn't _have_ to do it. I stuck it in his face, I was angry, and humiliated but I didn’t want him _dead_. I only wanted him to get off me and…‘ Sansa aggressively wipes her tears away.

‘It doesn't matter Sansa, it happened, you defended yourself, he was the bad person, you are _not_ a bad person.’ 

‘Jon… I feel I lost myself.’ 

‘You can- you’ll find it back.’ He cups her face between his hands and kisses her gently.

Slowly tears roll down her cheek again and she closes her eyes, ‘I can't cry anymore… I wonder constantly when I’m finally dried up but still I… I’m afraid that if I'll stop crying it means I can't feel anything anymore so I dread the tears but once they fall down I feel so relieved. I know that makes no sense at all but I… I know it’s stupid, I am-‘

‘Stop saying you're stupid.’ He says and he strokes her hair to comfort her. This is what he wanted. For her to speak, yet now she does… ‘You’re not a bad person, you lived through really bad things, and the most wonderful people make mistakes, it doesn't make you stupid or a.. a murderer.’

‘But I murdered him, I murdered Joffrey too.’

‘Only because I wasn't there to do it for you.’ Jon says, ‘If I knew… anyone who dares to hurt you should be killed by me but I didn't, I left you to do my job for me and that means I failed, not you.’

‘D-don't he ridiculous.’ 

‘I have still killed a fair share more men than you have, some of them good. Fathers, sons, brothers and husbands or all of that… you have killed only evil. Joffrey deserved to die and anyone who tries to hurt you like that should have more than one dagger in his face.’ 

‘No more daggers.’ Sansa mutters and he kisses her cheek.

‘Why did Clegane safe you? Was he-‘

‘Tyrion told him to. I believe, I don’t… I’m not sure.’

‘Was Tyrion good to you?’ Perhaps if she will admit now that he was not, he can find a reason to still take his head.

‘No.’ She says, ‘Never. He gave me your letters, I've told you.’ 

‘Why would he?’

‘Because he was your friend.’ 

Jon knows that's bullshit. He and Tyrion always got along, but Tyrion wouldn't help Sansa just for the plain reason that she was his wife, ‘Is that what he told you?’

Sansa nods.

‘Did you believe him?’

Sansa shakes her head, looks away, and says, ‘He told me he wanted to be my friend, but I think there’s more he wanted.’ 

‘More?’

She controls her breathing and then admits, her voice calmer, ‘Thought about it. I thought maybe if I do… he was Joffrey’s Hand.’ 

‘But you didn't?’

She shakes her head, ‘That’s not me.’ Sansa grabs the fabric of her skirt between her fists, waits a moment and asks, ‘Now what do you think of me?’ 

‘I'm torn between feeling proud and scared.’ 

That answer seems to surprise her, ‘Scared of what?’ She asks. 

He doesn't really know, ‘I think I'm afraid that… I don't believe I ever thought you'd be able to do it.’ 

‘I could.’ Sansa says, ‘But the Sansa you still think I am could never have done it. I'm not who you think I am anymore. That girl you… the girl you fell in love with is gone, she doesn't exist anymore.’

‘Of course she does.’ He insists and he finally finds the power in his hand to move it to hers, ‘She's standing right in front of me.’ 

Sansa shakes her head and tears drop to her lips, tears he wipes away with his thumb, ‘She's not.’ 

‘Who else would you be?’

‘I've changed.’ 

He lays his hand to her cheek, ‘So have I. We were always going to change, even if we'd stayed in Winterfell all our lives, bothering and killing no one… Nobody stays the same. Change’s human. I need you to be human.’

‘But I'm not… maybe I'm not what you need me to be anymore?’

He takes her face in both his hands and the sudden movement seems to surprise her, though she no longer seems angry nor scared, just sad. 

‘I love you.’ He says, ‘I’ll always love you. It's you, only you until I die, I want you to… I _need_ you to say it back because I'm scared we’re no longer us, we’re just… we're just two people.’

‘I love you too.’ She says, immediately, with so much ease it lightens all the weight he felt on his chest, just like that, ‘You are… you're supposed to know that.’ 

‘Now I do.’ 

‘But you didn't?’

He pulls his hands away, ‘I miss you.’ He says, ‘I feel like I have you back but I _don't_. You are here but you're not, and it's not because you've changed, it's because you keep things from me, because you don't trust me.’ 

‘I trust you.’ She says, though she says it far too quickly.

‘I just miss you.’ He says again, ‘I need you back.’ He moves his hand to trace her cheek with the back of his fingers and she closes her eyes at his touch. The tears on her cheekbones have already started to dry up, though her skin is still sticky, ‘Haven't you missed me?’

Her eyes flutter and she moves so close to him her scent fills his nose and he can do nothing but stand there as she presses herself against him, ‘I have, but not anymore.’ She whispers in his ear. 

He presses his nose in her hair as she snuggles in the crook of his neck. He feels so terribly at ease then, as if it’s all over, as if it never happened. They stand there like that for what feels like hours, and it might just actually be that long, until she moves her mouth to his ear again and tells him,

‘How can I miss you, when…’ She gulps and he turns his head, so he can see her face, he sees new tears well up, but they’re not tears of frustration, anger or shame, they’re happy tears, ‘I have your baby in my belly again.’

Just when he thought he couldn't possibly ever feel less breathless as he did when she spoke of killing Joffrey, he proves himself wrong, ‘W-what?’

She moves her face to look him in the eye, ‘We’ll have a baby again.’ She says, as if she thinks he might've misunderstood. 

‘A-are you sure?’

A smile spreads across her face that is one of pure happiness, the prettiest kind and he hasn't seen it for nearly three years. He’d forgotten how there’s nothing as beautiful as her simple happiness, ‘Quite sure.’ 

‘How long have you known?’

She shrugs only.

‘Why didn't you _say_?’

‘The measter must confirm it first. A lady wife is not supposed to tell her lord husband until after the measter has confirmed it.’ 

‘Sansa…’ he breathes and in that moment, he curses Catelyn and her choice of upbringing, damn septa Mordane, even after all these years her influence is burned inside of Sansa’s morals, ‘When have we ever done things the way they’re supposed to?’ 

‘I thought maybe we could start.’ 

‘I really don't want that.’ 

‘A-are you happy?’ her is voice insecure and scared. 

‘No.’ He says, he can't accuse her of lying and then tell a lie himself, ‘I’m miserable.’ 

A sob escapes her, ‘Is it my fault? Have I made you miserable?’

He shakes his head and feels the urge to cry too but he blinks it away, ‘ _No_ ,’ he says and he finally takes her face between his hands, ‘You could never make me miserable. You are the only thing in my life that has ever made me happy. You and Freia and… and you gave Freia to me.’ 

‘I'll give you one more if you'll like.’ 

‘One more Freia?’

‘There will only ever be one Freia, but I'll give you another baby, if that’s what you want.’ 

‘Even if I don't want it, you'll still do it, won't you?’

‘I have little choice now.’ 

He only notices how he beams when she places her hand to his cheek and her hand cools the hotness of his blushing skin, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Amazing.’ She says and she actually seems to mean it, ‘Now I do.’ 

‘That is… that's good.’ 

‘I’d forgotten how amazing it is.’ A tear drops down suddenly, ‘I never thought I'd feel it once more.’ 

Jon pulls her close again and the layers of clothes between them suddenly annoy him like they so often have in the past.

‘I cannot believe I took you with me to this place, not like this,’ Jon pushes some escaped curls from her face, ‘I always drag you across the North when you're pregnant, I am ridiculously irresponsible.’ 

‘You didn't know, nor did I.’ 

‘It's still stupid.’

‘Of course not.’ Sansa says and she sighs, ‘We’ll find a way.’ 

‘We’ll have to, you cannot possibly stay in an army tent when you're the size of a wheelhouse again. _That_ would be stupid.’ 

Sansa takes his face between her hands, ‘We’ll figure it out, don't worry.’ 

He can only remember the amount of times he told her just the same, he curses himself for doing that now. If only he'd worried a little more, or given her the freedom to do so. 

‘Be happy now?’ She asks, ‘Tonight?’ She seems terribly unsure of it all then, ‘Or… are you still cross with me?’

‘Sansa…’ he breathes, ‘I was never cross with you, I… I don't want to keep making the same mistakes again. At some point, we just have to stop doing that. Mistakes are… mistakes are human but there is no excuse to not learn from them. I have paid the price for keeping you in the dark, I will never fail you like that again.’

‘You never kept me in the dark, you protected me, I understand that now.’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘It wasn't right. I underestimated your ability to handle shitty things about life.’ 

‘I didn't always want to listen, and it would not have mattered, truly, not one bit.’ 

‘I still hate myself for underestimating you.’ 

‘Don't hate yourself, there's no point.’ She says and he thinks she could just as easily tell herself. 

‘I know that.’ 

Sansa wipes a curl from his eyes and kisses his forehead, ‘What's done is done. We have to start looking at the future. I will have to find a way to look myself in the mirror and so will you. We'll have to, for each other and Freia and our family. Which is growing. We'll have one more person to worry about and take care of and who's interests we’ll place above our own.’ 

He kisses her then, just really quick and short, but he presses his nose to hers afterwards and grins, ‘Can't believe you're pregnant.’ 

She smiles, ‘I can.’ She says and she wraps her arms around his middle. 

‘We need to talk about where you'll go.’ 

‘Where you will go, obviously.’ 

‘Sansa…’ he decides that this is truly not a battle he is willing to fight right now, he will, and he'll win it too, but just not tonight, definitely not.

She seems to see the torment on his face so she kisses him again, multiple times, ‘Forget it all?’ She asks, ‘Just for tonight?’ 

He sighs against her lips and then nods, ‘Okay. I'll forget it.’

Don't pretend.’ She says and she pushes him towards the camp bed, ‘I'll know.’

 

 **Rhaenys**

Rhaenys sits in her tent, stares at the glass of wine in her hand as she turns the substance around and investigates its red color.

‘This half-man… has your brother decided to kill him yet?’ uncle Oberyn leans against the wooden pole, his dark eyes watch her carefully, almost as if he’s worried, though he would never tell her such a thing with a look. He never holds back, and for that, she once used to be grateful, though lately, it gives her headaches. Most men do and it is the only reason for her to be selfishly glad that Sansa is in the army camp now, and she would have cheered it was it not an extremely stupid idea. 

Jon has always been weak when Sansa was concerned. She has been both a source of strength for him as much as a soft and dangerous spot. Rhaenys expected him to feel guilty, she expected him to do everything to please her, she, however, did not expect him to sacrifice Freia’s total safety for Sansa’s good graces. 

‘I would not say he has decided it… not officially. I can say, however, with certainty, that he never truly planned to.’ 

‘Many want his head.’ Oberyn says, he rubs the side of his forefinger with his thumb the way Rhaenys remembers her father always used to do, when he was in deep thought, ‘Would he not do well, to please the wish of his bannermen?’

‘Not at the cost of useful knowledge.’ Rhaenys argues, ‘If there is any.’ 

‘You don’t believe there is?’

‘I believe the imp overestimates himself. He’s very…’ Rhaenys talks a gulp of her wine to give herself some time to find the right word, ‘Full of himself.’ 

‘Full of himself?’

‘I'm perfectly aware, however, that I am not in my right to blame him for his firm believes. I'm very full of myself too… at times.’ 

Oberyn raises an eyebrow, ‘At least you are aware.’ 

‘My point exactly.’ 

‘Why don’t you convince your brother?’

‘Because my brother is not so easily convinced by me as you believe he is.’ She looks up and gives him a dry smile, ‘He’s as stubborn as a Martell.’ 

‘As a Stark of the North.’ Oberyn says, he spits the word out almost as if it’s an insult which surprises her for a moment, she has not before noticed him displeased with the North. 

‘Well that is where he was born and raised…’

‘Yet he carries the banner of a three-headed dragon.’

‘He hardly ever carries it by himself.’ Rhaenys looks up and sees a glow of annoyance flash in his dark viper eyes, ‘My brother is a dragon.’ 

‘As are you… Yet they make you carry the banner of a direwolf.’

‘Seems almost comical, doesn’t it?’

‘Are you making jokes about it now?’

Rhaenys takes another sip before she sighs softly and asks, ‘Is there a problem, uncle? With the North? I wish you would tell me, if there is.’

‘Why should there be?’ 

That’s a very annoying counter-question.’ Rhaenys can’t help but put up a smile, she holds up her wine glass as if she wishes to cheer for his lack of bravery in his refusal to easily confess his problem. 

‘No problem at all.’ Oberyn says and she is surprised to find that his answer reassures her, ‘It is only that I find, that your… behavior has changed.’

‘My behavior?’

‘You were never as sympathetic as you are lately.’

‘One can presume that is because lately I became a Stark myself.’ 

‘Did you?’ he raises his eyebrows and for a moment she believes he’s annoyed but then, she quickly realizes, she knows he’s amused. 

‘By oath.’ Rhaenys says, she raises her eyebrows too, not in amusement, but in defense, ‘I am the lady of Winterfell.’ 

‘A princess of house Targaryen… a daughter of Dorne.’ 

‘ _Queen of Dorne_ …’ Rhaenys huffs and she stares down in her glass again.

‘Don’t forget it.’ 

Oberyn walks over to her, crouches down then and takes on of her hands in his, ‘Elia’s daughter, my sister’s only living child… you are my blood. I shall protect you with my sword and life if I must.’

‘Where is this sudden sentimentally coming from?’ Rhaenys prefers it when men make their oaths in public, she feels less embarrassed by it all when other people watch and she can pretend it’s all some sort of playlet.

‘Rhaenys…’ His voice is dark and deep when he says her name and his eyes… they are no longer amused when he tells her, ‘You are your father’s daughter.’ 

‘I shan’t take that as a compliment. You were never much fond of my father.’ 

‘Because he treated my sister with an embarrassing amount of disrespect.’ 

‘Yes well…’ Rhaenys breathes, ‘We both know faith punished him for his crimes… It usually does.’ 

‘Not always.’

Rhaenys can’t help but smile when she says, ‘If faith won’t, I’ll help.’ 

He lays his hand to her cheek then, ‘You are careful?’

‘Those who are careful always lose.’ Rhaenys says and she holds her cup up for him, ‘You should drink, uncle, you look as if you could use some wine.’ 

He takes her glass from her and takes a gulp, ‘You say you trust your brother… that means I do too.’ 

‘I never doubted your loyalty. I owe you that and you know it.’

They grin at each other then, as if they both understand perfectly what it means, though she doubts it, ‘I shall always be loyal to you.’ 

‘Then you must be loyal to my lord husband too.’ 

‘You care for him.’ The grin is gone instantly when he says that. 

‘Is it a problem to you?’

‘A problem…’ Oberyn shakes his head, ‘Not a _problem_. A reason for concern.’

‘Concern… how?’

‘You seemed so convinced that caring for a man… is not something you ever wished to do.’

‘I always cared for my brothers and my father… I care for _you_.’

‘That is not the sort of care that I mean to speak of. I know you have fears, and I wish to protect you from these.’

‘I don’t need your protection when it comes to Robb Stark. I can handle Robb Stark.’ 

‘I highly doubt that.’ 

Rhaenys bites her lower-lip and turns her gaze down to avoid his piercing eyes, ‘I find it hard to confess I care for him.’ She admits after a long silence, ‘And you are right, perhaps… He scares me.’

‘I know he does.’ 

‘You know _me_.’

‘He scares me too.’ Oberyn says, ‘There are few people who have the capability to hurt you. You have a shield so fierce and strong… any man who can break that is a danger to my sanity.’ 

Rhaenys laughs, ‘Your _sanity_ … What am I supposed to make of that?’

‘If something happens to you… I’ll never forgive myself.’ 

‘Don’t worry about me.’ Rhaenys takes the glass back from him, ‘I have it all in control.’

‘You could be a great queen. You know how the Dornishmen view a female ruler, we would support you if you would-‘

‘Betray Jon?’

‘Choose to take what is yours by right of birth.’

‘By right of birth…’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I was never born to be queen. I enjoy it too much, you see? _Power_. Father wanted Jon to succeed him for a reason. I understand and respect his reason, I put my faith in his wisdom. Rhaegar was a ruthless pragmatist, as am I. I did not always agree with all the decisions he chose to make. The Gods know he knew that but… He also knew that I would never dishonor his wishes. His last wish was for his son to succeed him and I mean to do as father wished. He was a great king and I owe him my eternal loyalty, even after death.’

‘You have more honor than your father, then.’

‘Oh no.’ Rhaenys takes a sip, ‘I am just like him, remember?’ 

‘He brought you up to be your brother’s humble servant?’ 

‘I have always ignored my upbringing. I was brought up to have no opinion, to never express one, never mind quarrel with those close to the crown; high lords, men who claim they are so terribly important, think they can outwit me… yet I do. I always do. Because I do as I like. You know that, don’t you?’ 

Oberyn nods once. 

‘It does not matter how we were brought up, it matters what we became, what we are now. Jon was not brought up to be king, Aegon was, but Aegon is dead.’ 

‘Do you miss him?’

‘Every day.’ Rhaenys takes a last sip of her wine before the cup is empty, then she stands up to walk over to the table, she refills it and looks down at her nails when she says, ‘Sometimes I miss him so much… it makes me hate him.’

‘For unleashing all this?’

‘All _this_? The war? This war has been eagerly waiting to happen for years and years. It would not have mattered. If he had lived he would not have fought it for us. Aegon was not strong enough.’ 

‘You overestimate strength.’ Oberyn decides, ‘How much strength do you think it took him to end his life? To shoot his lover full of arrows? To drink his poison till the last drop left the cup?’

‘It was his escape.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He knew that the Gods did not fashion him for greatness, that he was born in the wrong crib. He was always jealous of Jon. He didn’t admit it, but he was envious of the freedom. He said that he had nightmares of Jon dying, but he did not call it nightmares. He called them dreams.’ 

‘Envious of a bastard… he must have been the only one.’ 

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘Sometimes I envy him too. As difficult as his future will be… He will never know what it feels like to be left all alone.’ 

‘Aegon did not leave you all alone.’ Oberyn says. 

‘He did.’ Rhaenys insists, ‘He knew father was ill, he knew Jon wasn't ready, he knew I could never gain the sole support of Lord Stark, he knew that not enough souls would take me seriously, that once father was gone, we would never… Aegon would have been able to protect me and Jon both, he should have, it was his duty but he didn't care. He _knew_ , and he left me all the same.’

‘But he loved you… is that not enough to presume he saw no other way?’

‘No other way? They forced him certainly… nothing hurts so much as disappointing those you most urgently want to give pride. They demanded him to be what he could never be and he kept fighting them till the end. Jon says he even said it once… he heard Aegon threaten... say they all had to kill him first, before he would ever make his vows to a woman in front of the Seven. the Gods left Aegon _after_ he ignored their guidance. He did what he liked.’

‘In Dorne we would not agree.’ Oberyn says.

‘But we were not in Dorne,’ Rhaenys reminds him, ‘We were in King’s Landing. A dangerous place. Aegon was selfish and weak… he wanted love.’

‘Don't _you_ want love?’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I'm not like him. I'm not desperate, I don't need love to… feel fulfilled.’

‘He loved you.’ Oberyn says again and he seems so eager to say it, as if he believes he must convince her.

‘He left me… often those who love me, leave me.’

Oberyn grabs her hand and squeezes it, so hard she feels the tiny bones move, ‘You know that is not true.’ 

Rhaenys smiles to him, pulls her hand from his grip and lays it to his cheek and then allows herself to tell him, ‘He did not even tell me. Have I ever told you that? You probably guessed. He often… He so often told me he’d do it, but I never believed him. Then, when he decided his last day had arrived… He did not even have the decency to write me a single note.’ Rhaenys feels the urge to gulp down her wine all at once, ‘He did not even say good-bye.’

‘Perhaps he knew you’d persuade him not to do it.’ Oberyn says, he pulls the cup of wine from her hand, ‘Or perhaps he was drunk.’ 

‘That seems likely.’ Rhaenys cannot help but frown, ‘They were both so good at feeling sorry for themselves... Jon and Aegon, I mean. All Targaryens are.’ 

‘Do you feel sorry for yourself?’ 

‘Of course I do.’ Rhaenys looks down at her hand and with her thumb she plays with one of the rings she wears, ‘I am a Targaryen.’ 

‘You are a Targaryen, a Martell or a Stark whenever it best suits you.’ 

Rhaenys kisses his cheek, ‘I can be all three at the same time, too. Watch me… So long as _I_ don’t forget who I truly am.’

‘Your mother’s daughter.’

‘My _father’s_ daughter, my brother’s sister, _your_ niece, a princess of house Targaryen.’

‘A Stark’s wife.’ 

‘That too.’ 

‘Do you love him then?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ 

Rhaenys wishes she could laugh now, smile at least, but nothing’s funny, so she grimaces, ‘All my life I believed I could choose to love people. I chose to love my father, despite all he did to my mother. I chose to love Aegon, despite knowing all he would ever bring me was disappointment. I chose to love Jon Snow, despite his mother and all else he represented… I never chose to love Robb Stark.’

‘Is that why he scares you?’

Rhaenys doesn’t know the answer to that question, and she wishes she could be that person who would voluntarily admit to her lack of answers, but she really is not, so she chooses silence. 

‘Be careful, Rhaenys.’ Oberyn says again.

‘You underestimate strength.’ Rhaenys says, she means it as an accusation, though she knows he’ll never take it as such. It’s hard to insult uncle Oberyn. Often those who try, end up complimenting him instead. 

‘You overestimate your strength.’

‘I’d say that still makes me a fair deal stronger than most.’ 

The tent flaps open and there he is. Rhaenys takes a step away from her uncle in the hope of breaking the tension but it helps very little. 

‘There you are, we were just talking about you.’ Rhaenys smiles a humorless smile at Robb who uncomfortably frowns. 

‘I’ll leave you then.’ Oberyn says, he grabs his sword and his cloak, the Martell Sun stares back at Rhaenys when the iron glimmers in the candle light, ‘I must get myself a good night’s sleep before I have the energy to wake up again in the morning.’ 

‘Sleep tight, dear uncle.’ Rhaenys says, she leans up to kiss his cheek again and he gives her a warning glare, one that goes hand in hand with a promise as much as deep concern.

Rhaenys purposely turns her back to Robb when she waits for Oberyn to leave because she really prefers not to answer his questioning eyes. 

‘What did he want?’ Robb asks the moment they’re truly alone. 

‘The same he always wants.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He’s testing me.’ 

‘Why?’

‘He wants to know if I’m certain, sure… _convinced_.’

‘Of what?’

‘Everything.’ She finally turns around and she finds his wide, blue eyes begging, ‘Robb I-‘

He stalks towards her and takes her face between his hands, ‘Sansa forgives me.’ He says and she’s sure he’ll break down in tears if she’ll force him to repeat it a couple of more times, which is truly the only reason why she chooses not to. 

‘She s-said that?’

‘More or less.’ 

‘Well that is-‘

‘A Gods miracle.’ 

‘They do exist then?’

A smile breaks across his face like a man sinks through thin ice, ‘So it seems.’ 

‘I’m happy for you.’ She truly means that. Rhaenys is happy for Sansa too, for she knows what it’s like to hate your brothers… such a waste of energy. 

He just grins at her some more and then pulls her close, ‘I’m so glad you’re here… I missed you.’ 

‘I was gone for barely a week.’ She says, though she snuggles her face in his neck. 

‘I met Freia.’ He says. 

‘You have seen her before.’ 

‘Aye but… she didn’t remember me.’ 

‘Perhaps she won’t remember me neither.’ Rhaenys says and it makes her feel almost hopeful. 

‘No, she definitely did… she mentioned you.’ 

‘Did she?’ Rhaenys truly can’t believe that and she’s sure he can hear it in her voice.

‘Yes, she… I don’t know, it wasn’t of importance.’ 

Rhaenys can’t help but inspect his face when he says that but she chooses to ask no questions, as he chose not to ask her any.

He lets her go and takes the cup she holds from her hand, ‘Are you already drinking?’ 

‘What do you mean _already_? We should’ve been asleep; have you see the moon?’ 

‘Usually you don’t start drinking until we’re nearing a battle.’ 

‘That’s not true.’ 

‘You don’t start drinking _too much_ until we’re nearing a battle.’ 

‘Yes well…’ Rhaenys pulls the cup back from his hand, ‘Uncle Oberyn was being a pain in the ass.’ 

‘Bout what?’

‘Lords from the Reach, the lack of imp heads on spikes and Jon.’ 

‘He was complaining about Jon?’ 

‘Not _complaining_ , just… He was complaining about _you_.’

Robb is, again, surprised and that, again, surprises her, ‘Me?’

‘Yes _you_.’ She can't help but point at his chest, prick in the leathers of his doublet, ‘That is what _you_ usually means.’ 

‘What did I do wrong this time?’

Rhaenys bites her lip to stop herself from smiling, ‘Nothing much, he simply doesn’t like you.’ 

‘I know _that_ , though I don’t know _why_.’

‘I know why.’ Rhaenys moves over to him and pulls her fingers through his hair as he watches her, a suspicious look on his face. 

‘I would ask, but I don’t think I want to know.’ 

Rhaenys laughs, ‘Don’t worry about uncle Oberyn, I can handle him.’ 

‘I do not doubt it.’ 

‘I’m glad you don’t doubt me.’ At that he smiles too and he presses his forehead to hers. 

‘Mother wrote me… apparently, Arya’s direwolf returned home.’ 

‘Arya’s… well, that is such lovely news.’ 

‘It is! We believed she was lost.’ 

‘How can direwolves be lost. They’re wild beasts.’ 

‘You like Greywind, don’t you?’

‘I really don’t, Robb.’ Rhaenys sighs and pushes him away gently so she can sit down in the chair and take her shoes off. 

‘He likes _you_ , though.’ Robb grins as he leans against the pole in the middle of the tent and Rhaenys can’t help but smile to herself.

'I'm glad, they're like dogs... the most loyal servants and one cannot have enough of these.' the relieve she feels when she frees her soar feet from her shoes is indescribable, ‘Don’t you want some wine? To celebrate how you are back in the good graces of-‘

‘I think you’re drunk enough for the both of us, thank you very much.’ 

I’m not drunk!’

Robb just laughs and drops himself down on her cot, on top of the blankets, then hurts his head because of the book that lays atop of her pillow, grabs it and holds it up to see what it is, ‘ _The four-hundred-and-seven Siege Laws: A Summary_ …’ 

‘It's a very light read.’ Rhaenys grins. 

Robb opens it, moves his eyes over the paper and then smirks, ‘According to this man we are not allowed to throw bodies of men died of sickness over city walls… does that mean we _can_ throw women?’

Rhaenys can't help but feel proud at him for noticing the unnecessary amount of sexism there, she taught him well, ‘Perhaps.’ 

‘Did this man consider he might only bring ideas to people's minds? If we ever find ourselves at the end of our wits…’

‘We are not throwing corpses over city walls.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘No, of course not. I'm just _saying_ …’ 

‘I doubt Cersei will shy away from throwing some greyscale in our way.’ 

Robb laughs as if that prospect is funny and it brings the image to her mind of Cersei, trying to lift a body in a catapult all by herself and she can't help but find that hilarious indeed, ‘We’re not allowed to aim at holy houses, public houses, orphanages… what _are_ we allowed to kill?’

‘Too much, I promise.’ 

Robb closes the book as if the letters make him dizzy, ‘Who even follows to this?’

‘No one.’ 

‘I was not even aware that there are laws about sieging?’

‘There are laws about everything, sweetling…’ Rhaenys opens the laces of her sleeves, ‘Do you want to borrow it?’

‘No.’ He throws the book on the ground as if it’s a finished meal, ‘I hate summaries… How can summaries about laws exist?’ 

‘Ask Measter Steffon… he wrote it.’ 

‘Is he still alive?’

‘Are you considering?’ 

‘Perhaps he can give me a summary of his summary.’ 

Rhaenys gets up to shake off the bodice of her dress and she pushes her hair over her shoulder to give the fabric the freedom to slid off, ‘Let’s not… we wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.’ 

Robb laughs again and he turns to his side in the cot and watches her with an embarrassing lack of shame as she undresses. 

Rhaenys turns around when she is dressed in nothing but her smallclothes, crosses her arms and glares, though she’s sure he can see the amused glimmer in her eyes, ‘You can’t stay here, my cot's too small.’ 

He points at the book on the ground, ‘I can sleep there.’ 

‘No you can’t, you’ll freeze to death.’ She moves her foot up to poke his hip with it but he grabs it instead and holds her foot in both his hands. She tries to pull it back because it tickles when he rubs her footpad with his thumb and she knows the sound that escapes her throat can be considered as a giggle by some. 

‘You’ll let me in your bed before I freeze to death, won’t you?’

‘No,’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I’ll kick you out of this tent and you can freeze out there.’ 

He laughs again and moves his hand up to grab her calve, ‘I’ll take your summary with me, I can burn it and the fire will keep me warm.’ 

‘I won’t let you burn books, that’s a monstrosity.’ 

‘Burning _people_ is a monstrosity.’

‘Do tell my aunt.’ 

He grabs the fabric of her cotton skirt and tucks on it to pull her down in the bed. Rhaenys lately surprises herself often when she realizes she allows him to do such things to her, though what truly shocks her, is that she’s more often than not waiting for him to push it… to go a little further, touch somewhere new, say something that makes her shiver, pull her close, pull her against him, to kiss her skin, not her lips… 

‘What was your aunt like?’ he asks when she lays her head on his shoulder and he wraps his arms around her middle.

‘Dany? She was… breathtakingly beautiful, with the most mesmerizing violet eyes and the softest heart. She was naïve, fearful, furtive… full of self-pity, full of dreams and tormented by her brother whom she was forced to marry, who took her maidenhead, tormented her, locked her up... She loved the sea and the stories sailors tell. She always meant well, which scares me now because… Meaning well but doing wrong is a dangerous combination. People may treat it like an excuse when it’s not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When people cause damage, death… There is no excuse. Saying they did it not on purpose or with the intention to do right is like telling a… a person with greyscale that he can still enter through the city walls, for he never meant to bring a sickness with him, to give him a chance. The sick man doesn’t mean to bring death and perhaps he brings goods to sell, or means to craft some splendor. He might even be a measter, ready to share his knowledge, to uphold the good. It all does not matter, you see? He brings a sickness and the sickness brings death and meaning well doesn't make that right. You don’t want that man in your city even if he's unaware of his own disastrous mistakes and faults.’ 

‘Then what do you want Daenerys to do?’

‘I would pity her was it not that I detest her. Daenerys is looking for something that she will never find for it doesn’t exist.’ 

‘What is that?’

‘Home.’ 

‘Where is her home?’ 

‘Home's abstract. it's never a place. It shouldn't be. You ought not to love a places too much, places don’t love you back. Love is all Dany ever wanted. It's her tragedy, that is all I know.’

‘You loved her once. Can you not love her again? Is none of that left?’

‘I am not like Jon. I’m cold and careful and I'm unforgiving. Or is that not what your mother told you?’ She looks up and grins to persuade him to honesty.

‘That you’re unforgiving?’

‘hhhmhm.’

‘I denied it.’ 

Rhaenys chuckles and moves her fingers over his face as if she’s painting it, drawing his portrait on his cheeks, cheekbones and jawline. 

‘Mother called you a nasty woman once.’ 

‘Have you told her what I have called her?’ Rhaenys pushes herself up a little so she can look down on his face more clearly and she can’t help but put her leg at the other side of him, so she’s astride on top of him, and the way he looks up at her, his face flustered and proud, makes her feel far too good about herself. 

‘No.’ He says, taking a strand of her hair in his hand, he keeps his eyes on the way he curls it around his finger.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I would rather not strain the relationship more than it already is.’ He says, pulling softly on her braid. 

‘Then why tell _me_?’

He moves up so he can press his nose to hers, ‘That’s so very different.’ 

‘Why?’

‘Because… Firstly because you can handle it and also… because you _are_ a nasty woman, but you’re _my_ nasty woman, so-’ 

She means to smack his shoulder but he grabs her wrist and holds it tight in his hand. At first it scared her that he’s so much stronger, but lately it excites her, and she does not know why, ‘Let me go!’ she laughs but he only pushes her down in the cot and when she lays on her back he moves over her. 

‘Maybe I should get drunk too.’

‘I’m not drunk!’ 

‘It will keep me warm tonight.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head and moves her hands to his neck, ‘I’ll keep you warm if you like, but only if you promise to not steal my blankets like you always do.’ 

‘I don’t always do that, _you_ steal.’

‘I take back what is rightfully mine, this is _my_ tent.’ 

‘You’re my lady wife, what is yours is mine and what is mine is yours.’ 

‘If you truly believe that you’re the stupidest man in the North.’ 

He laughs, leans in and kisses her. She lets him too, for far too long. She even kisses him back. Sometimes it’s all she can think about, during the day and during the night when he’s asleep or not with her. 

‘I missed you too.’ She breathes to his lips. She missed kissing him, and his warm body in her cot, his breathing in her neck and his voice whispering in her ear. Sometimes he murmurs her name when he’s half awake, half asleep, a small smile on his face, content in his dreams. 

Robb doesn’t open his eyes now either, he only grins and kisses her some more, but Rhaenys can’t close her eyes, she can’t stop looking at him. Her heartbeat speeds when he places his palm to it and her consciousness tells her to pull it away but some instinct deep inside of her, in her abdomen, where it’s all tingly and exited, makes her place her own hand move over his, to make sure he doesn’t let go. He lifts his fingers to intertwine them with hers and when he moves his head away to give them the opportunity to breathe he grins. 

‘Stop looking at me like that.’ She says as she moves to rub her nose to his cheek, his trimmed beard scratches her lips and she bites her lip in the hope of pushing away some of her thoughts. Rhaenys gulps to choke away a gasp when he moves his hand down and places it to her hip. 

‘Like what?’ 

‘You know exactly what I mean.’ 

Robb only breathes a laugh, then pushes her off him and jumps up from the cot to leave her lying there, feeling empty and, most of all, unsatisfied. Rhaenys purposely studies her nails to avoid to watch him as he undresses and when he climbs back in the cot she turns her back towards him, so she can breathe and perhaps cool down a little before she’ll wrap herself around him and fall asleep like that, extremely content and at peace. She really, _really_ missed him while she was gone. 

‘I’m so glad that Sansa… I’m so glad.’ 

‘I know I… I’m so happy for you.’ 

‘She looked so different.’ 

‘Did she?’ 

She knows he nods because the small pillow below her head moves a little, ‘There’s very little girl left in her. She’s such a woman.’ 

‘She _is_ twenty years of age.’

‘That does not make her a woman grown. You are... what was it? Twenty and five years old? You act like a girl sometimes.’ 

‘Are you calling me old now?’ 

‘No! That would be insulting and I wouldn’t dream of insulting you.’ 

‘Don’t even try and lie to me, Robb Stark, you know you can’t.’ 

Robb only chuckles and muffles the sound by nuzzling his face in the crook of her neck, He presses his warm lips to the skin behind her ear, then moves down and forms a path down to her bare shoulders. He takes the fabric of her nightgown in his fist as he makes no attempt to push it back up. 

‘Robb…’ Rhaenys closes her eyes. 

He immediately let’s go and drops his head back down on the pillow, ‘I’m sorry.’ He murmurs. He hides his disappointment well, he always does, but it still brings a sick feeling to her guts. She moves her back closer to his chest and the arm he wraps around her locks her up in a grip so strong she feel as secure as any prisoner will ever feel in a voluntary prison. 

Rhaenys scratches the hairs that cover his lower arm with her fingernails, digs them in his skin and she cannot help but sigh. What on earth is she doing? She was supposed to really dislike him, scold him, mock him and let him know how completely pointless he is to her personal existence... he is not pointless anymore, he is the sole source of her comfort. 

Rhaenys rubs her legs together before she moves her hand down and she feels the need to swear loudly when her fingers find the wetness that she has now almost gotten so used to. She hates her own body and It’s as if it hates her back, as if it tries to punish her for crimes she is unaware of. For being a fool. For letting him come so close, for being weak, for wanting him.

Why does she want him? Because he is handsome? Because he is good to her? Because he whispers compliments in her ear? Because he is strong and, when he pulls her to his chest, holds her close, warms her up with his body heat… that is when she feels so safe. Safer than she ever believed humanly possible. He makes her feel like she’s home. 

‘Robb…’ She whispers after a long silence. 

‘Hhhmm?’

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Not if you’re not.’ 

‘Robb…’

He leans his head up to look in her eyes, ‘What is it?’

‘I love you.’ She mutters, it’s almost as if she doesn’t want to say it but someone forced her to. Perhaps that is true in some ways but… that doesn’t make it a lie. 

‘I love you too.’ He says it with far more ease and certainty, as if it’s not the first time, as if he’s been waiting to say it for moons. 

‘Do you really?’

‘Of course.’ He says and he places the gentles of kisses to her cheekbone. 

‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ 

‘But you’re not me… so it doesn’t matter.’ 

She turns her head to look him in the eye, ‘Don’t you appreciate the warning?’ 

He grins, ‘Naah, I’m good.’ 

Rhaenys smiles too then, and when she moves her leg over, closer to his she knows that it does not matter anymore, she lost this fight, this battle. She doesn’t understand why she ever believed she could try and win it. It was a lost cause from the start. 

She has ended the opinion of men, silenced them with a single glance, a single glare. She can outwit them, mock them, insult them without them even realizing it… She hardly ever meets a man cunning enough to notice she’s not like any sort of woman, to realize there’s no one like her, there’s only her… 

As it turns out, there is one thing Rhaenys really cannot do and it’s fall in love with one. Not without disastrous consequences, that is. Perhaps it’s all because she feels sorry for herself, like all Targaryens always do. Perhaps she is afraid of being alone again. Perhaps she is weak… because she wants this. She has wanted this for a far too long time. It does not even scare her anymore. How could he ever scare her? All he ever does is make her feel good.

‘You won't go, will you?’

‘Not if you don't want me to.’

‘I mean… stay. Not tonight but...’

‘What?’

‘Don't leave me?’

‘Of course not, never.’ He speaks as if the idea alone is not worth mentioning. Perhaps it's not. Perhaps he will not leave her, nor hurt her, or betray her… perhaps he'll be the first. 

Rhaenys turns around in his arms and wraps a leg around his hip. The back of her ankle is pressed in his shin and his eyes almost appear two black pools in the darkness. She moves her face close to his, whispers his name again, just because she likes to say it, and then kisses him. 

He kisses her back eagerly, and there’s some surprise too, because he must’ve not expected it. Rhaenys moves her hands up to grab his hair, tug on it and dig her fingernails in his scalp and when he dips his tongue in her mouth she can’t stop herself from moaning. The wetness between her legs gets worse and it embarrasses her as much as it arouses her, both of these causes her fingers to tremble. She knows she’s only encouraging him and she doesn’t mind, because it’s what she wants. Rhaenys is fully aware that if he would pine her down now, to push deep inside… she wouldn’t stop him. 

It’s not what he does, he does nothing, he wouldn’t, she didn’t expect him too. She needs to tell him first, he won’t do a thing until she’ll tell him and knowing that… realizing that her consent is everything to him, that is all she needs to pull him on top, to spread her legs heartily. 

‘Do it.’ She tells him, all breathless, Rhaenys can feel her blood pump violently and rapidly through her veins and she hears it rush in her ears.

He pants to her lip, then shakes his head, ‘N-no Rhaenys… a-are you sure? I don’t want to-‘

‘ _Yes_.’ She says, ‘I am sure.’ 

It’s too late now. Far too late. The damage is done. Strength and weakness are both overrated and as Robb moves his hands up her thighs, there where’s she’s slippery, she closes her eyes and silently prays to the Gods to forgive her. She’s a sinner now, more than she ever feared of being. 

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’ Rhaenys grabs the fabric of his tunic and makes a hopeless attempt at trying to pull it off. 

‘I want to, too.’ He says, as if that's something she may have been concerned or worried about. Of course she wasn't, he has wanted her ever since he first pressed his cool lips to hers in the sept at Riverrun. Rhaenys may not be very experienced, but she's not blind. She liked it from the start, though will not admit to that. Him wanting her, staring at her, not hiding his attempts at trying to imagine what she looks like in her name day clothes… that made her feel pretty good about herself. It still does… it does now. 

She pushes her nightgown off her shoulders to show him her bare chest and then she presses her lips to his to reassure him, to convince him, to urge him to hurry up because now that she’s made the decision, now that she knows… she feels like every second that passes by where he’s not inside of her, is such a waste of time. 

‘I won’t hurt you.’ He promises and Rhaenys nods, because she knows that. 

He kisses her quickly then, though gently and with a surprising amount of softness, and for some reason he seems eager to stare deep into her eyes when he moves inside. It really doesn’t hurt. She gasps but only because it’s such a sudden, surprising, unknown experience. The first thing that flashes through her mind is how different it is from what she expected and she feels an urge to cry because this is _it_ , this is _real_ , she’s as close to being a real woman as she’ll ever be. Mostly she feels like crying because it’s so nice, it’s intimate, fervent, sincere… intense. Nothing has ever been so intense before. Rhaenys gulps her tears away and kisses him, to let him know all she’ll never be able to express with words. 

_I won’t hurt you_ , he said, and he meant it. She _believed_ him. He’s so careful and gentle. Rhaenys has never felt less alone in her entire life. She doesn’t even feel like she’s on her own in her own body, it’s as if part of it belongs to him now, the way he belongs to her. 

‘I love you.’ He says again, ‘So much.’ 

When she finally cries he doesn’t stop, thankfully he does not, he only kisses the salty drops off her face, ever tear she sheds is one of gratitude, for she’s so grateful. She doesn’t understand what she must’ve done right to deserve it all. He snuggles in her neck, to whisper in her ear, to tell her how beautiful she is and Rhaenys wonders, for the first time ever, why people need Gods, when they can have each other. Is that not magical enough? 

When Rhaenys falls asleep, her limbs entangled with his, she does not feel guilty. She doesn’t even feel guilty for not feeling guilty. She feels perfectly satisfied and gratified too. 

Aegon would be proud, Rhaenys thinks, he would cheer her for not caring, for doing what she liked, what she felt like, for choosing herself… and that thought almost makes her smile, was it not that she wonders if that is actually so much a good thing. It probably isn’t, but in this moment, she really just doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, if this were a Friends episode, I'd call it, 'the one where Robb and Rhaenys... you know'. I literally started writing it while I was watching Friends season 2 episode 15. 
> 
> I'm gonna take a bit of a break from updating chapters. I feel I need it because of school, because it's actually kinda stressful to have that extra expectation and deadline two days a week and because I need to up my game. I've not been very happy with the work I've been delivering lately and I kinda feel like the readers think/feel that too. I'm not saying I'm delivering crap (unless you guys think so, lol, can't make everyone happy), I just know I can do better and I need some time for that. So I'm taking it. Quality is more important than quantity. I've almost finished the story (65 chapters it is- more or less), it's just so much harder to properly end it than I ever expected and it takes time, energy and patience. Hope people will understand!  
> Like I said, I just need time to do it right and I really want to do it right.  
> I'll see you soon, and please let me know what you think!X


	49. The Iron Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa pulls the blankets up to cover her belly, she crosses her arms and keeps her gaze down, ‘Ever repeat these words and I shall never look at you again.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I finally managed to find some time to update! I've been crazy busy, it's madness. I know I've always said I wanted to have this all up and finished before season seven airs but I don't think I'll make it, which sucks.  
> In any case, thanks for waiting, sorry for waiting, and I hope it was worth the waiting!:)

**Sansa**

Everyone was right, Sansa is not made to survive in an army camp. She hates it. Absolutely hates it, yet… Nobody’s supposed to know that, however, because she's determined not to prove them right. Mostly, she’s afraid to be send back North. She refuses to be send back North. 

She expected there to be battles and fighting all the time, more danger, more excitement, more things _happening_ , but as time passes by she sees little more than the grassy fields they pick for their camp. Two holdfasts and one village are taken, but the attack lasts little more than an afternoon and they're only taken for strategic benefit. Because of the food, that is. It's far more boring than she expected and she finally understands now why the war manages to just take so long, to go on and on without any real progress. Though Rhaenys convinced her there is plenty of progress. 

‘Some battles are won with brutal murder and swords, others with quills, cleverness, ravens and patience.’ She says. Sansa is sure she's right, yet she can't help but feel powerless and bored. 

Jon is out there doing all sorts of things she knows nothing of all day, she feels lucky if she gets an hour out of him in the evening and it makes her feel lonely. It's King’s Landing all over again, with only Freia for company. Except she gets to fall asleep in his arms now, which makes up for most of the discomfort. She only misses him. She came here because she didn't want to be separated from him, yet she still is most of the time. 

Sansa hardly gets out of the tent, tells everyone that’s because it's too cold, but if truth must be told… she hates all these men. Rhaenys wasn’t exaggerating, they really are all horny nutcases. 

‘They always stare at me.’ She tells Robb, as they sit shoulder to shoulder in the grass, eating hard and tasteless bread and drinking watery wine. He’s the only one she dares admit it to. 

‘That's because you're the only woman they have seen in possibly years.’ 

‘Rhaenys has been here for moons on end!’

‘Rhaenys is not like you.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ She frowns at him as a warning, to not say the wrong thing. 

‘I mean that… well, you look different, that's all.’ 

‘Rhaenys may be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’ Sansa says and she means it. It's when she looks at the grin Robb shows off the moment she says that when Sansa feels a little guilty, and she feels sorry for him too. 

‘Well… she carries herself differently from the way you do.’ 

‘Carries herself? How should I carry myself?’

‘I don't know Sans, it’s just that they know Rhaenys'll rip their tongues from their throats if they only make a disrespectful cough. You look more innocent… nothing wrong about that.’ 

‘I'm not.’ 

‘I know but… I don’t know. Rhaenys is an extraordinary woman, you look less proud, less arrogant. You're sweeter and prettier and-‘ Robb stops himself just in time but she gladly finishes it for him. 

‘They'd rather rape me?’

‘No one will rape you, Jon has you guarded all day every day, you're _queen_.’

‘But they joke about it, do they not? I know they do. Even the bannermen do.’ 

‘You're a beautiful woman and all these men are a long way from home.’ 

‘Rhaenys is a woman too!’

‘It's different. Rhaenys is being herself, you know, she glares and manipulates, argues, gives opinions, _disagrees_ and men… men usually don't find that very attractive, it scares them a little I think, Rhaenys intimidates them.’

‘So, I am not intimidating?’ Sansa frowns and crosses her arms which makes Robb chuckle. 

‘You shouldn't feel bothered by it.’ 

‘Am I not supposed to be their queen? I demand respect.’ 

Robb only laughs some more and that annoys her nearly as much as the grinning faces and unashamed stares.

‘You and Rhaenys are doing well, aren't you?’ Sansa decides to ask, she's been ready to waver that confrontation for a while, though Robb doesn't seem to be, and Rhaenys definitely isn't. 

Robb only nods and turns his gaze to Freia, who's running through the high grass, pulling her skirt up so she won't go flat on her face. Ghost and Greywind are both chasing her and she's having the time of her life. 

Freia absolutely seems to love it at the army camp. She loves all the ‘horseys’ and she loves the endless fields where she can run through, hoping someone will angrily come after her, demanding she returns immediately. She loves plucking a bush of weeds and proudly gives the yellow flowers to her father, who'll tell her those dead plants are the prettiest flowers he's ever seen. 

It astonishes Sansa how easily a child of that age can adapt to such different surroundings. Freia doesn't care that there’s no cake, and no silk bed blankets, no soft and rosy smelling soap and no freshly washed dresses. She doesn’t even care that the only toys she has are a stuffed teddy wolf, a doll and her unicorn. Freia is not even scared of all these awful, dreadful, disgusting men. The only thing she really seems to need is to be brought to bed every night by her papa after her mama sang her a song about a roof of stars. 

Sansa is not a child and once the sickness kicks in all she wants is nice soap, silk bed blankets and freshly washed clothes. At first, she didn't mind so much. She wanted to feel awful because of the nauseous feeling in her guts but all she could do was smile because those tiny bits of her that were still in doubt were squashed. She's so pregnant. The moment the realization settled in, however, she could easily wipe the smile of her face again, and as much as she'd forgotten how amazing it is, she'd forgotten how awful it is just as much. 

She's so emotional, angry, frustrated and unwashed that she cried herself to sleep once, feeling all sorry for herself and all angry with Jon for steeling the little amount of blankets they had. The only thing she can usually do to get herself warm is move closer to him and though his body heat is pleasant, she's often too irritated to like the smell and touch of his skin. 

The scent of the plucked weeds make her sick as do the smell of the horses and all the rabbit everyone constantly seems to eat. She just wants to wash her hair. She wishes Jon could wash his hair. 

Sansa has promised herself to force Freia to take a bath once every three days but there's simply not enough water to do the same herself, so Freia ends up being the only person in the wide surroundings who does not smell of sweat and horses... and Rhaenys, who magically smells good too and Sansa doesn't know why and wonders if it might be the blood of the dragon. Maybe Targaryens just don't stink. Except Jon stinks, and he's such a Targaryen. Except he's not. So it must really be Rhaenys. 

‘Has Rhaenys ever told you about what happened to her?’ Robb then asks, he pulls a strand of grass from the ground and then throws it away again, which is an action he repeats for a while. 

‘What… _happened_ to her?’

Robb nods, his eyes still on Freia, ‘When she was a little girl, I mean.’ 

‘Oh…’ Sansa moves her eyes to Freia too now and gulps, ‘Not really, only the facts, I suppose.’ 

‘The facts?’

‘What happened, but not how and… I suppose she doesn't remember big chunks of it.’ 

‘Do you think Jon knows?’

Sansa shrugs, all she knows is that _if_ Jon knows, there's little chance of him spilling his knowledge to anyone, not even to her, ‘Do you think Rhaenys believed you have not… that you _don’t_ know?’

‘Me?’ Robb shrugs, ‘I think Rhaenys is the sort of person who believes things may go away when you don’t talk about it.’ 

Sansa huffs, ‘I wish I could disagree, considering all these numerous times she told me to stop the silence… but I’m afraid you’re right.’ 

‘I don’t know I… I don’t want to make her feel like she must tell me anything.’ 

‘Rhaenys won’t let you give her that feeling, I think.’ 

Robb grins to himself, then wipes that off his face and shakes his head, ‘Don’t let her fool you, she’s not as tough as she looks.’ 

Sansa watches him watch Freia for a while, then smiles, ‘You like her a lot, don’t you?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Who would’ve thought.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well Robb… I remember when Tyrion told me, about the marriage, I mean… I could not believe it. I still sometimes can’t.’ 

‘No, me neither.’ He admits and he pulls some more grass from the ground. 

‘She cares about you too.’ 

‘I know that.’

Sansa moves her hand to his shoulder and squeezes it. Looking at him, his thoughts wandering of to whatever it is he and Rhaenys mean to each other… it makes her feel sorry for him, because Sansa knows, and she hopes he knows it too, that whatever they are, it won’t be forever. Rhaenys seemed convinced enough. 

‘Mother doesn’t like her at all.’ Robb then says, ‘But mother doesn’t _know_ her.’ 

‘I’d say very few people do.’

‘I know her.’ His voice is soft when he says it. 

‘I know her too, I know her to be a person, a woman, to whom I shall always look up to.’

‘Mother called her cold and unforgiving.’ 

‘She’s not cold, truly, if Rhaenys loves you she walks through fire for you.’ 

‘Perhaps she’ll even live, I’ve heard some Targaryens do that sometimes.’ 

Sansa snorts, ‘If Danaerys can do it… then so can Rhaenys.’

Robb shakes his head, ‘Rhaenys won’t ever have to walk through fire to make her mark on the world. She doesn’t need magic, her personality and her qualities are beyond magic.’ 

Sansa laughs, ‘If she ever is unforgiving I’d say she has great reason. If you betray her… I do not see why any fool would ever think it a good idea to betray Rhaenys.’ 

‘She has a tendency for dramatizing everything or a lot, though.’ 

‘She’s pious.’ Sansa nods, ‘She and Jon both spend too much time brooding and thinking about things so often and so hard they become great disasters eventually in their heads.’ 

‘I think you’re right.’ 

‘They need other people to splash water in their face every other day, so they keep their feet firm on the ground.’ 

‘Aye, they _really_ do.’ 

Sansa nudges him, ‘That’s our job, you know.’

Robb nods, ‘The Gods know how they survived with just the two of them for so long. When Rhaenys and I were just married, it astounded me how much time they spend fighting over literally and absolutely _nothing_ , it’s as if they _enjoy_ to bicker and bite each other’s heads off.’ 

Sansa chuckles, ‘They’ve always enjoyed challenging each other.’ She agrees.

‘We have never been like that.’ Robb says and he places his hand over her.

‘I think there are few relationships in this world that can be comparable or even matched by that one.’ 

‘I don’t mind being married to her… but a sister like that does seem tiring.’ 

Sansa laughs, ‘Oh well… Jon can be exhausting too, I try to be considerate to the both of them.’ 

‘I’m always impressed by Jon’s ability to keep his head held high, I mean, I fight with her too but… I prefer to avoid it whenever I can.’

‘Rhaenys can be very intimidating.’ Sansa agrees. 

‘Jon though… He enters the arena fully armored and bloodthirsty.’

Sansa only laughs some more, ‘They love each other deeply, I promise. It’s a sort of, can’t live with nor without situation.’

‘I know that. She really _would_ walk through fire for him.’ 

‘He would do it for her too.’ Sansa says, and she’s convinced of that. She takes a piece of bread, turns it around in her hand as she studies it and then pops it in her mouth. It's hard and tasteless and she wonders why she even bothers eating it. 

‘She likes you a lot.’ Robb says, ‘She’s happy you’re here… she needed the company, I think.’ 

‘Rhaenys has always preferred female company, with the exception of Aegon.’ 

‘Aegon…’ Robb sighs, ‘She never talks about him.’

‘What is there to say… he lived his life extravagantly and to the fullest… then he died.’ 

‘But she loved him too.’ 

‘Not the way she loves Jon. With Aegon, it was very different. Aegon disappointed her a lot and when he died… I think Rhaenys feels betrayed by all those who left her.’ 

‘Don’t you think she wants to talk about that?’ 

Sansa shrugs, ‘Rhaenys generally doesn’t keep the things she wishes spoken aloud to herself.’ 

‘I wish she would want to- because I… I cannot imagine that finding your dead brother on the floor after he took his own life is… is something one easily forgets.’ 

‘Rhaenys didn’t find him.’ Sansa says, ‘It was… Ser Barristan I believe, in the early morrow. Aegon told the knight he wanted to hunt so he asked to be woken early.’ 

‘Do you think he… he did that on purpose?’

‘I think we’ll never find out.’

‘He must’ve been hard to wake.’ 

‘They broke in the room. That’s how we… When they woke Jon and brought us to the room, father and Rhaenys were already there. Rhaenys blamed her father for a long time, I know that. Rhaegar has never been fond of his sons.’ 

‘Rhaenys is always saying he loved Jon the most.’ 

‘Really? Jon always says he preferred Rhaenys to everyone.’ 

They grin at each other for a while and Robb shakes his head, ‘I guess Jon must have held a special place in his heart, being Lyanna’s son and all.’ 

‘I think Jon is the one who disappointed him the least. Jon was properly married, healthy in body and soul, good at kingly things such as riding a horse and listening to people finish their sentences, he was going to be a father and… well, he always found it hard to say no to his father, can’t say the same about Aegon and Rhaenys… well, Rhaenys is Rhaenys, she never shies away from telling people how she feels.’ 

‘But she never disobeyed him. She’s eager to win this war because it’s what her _father wanted_.’ 

‘Oh yes, that is true.’ 

‘So, what could possibly have ever been so disappointing about her?’

Sansa gulps for the answer to that question is not her secret to tell, the truest answer she can give is what he gets, ‘I think it’s more that Rhaenys feels she perhaps disappointed him, not so much that she actually _did_.’ 

‘Who do _you_ think Rhaegar loved the most?’

‘I think fathers and mothers love their children equally… when they’re good human beings that is, and I do believe Rhaegar was a good man, despite his _flaws_.’ 

‘You will soon find out, I suppose.’ 

Sansa smiles, lays her hand to her slightly swollen belly and watches Freia go full flat on her face. She doesn’t cry, only jumps up again and uncomfortably wipes the dirt of her sleeves and hands, ‘I cannot imagine loving anyone more than I love Freia.’ 

Robb grins, ‘She’s a lovely girl, you did one fine job there.’

‘Well, thank you. I tried my best.’ 

‘So I can tell.’ 

‘She’s quite the thing, her personality is… I used to think she was all Jon and Jon thought she was all me but she really isn’t. She’s her own person and she's amazing but not _easy_. Sometimes she just does… sometimes I have no idea what to do. She can make me feel so angry and frustrated. She called me stupid last night, she's never done that before.’

‘Stupid?’

‘The Gods know where she learned the word.’ 

‘Why? I can’t imagine… look at her, all innocent.’ Robb points at Freia who throws a stick for the wolves to catch. She can't really throw properly but the wolves run all the same.

Sansa huffs, ‘As innocent as a child.’ She says. 

‘Why would she?’ 

‘Hmm?’

‘Call you stupid?’ 

‘Soldiers made her a wooden boat and I wanted to throw it away in fear of it being dangerous and she disagreed. She got absolutely furious, I felt like crying with her.’ 

‘Well, I suppose it’s the age.’ 

Sansa nods and sighs, ‘Sometimes I feel she respects Jon more than me, he’s bigger and he uses his deep threatening voice… he hit her last night.’ 

‘He _hit_ her?’ 

‘It was more of a pat, it can’t possibly have hurt… you should’ve seen her face! She had no idea what was happening, she placed her hand to the back of her head, her eyes so wide and _wailed_...’

‘I never expected Jon to be _that_ father.’ Robb says. 

‘He’s not, but when he heard her call me stupid- I think Freia woke the dragon.’ 

Robb laughs, ‘I might have enjoyed watching that.’ 

‘Parenthood is not as easy as it looks!’ Sansa defends, ‘In any case… I can still see father run through the courtyard, ready to beat the two of you silly because you threw snow off some castle wall on top of a very important liege lord.’ 

‘Yes, we loved doing that… I can't recall _you_ ever being scolded.’ 

‘I can't recall calling my mother stupid… you should've heard him though, _If I EVER hear you call your lady mother stupid again, you're never eating one bite of cake ever, AGAIN_!’

Sansa shakes her head at the memory. Freia cried silently, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and came over to Sansa to give her the sincerest of apologies, ‘I am s-so s-sorry mama, s-sorry…’ The memory now almost makes Sansa smile, though it wasn’t funny at the time.

More often than once Sansa feels the urge to cry too, not just because of the layer of filth that covers her body. Her back hurts and silly things make her emotional. It's like her first pregnancy all over again and it makes her anxious. With Freia, everything was easy and wonderful, but now the weirdest smell gives her the urge to throw up all that's in her stomach. 

Robb laughs, ‘Poor Freils.’ 

‘She came to me, crying her eyes out, begging me for forgiveness. I expected her to be angry with him, but a mere moment later she was jumping up and down because he promised her she could ride the damn pony.’ 

‘She loves horses, doesn't she?’

‘Too much, unfortunately.’ 

‘Father always called our aunt a centaur, so it's not as if it comes from nowhere.’ 

‘Still doesn't mean I have to like it.’ 

Robb just laughs, ‘Jon always says you worry too much.’ 

‘About Freia?’

He nods. 

‘Yes well, when she was first born I didn't dare to go to sleep in fear of someone slitting her throat when I looked the other way. I wouldn't even let the Septa put her in a bath because I thought they might ‘accidentally’ drown her.’ 

Robb bites his lip and then wraps an arm around her shoulders, ‘No one is going to accidentally drown her, she's safe.’ 

Sansa nods, ‘I know. Once we move south and the weather gets warmer Jon might like to teach her how to swim.’ 

‘Is she not a bit too young?’

‘Far too young, but that doesn't stop him from teaching her how to ride a horse.’ 

Robb chuckles, ‘Jon could ride a horse around the courtyard when he was three, she might beat him at it.’ 

‘There's no courtyard for her to ride around in, not in this place.’ 

Robb pecks her temple then, ‘She doesn't seem to mind.’ He says and together they watch as Freia throws her weight in as she desperately tries to pull the stick from between Greywind’s teeth. 

‘She doesn't understand what danger is.’ 

‘Course she doesn't, she's two.’ 

‘She’s getting so big… She was the most beautiful baby, you know, so small, with dark hair and big eyes. Arya said they were bulging but they really weren't, they were just big.’ 

Robb chuckles again, ‘I'm envious. I wish I had my own… perhaps soon.’ 

Sansa looks up at his face and frowns, ‘You and Rhaenys?’

‘I could be a father.’ He says it almost as if it's a decision, as if he decides he could. 

‘I thought that… Rhaenys told me you weren't ever- she said you are not making children.’ 

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’ He's not blushing or looking nervous when he says that and the lack of discomfort confuses her. 

‘It's what she said.’ 

Robb shrugs. 

‘You’ll be a wonderful father one day.’ Sansa decides. 

‘I'm not sure if Rhaenys would like to be a mother.’ Robb wonders aloud and Sansa can understand why he does. 

‘Perhaps you'll never have to find out.’ 

‘I hope I will though, perhaps they'll have purple eyes. If I have a son before you do I'm taking the name Eddard.’ 

Sansa raises her eyebrows, ‘But… Rhaenys said-‘

‘I know what she said. It's not…. Not anymore.’ He finally looks uncomfortable when he says, ‘I didn't think she'd ever want to and I understood. After what happened to her, I could respect and understand. But I think she loves me too.’ 

‘What do you mean?’

‘She said it.’ 

‘Said what?’

‘She said she loves me.’ 

‘Rhaenys is not a liar.’ 

Robb laughs, ‘No! She's many things but not that.’ 

‘So you have made children?’

‘I don't think she's pregnant so the answer would be _no_.’

‘But you have… _you know_?’

‘Know what?’

‘Are you saying that-‘

‘ _Yes_ , Sansa stop it, for the love of the Gods.’ 

‘But Rhaenys said-‘

‘And it's true.’ He pulls off a piece of bread too and turns it around in his hand before he squashes it, ‘I accepted to never bed my lady wife and I could have lived with that, you know. I could. But I must've done something right in my life, apparently, the Gods’ justice believes I deserve her.’ 

‘Apparently…’ Sansa mutters and she consciously keeps her eyes on Freia to hide the shock that wavers in her abdomen. She knows her face is much harder to read than it once may have been, but still. 

Robb nudges her shoulder, ‘Can't leave all the multiplying to you, can we?’

Sansa forces a grimace to her lips and puts another piece of bread in her mouth, just so the chewing will excuse her from talking. 

Freia saves her then, for she runs their way, her arms stretched out, ‘Maaaamaa! My shoe! My shoe!’ Her voice trembles as she runs and jumps up and down. 

Sansa catches her as she drops herself in her mother's arms, ‘What are you… where is your shoe?’ Sansa takes the small shoeless foot in her hand and rubs the pad which makes Freia giggle. 

‘No tickles!’

‘Did you lose it?’

Freia holds her hands up, ‘It is no-there!’

‘Where?’

‘No-there… Is gone!’

‘Just like that?’

‘Hhhmhh!’ Freia nods convincingly but Sansa can't help but feel suspicious. 

‘Did you take it off?’

‘No!’

‘I'll go look for it.’ Robb offers and he pulls himself up, ‘Do you want to come and help?’ He offers Freia his hand and she nods. 

‘I help!’ She tries to get up but Sansa pulls her down. 

‘You can't! Not without a shoe, you might get hurt.’

Robb shrugs at Freia, who disappointedly pulls on Sansa's braid, before he runs towards the high grass to find the missing shoe. 

Freia holds her bare foot up and studies her toes as she wriggles them, ‘No shoe is ow.' She decides. 

‘You may stand on something sharp.’ 

Freia lifts her foot up towards Sansa's face, ‘Kiss?’

‘Only when it hurts.’ Sansa says though she takes the foot in her hands, kisses the back and rubs it. 

‘Song with shoe?’ Freia lays down on her back as Sansa tries to hold her up, pulling the cotton skirt down.

Sansa grins and softly squeezes Freia's chubby cheek, ‘Do you know a song about shoes?’

Freia thinks about it for a moment, shakes her head, then holds up both her hands, spreads her tiny fingers and explains, ‘Ten toes!’

‘Yes! So clever… do you want to count them?’

‘One… two… flee… flibe?’

Sansa holds up four fingers. 

‘Bour!’

‘Four yes, then five…’

‘Six... fleven... beight… pine... pine is over?’

‘Ten?’

‘Ten!’ 

‘Look, there's your shoe!’

Robb comes back with the small shoe in hand, followed closely by the two gigantic direwolves. Sansa swears they're still growing. 

‘Here you go.’ Robb hands the shoe over to Freia who greedily takes it. 

‘What do you say now, Freia?’

‘Uncle Bobb, thank-you!’

‘That's right!’ 

‘I put shoe on my footie, aaaaall by myself…’ Freia frowns deep as she tries to put her shoe back on, but her fingers struggle with the laces as she pulls and tugs too hard and finds it difficult to separate them. 

‘Here, let me help.’ Sansa says but Freia pulls her foot away. 

‘I do it myself!’

‘Yes, you will, I’ll just help… here.’ eventually Freia allows her mother to help before Sansa gets up and lifts Freia up in her arms, ‘Come on little unicorn, let’s get you cleaned up and-‘

‘Wait! U-wicorn is _there_!’ Freia points at the grass and Sansa groans. 

‘Freia! You can't always lose everything!’

Freia wriggles herself loose and runs back to the grass. The wolves howl and follow her and Robb grin at Sansa's frown, ‘Don't worry, I'll help her.’ 

Sansa drops back down, then accidentally places her hand next to the bag of beer, which drops and the liquid spills all over her skirts. Sansa groans, pushes the now empty bag away and the smell of the beer makes her stomach do weird thing. 

Sansa quickly crawls back up but it’s too late, the muscles around her guts squeeze and push the food she ate up and as she turns around, her hands ducked in the dark grass, she throws up all those disgusting pieces of bread she pushed through her mouth with great effort. 

Sansa wipes her mouth with her sleeve, closes her eyes for a moment, during which she tries to control her breathing and then feels Robb’s strong arms lift her up. 

‘Seven hells… Sansa what are you-‘

‘Don't swear in front of Freia!’ 

Robb wipes her hair from her face as she coughs some more, then gulps to get the sour taste out of her mouth.

‘Are you alright?’

Sansa ignores that question and tries to smile at Freia, who stands there, clutching her unicorn to her chest, her bottom lip pulled in and her dress smudged with grass stains. 

‘Come sweetling, let’s find papa.’ 

Freia doesn't say much as she's dragged back to the tent, it's only when they enter and stand eye to eye with a complete stranger dressed in a measter’s robe that she gasps, ‘Who is you?’

‘It’s a measter.’ Jon says and he jumps up from the cot. 

‘Sansa, sweetling, meet measter Hanna.’ Rhaenys makes a hand gesture to the man.

‘Hello?’ Sansa can't help but say it the way she does.

‘Hello!’ Freia waves and wriggles to let Sansa know she wants to be moved over to Jon, to whom she stretches her arms out. 

‘Here, take your child.’ Sansa pushes Freia over to Jon’s arms.

‘Papa!’ Freia sloppily kisses Jon’s cheek, ‘Papa I lose my shoe!’

‘You found if back?’

‘Yes papa, look!’ She lifts her foot up and grins, ‘Uncle Bobb is finding it for me!’

‘Have you said thank you?’ Jon asks and he pushes some escaped curls from Freia's face. 

‘Yes! I say thank you uncle Bobb!’ 

‘Good girl.’ Jon says and he makes a head gesture to the measter, ‘We found the man in a nearby holdfast, the measter was once in service of lord Harrenhall!’ 

‘ _We_?’ Rhaenys glares at him, ‘You mean _my sister Rhaenys_ found a measter for you.’

‘Why should I need a measter?’ Sansa glares at the man who seems terribly uncomfortable in this unusual company in a dark candle-lit tent in the middle of a grassy field.

‘Why are you covered in beer?’ Jon pulls on her filthy sleeve and Freia grabs his hair. 

‘Papa! Mama spits food in the grass!’

‘That why.’ Rhaenys grins and she walks around the measter and grabs Robb’s lower arms to pull him with her, out of the tent. 

‘I'm perfectly alright.’ Sansa decides. 

‘Of course you are,’ Rhaenys, ‘It's only routine, the man can tell us whether it will be a prince or a princess.’ 

‘I am princess!’ Freia tells everyone. 

Rhaenys gasps, ‘So am I!’ 

‘Why don't you take her…’ Jon means to hand Freia over to Rhaenys but she aggressively shakes her head. 

‘No! Uncle Bobb!’

‘Uncle Bobb it is.’ 

‘Jon pushes Freia in Robb’s arms who grins at Rhaenys, who in her turn seems far too offended by the refusal.

‘Uncle Bobb, I have big shoe and teeny shoe.’ Freia tells Robb. 

‘Are you sure? That's amazing.’

‘Hhhmmh! And U-wicorn too! Look!’ Freia holds her wooden unicorn up and Robb pecks her forehead as he drags her out of the tent, Rhaenys following him hesitantly. 

Sansa glares at the man, ‘I am perfectly-‘

‘Of course you are.’ Jon squeezes her shoulder, ‘But you must have a measter look at you, just to be sure, so I can worry a little less.’ 

That is one way of persuasion and Sansa sighs, drops down on the cot and nods. 

‘If my lady could take off her dress?’ The measter plays with the chains around his neck and Sansa nods. 

‘Shall I help you?’

Sansa wants to refuse at first, because Septa Mordane’s voice in the back of her head tells her that is incredibly inappropriate, but then she realizes they're in a war camp, and the opinion of this stranger measter is one thing that she cares so terribly little about, so she nods. 

‘You can throw this dress away.’ Jon decides when he wrinkles his nose at it. 

‘I'll try to wash it.’ Sansa says as she positions herself on the cot. 

Jon only frowns and shakes his head but says nothing as he watches the measter place his hand to Sansa’s flat stomach. 

‘He’s low.’ Is the first thing the measter says. 

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘It’s not a bad thing.’ The measter is far too amused by the look on Jon’s face when he wraps his arms around Sansa as he pulls her close against him and she can't help but feel a little embarrassed as he keeps asking unnecessarily intimate questions and the measter does not even shy away from answering every single one of these.

‘It will not turn around until at least another three turns.’ 

‘Turn around? What do you mean _turn around_?’

‘It means that the babe will turn around, with the head down.’ 

‘Head down? Why will the head be down?’ 

‘Because the head comes out first.’ Sansa answers. 

‘The head… _why_?’

‘Because!’ Sansa wishes she could shove him then. 

‘The child is small still, but it will grow quick and swiftly, as the womb is still stretched from the last babe, you will sooner see the swell.’ 

Jon nods and Sansa feels an urge to place her hand in front of his constantly opened mouth, it is not often that she feels embarrassed by her lord husband, but at this moment, she truly does, ‘Does it hurt? Are you alright? Should I get you some water? How's your back? Are you feeling sick again? If you don't want to, you don't have to, just tell him!’

‘Jon! For the sake of the Gods let the man do what he's here for!’ 

‘The child is over here…’ the measter places his hand to Sansa's bare belly. 

‘Can I feel?’

‘You can't feel, it’s far too small.’ Sansa tells Jon as he places his cold palm to the exact same spot. 

‘It is as big as an olive, but the bones are shaping.’ Maester Hanna says.

Sansa nods and realizes she likes the man, anyone who compares the size of her baby to food is acceptable in her book, it's what she always used to do once upon a time, when she was young and this was all new. It all _not_ being new is a new experience as well, she's more comfortable, less afraid, _confident_. 

‘An olive is small.’ Jon decides. 

‘But the womb is growing speedily, it's already stretching at the sides, there were the skin is tight… as I said, soon you will see the swell so very clearly.’

‘What is soon?’

‘Since this is the second child, I would say within a turn.’ 

‘Within a turn?’ Jon seems far too excited about the prospect of Sansa getting gruesomely fat. 

‘It is not the second. This is my third.’ Sansa says and when she looks up and finds the two men watch her, unable to find appropriate responds, she bites her lower lip, ‘Does it have fingers and toes?’ Sansa asks. 

The measter nods, ‘You will feel something soon, you'll recognize it, surely.’ 

Sansa places her hands protectively over her belly, and with her thumb she rubs the back of Jon's hand, there where he never lifted it up. 

‘It is as old as four turns at least.’

‘That much? I've been keeping count and I do not believe it is that long, my last moonblood came little more than three turns ago.’ 

The measter shrugs as if he leaves it up to here whether she chooses to believe him or not. 

‘When will the sickness be over? Soon?’

‘As soon as soon can be, one can never be sure. Usually it ends after four turns.’ 

‘So everything is well? Despite the sickness?’ Jon asks. 

‘Especially because of the sickness.’ Measter Hanna reassures. 

He goes on to touch her belly some more, places it on all different spots, feels between her legs too, which makes Jon frown, though he manages to keep his protests in. He hands Sansa a flag of potion, tells her to drink it when she feels she must throw up again, and another flask with oil that he suggests she rubs on her belly, to comfort the skin as it stretches. 

When Rhaenys returns the measter grins at her, ‘My lady is the epitome of health. The baby is strong and growing. The sickness means it will most certainly be a son.’ 

‘Her grace is not a lady.’ Rhaenys tells the measter, ‘You're speaking of the queen!’

It annoys Sansa how much that is of importance to Rhaenys. Who the hell cares what they call her? She feels far more anxious at the prediction of a son. She can't imagine how disappointed everyone will be when she gives birth to another girl. Last time she carried nobody really cared. Surely everyone told her they prayed for a son but she never really believed it mattered to them. She wanted a baby for herself and for Jon, because she wanted to be a mother and she wanted to have Jon's baby. She still wants that, but she's more aware than ever how much depends on the sex. They need an heir, this may be their only chance. 

‘Why do you not help measter Hana out?’ Sansa smiles sweetly at Jon when she lays her hand to his lower arm. 

He doesn't seem eager to leave at all, but nods all the same and measter Hanna makes carefully sure to call Jon _your grace_ when he's escorted out.

Sansa pulls her smallclothes back down to hide her belly from view when Rhaenys drops down in the chair and sighs loudly. 

‘Your child hates me.’ She complains. 

‘Don't be silly.’ Is all Sansa says. 

‘She glares at me.’ 

‘You’re most likely the one who taught her how.’ 

Rhaenys frowns as if she considers the possibility, then shakes her head to get rid of the idea and nods to Sansa's flat stomach, ‘How’s the seed doing?’

‘Don't call it that!’ 

‘Freia asked me if you’re sick, I let Robb explain to her what was wrong but I'm afraid his answer may displease you.’

‘What ever did he tell her?’

‘He told her mama just doesn't like the food.’ 

Sansa groans and leans her head back in the pillows, ‘Ugh! _Why_?’

‘I assume he believed it to be the most reasonable answer.’ 

‘Never leave the reasonable answers to Robb!’

‘I'm terribly sorry, but as I've told you, she doesn't like me very much.’ 

‘Can't imagine why.’ Sansa mutters. 

‘What?’

‘Never mind! We’ll have to tell her now. Gods! What if she thinks she can spit her food out each time she doesn't enjoy the taste?’ 

‘Explain to her it's not okay?’ Rhaenys stupidly suggests and that angers Sansa even more, ‘Calm down, Sans.’ She adds and Sansa wants to smack her. 

‘Jon can explain it to her! I'm sure he'd love that, it'll be punishment for forcing a measter on me unannounced.’ 

‘Well, it was my idea, you don't look so well, you know. Are you sure you don't want to-‘

‘I do not want to go back to Winterfell.’ 

‘I was going to suggest a bath, but yes, Winterfell is a lovely idea as well.’ 

‘I will stay here.’ 

Rhaenys rolls her eyes, ‘Sansa, must you really-‘

‘The Others themselves will have to drag me away from Jon. My place it by his side, I shall never leave him again.’ 

‘Careful there or I'll be the one to puke over your dress this time.’ 

‘Where is Freia?’

‘Robb is telling her a story I believe, Jon has infected him with magic nursemaid skills.’ 

Sansa can't help but glare, ‘Yes, I have been wanting to speak with you about that specific issue.’ 

‘Issue? What issue?’

Sansa glares some more, ‘you lied to me.’ 

‘What? How? I have not!’ Rhaenys shoots up and then a moment of realization hits her, ‘I never lied.’ 

‘When?’ Is all Sansa asks. 

‘That does not concern you.’ Rhaenys simply says and she leans back. 

‘Robb loves you, I think.’ Sansa says, experience taught her that she needs to soften Rhaenys’ walls before she'll get a decent word out of her. 

‘ _Yes_ , well…’ 

‘Robb wants babies.’ 

‘Sansa I-‘

‘’You can't have babies.’ 

‘Don't say it like that!’ There is a certain anger in Rhaenys’ voice then when she straightens her back and it makes Sansa take a deep breath. 

‘I'm sorry.’ 

‘It is not a… you cannot joke about it.’ 

‘I definitely did not mean to.’ 

Rhaenys nods once, ‘Please don't mention it to Jon.’ 

‘Are you asking me to lie to my lord husband?’

‘I'm asking you not to mention the intimate details of my marriage bed to my brother.’ 

Despite her intent not to joke Sansa can't help but laugh, ‘Details? You know nothing of details!’

‘ _Shut up_ , Sansa!’ 

The blush on her sister-in-law’s face makes Sansa grin, ‘You liked it?’

‘I told you to shut up!’

‘You must've mistaken me for a servant, for I do not follow your commands.’ 

Rhaenys gets up with a shrug and crosses her arms, ‘I will not discuss it with you.’ 

‘If you shan't discuss it with me I'll have to discuss it with Jon.’ Sansa decides and Rhaenys sinks back down. 

‘Are you blackmailing me?’

Sansa shakes her head slowly, ‘Why? Gods no, there is no need. You, however, need to think about what on earth it is you want.’ 

‘What it is I want?’

‘Do you want Robb?’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Do _you_ , want _Robb_? Because last time we spoke of him you specifically mentioned an annulment to me. I do hope you have come to realize such a thing is less much of a possibility now.’ 

Rhaenys hides her red face behind her hands and then shakes her head, ‘I cannot, Sansa.’ She says, ‘I cannot think of it, I shall lose my wits.’ 

‘I think you need more than my brother to lose your wits.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head and the tears in the corners of her eyes wipe the grin off Sansa's face. 

‘Rhaenys…’ Sansa sighs and stretches her hand out to grab Rhaenys’, ‘I truly don't mean to… but you cannot deny this changes things. Robb believes… he has a right to know what his future may or may not _contain_.’ 

‘Stop it.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘Guilt has been eating me from the inside out ever since it happened.’ 

‘I'm not sure if… you won't feel better until you tell him.’ 

‘I highly doubt that.’ 

‘I felt better when I told Jon. Perhaps his response will… be not so bad either.’ 

‘That's different!’

‘How?’

‘You killed _Joffrey_! Everyone wanted Joffrey dead! You've never… this is not at all the same, this is _worse_.’ 

Sansa bites her lower lip and then shakes her head, ‘Cant believe you love him.’ She feels like laughing again, ‘What do the two of you ever even converse about?’

Rhaenys looks up as if that question disgusts her and she clearly decides not to answer. 

‘I mean, Robb is a wonderful man, very brave and honorable, but he's not as practical as you are.’ 

‘ _Practical_?’ 

‘Don't pretend as if you have no idea what it is I mean.’ 

‘Perhaps I enjoy his company because he's _not_ practical. In any case, Robb can be very practical!’

Sansa can't help but grin, ‘Can he? I'm happy for you, if you know what I mean. I hope you know what I mean.’ 

Rhaenys pulls her upper lip up and shakes her head, ‘You are disgusting.’ 

‘You have to tell him, I mean that much.’ Sansa says, pulling her face straight and serious. 

‘I know I do, I shall.’ 

‘Good.’ Sansa nods, ‘If you won't tell Robb I'll tell Jon.’ 

‘You’re blackmailing me again!’ 

‘I'm not blackmailing! I'm warning.’ 

‘That is not…’ Rhaenys pulls her hand back and throws her long hair over her shoulder, ‘I'll find a way, I always do.’ 

‘Hhhmhh, oh yes.’ 

Rhaenys looks at Sansa's belly, ‘Let’s hope the measter is right.’ She says. 

‘Do not change the subject.’ 

‘Jon needs an heir.’ 

‘So does Robb.’ 

‘Robb’s not fighting for his rightful claim, if Robb drops dead to the ground, he has _two_ younger brothers.’ 

‘Jon has a daughter.’ 

‘Jon needs a son.’ 

Sansa presses her hands to her belly, ‘We’ll have a son, eventually, even if this baby is a girl, we have plenty of time, I'm young and so is he.’ 

‘Perhaps we should drink to wishful thinking tonight.’ 

‘I don't feel like drinking, I feel like sleeping.’ Sansa looks at the closed tent flaps, ‘Can't you go and get Freia for me? She must be brought to bed.’ 

‘You need a Septa. Especially when it's a son. And a wetnurse. I'll find you one, if you like. A wetnurse has great influence on the child, I have read how-‘

‘No wetnurse ever.’ Sansa says, ‘I want to nurse my own children.’ 

‘It's not about what you want, if it's for the child’s benefit to-‘

‘I'll nurse my child myself.’ Sansa can't help but raise her eyebrows warningly. 

‘You are a stubborn person.’ 

Sansa points at her belly, ‘My womb, my child, my choices.’ 

‘It's not your child. If it's a son he belongs to the Iron Throne.’ 

Sansa pulls the blankets up to cover her belly, she crosses her arms and keeps her gaze down, ‘Ever repeat these words and I shall never look at you again.’ 

‘You know it's true.’ 

‘I know I do not ever need to hear you say it again.’ 

‘Sansa-‘

‘Shut up, Rhaenys.’ 

‘I know it's hard to hear it, but-‘

‘You do not know, you are not a mother.’ Sansa knows these words must sting, but in the moment she doesn't care and when she finally looks up to find Rhaenys wearing her mask of indifference she can't help but feel furious. 

‘A prince of Dragonstone-‘

‘Perhaps it's a girl.’ Sansa says, ‘Will you be disappointed if it is?’ 

‘It would be an inconvenience.’ 

‘Children are _never_ an inconvenience.’ Sansa wriggles in the cot to make herself comfortable, ‘And after all you took from me, the last thing I'll allow you to take as if it's yours is my unborn son.’ 

‘Sansa I have not-‘

‘Just go.’ 

‘I only speak the truth.’ 

‘That is what you always hide behind when you're being your unnecessarily rude self.’ 

Rhaneys’ eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear under her hair, ‘Excuse me?’

‘I told you to go.’ 

‘I do not see how-‘

‘Am I not the queen? When I tell you to leave it means you must leave.’ 

‘You're angry with me.’ Rhaenys looks as if she has absolutely no idea why that could possibly be.

‘I'll love this child, son or daughter, it will please me equally, and I shall nurse it from my own breast, sing it to sleep every night, bath it myself, birth it myself, carry it myself and keep it to myself. The Iron Throne can melt for all I care.’ 

‘That sounds all very lovely but a future king belongs to the crown. And you cannot raise a future king, you are not fit. You know how to sew and how to dance, but kings need to be taught how politics work, how to be diplomates, how to listen and speak, how to fight wars if they must.’ 

‘Let me guess… who knows all about these things… _You_? Will you raise him? If you think I'll let you turn my son in an icy doll you are exceptionally mistaken.’ 

‘No an _icy doll_ , and _of course_ I will not raise your son for you, but surely you can see that his upbringing will be for the greater good.’

‘I may not teach him Old Valyrian but children need their mother.’ 

‘I’m not saying they don't, I won't keep the children from you, but-‘ 

‘You say that as if I need your reassurance, I absolutely do not. You couldn't take them if you wanted to, they're my children, not yours, you have no say, not now, not ever.’ 

‘You can't deny their place in this world. Freia’s whole life must be dedicated to the realm, that is why she was born.’ 

‘She was born because I and Jon loved each other, because the Gods gifted her life, gave her to me, because they blessed me with motherhood.’

‘Yes, well, that's all very enchanting but-‘

‘Motherhood is my greatest duty, I shall never neglect it.’ 

‘Of course not, you're not listening to what I say. It is only that… certain things are custom, they are the way they are for reasons and it is not up to you, to change them.’ 

‘ _Certain things_?’

‘A queen has a wetnurse.’

‘I do not want a wetnurse!’

‘Perhaps it is not about what you want.’

‘I won't even discuss this.’ Sansa wants to turns around, make Rhaenys face her back, but then she says a thing that brings goosebumps to her arms.

‘The prince of Dragonstone lives at Dragonstone, have you ever thought of that?’ 

Sansa feels sick again, though there's no urge for her to throw up, ‘ _Never_.’ 

‘Your son is not even born yet, we must win this war first, as well. We can discuss it when it's relevant.’ 

‘It will never be relevant.’ 

‘Sansa, it's _tradition_.’ 

‘My children stay with me.’ 

‘The Targaryen kings have always-‘

‘The Lannisters can live at Dragonstone, not my son. Not now, not when he's born, not ever, no.’ 

‘I didn't expect you to take it lightly, but it is-‘

‘Stop talking as if this is something natural you must convince me of.’ 

‘Sansa-‘

‘You have no say at all.’ 

‘Have you never thought of this? You will be the mother to the future king, lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’ 

‘It will be a _baby_ … _my_ baby.’ 

‘Your babies will never be a bastard’s babies. I know that is the magical future you once saw ahead, but that future is gone. Jon is king, as his queen you have responsibilities, sacrifices to make.’ 

‘Not my children Rhaenys, I have sacrificed _enough_ , but I will not bend when it's about this.’ 

‘This is not _about_ you.’ 

‘No, of course it's not, this is about _you_.’ 

‘How?’

‘You have this vision, of Jon as a king, of my son after him… _saving_ the Targaryen dynasty, proving to the world and all the rest of them that the dragons can rule, that they're good and just.’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Rhaenys chooses not to deny it. 

‘My child will never be a future king to me. To me… it will be a child of my own blood, that I grew in my own womb and brought into the world with my own strength.’ 

‘Stop being so poetic, Sansa, for the sake of the Gods. Reality won't let you ignore the truth.’ 

‘I make my own truth.’ Sansa turns around in her cot and finally manages to make Rhaenys face her back. 

‘You're being stubborn.’ 

‘That is something no one has ever accused you of.’ 

‘You can nurse if you like.’ 

‘I don't need your approval.’ 

‘I'm giving it still.’ 

‘Because you think it is of value to me, but you're mistaken.’ 

‘You must be tired.’ Rhaenys decides and Sansa turns around with a jerk. 

‘I do not need you to find excuses for my behavior, I mean every word I speak.’ 

‘I am terribly proud of you.’ 

‘What's _that_ supposed to mean?’ 

‘You and I both know-‘

‘Just _go_.’ Sansa turns back around and when she hears Rhaenys move she closes her eyes in the hope of being left alone but she finds herself disappointed. 

‘I'm sorry.’ Rhaenys says and she lays her hand to Sansa's shoulder when she sinks down to sit on the side of the cot. 

‘For what exactly?’

‘For upsetting you.’ 

‘You don't understand, Rhaenys.’ Sansa says, ‘I'm very sorry to say it, but you never will.’ 

At that Rhaenys stands up, ‘Perhaps I won't, perhaps that makes me see it all more clearly, for what I said is still the reality of things.’ 

Sansa wipes her nose, ‘It’s not.’ she says, and then she gets up, from the cot, to stand up, ‘The reality is that I have lived through that experience, and I will not ever let anyone do that to me again.’

‘Of course not, it's not at all what I suggested, I-‘

‘It's _exactly_ what you suggested.’

‘I'm sorry, I should not have brought it up.’

‘Remind yourself to never do it again.’

‘I'll speak of if with Jon when-‘

‘Do you think his response will be different?’

Rhaenys chooses not to respond to that.

Sansa makes sure to look her sister-by-law in the eye when she says, ‘I feel I perhaps must remind you that I am queen, not you. You may walk around as if you are, speak to high and low lords as if you are, it all bothers me very little, but don't command me as if our roles are reversed, because at the end of both our days, they are not. I can do as I like, because when it comes down to it, I'm Jon’s queen, and Jon is your king. Don't doubt that he'll always choose me over you and if I must, I'll have him make his pick, I promise.’

_Love no one but your children, at that a mother has no choice_ , Cersei said. Cersei Lannister protected her cubs like a lioness, and Sansa shall protect her pups like a wolf. 

‘You make that sound like a threat.’ 

Sansa wants to shrug but decides it would take her too much effort, ‘Don't interfere with my children and keep your godless stone-cold opinions to yourself when it comes to the way _we_ choose to raise them.’ When Sansa says it, she knows for truth that she means it as a threat. 

Rhaenys chooses not to respond to that warning and she finally leaves the tent. 

Sansa knows she was too harsh, that she could have chosen her words more carefully, that she did not need to be so direct, so painful, but at the same time, she did. What she said was undoubtedly cruel, but necessary all the same. 

Sansa gladly passes all the political duties of consort to Jon’s sister, but the upbringing of her children is not among these duties, and Rhaenys may believe that a future king is property of the Seven Kingdoms, and therefore a state matter- Sansa does not. 

Sansa does not interfere with matters of politics, war and government, only when asked, only when necessary, both because she hates it and because she respects and knows her own abilities, but in exchange, she expects others, _Rhaenys_ not to interfere with matters that _she_ knows nothing about. Her children and, in many ways, Jon’s sanity. 

Sansa refuses to let Rhaenys under-appreciate and underestimate both her influence and her strong-will. 

When she drops herself back down in the cot she feels like crying, but the exhaustion is too great to either cry or truly fall asleep. She doesn't want to, she won't drift off until Freia's in the tent, save and deep in her dreams. 

It doesn't take too long, thank the gods, and Jon places their daughter in her lap, carefully and skillfully. Sansa helps Freia in her nightgown and she's happy to find the girl is too tired to angrily protest when her hair is brushed. 

‘Did you put her in a bath?’

Jon nods, ‘Washed her hair with oils.’ 

Sansa nods and when Freia crawls in her lap, tired and cuddly, she takes a deep breath to take in the scent of vanilla soap. 

_You’re mine_ , she wants to tell her baby girl, as she pulls her close, rubs her chubby cheek with her thumb and presses her lips to the curly dark hair, _I won't let the Iron Throne touch you_. Sansa won't let them take this away from her. As she looks at Jon, the way he takes his doublet of and sighs at the release, she wonders how much the Iron Throne already stole. Two years of their life together, three moonturns of seeing her daughter grow up. Freedom. Simple happiness. Innocence and ignorance. _Not this baby_ Sansa swears then. Rhaenys and her damn throne steal Sansa's husband from her, every day again, fill his days with headaches and worries, but they won't steal a carefree childhood from her children. _Never_. Rhaegar and his stupid will be damned. 

‘Freia…’ Jon says, he takes her hands in his, as Sansa sits her down on her knee, ‘Mama and I have to tell you something.’ 

They have tried to discuss how to inform their daughter that somewhere in the distant future she'll no longer be their only little pumpkin and they haven’t really been able to agree on how to handle that exactly. 

Sansa wanted to tell her as soon as possible but Jon believed it better to wait and she suspects it's because he's nervous it might raise questions he doesn't want to answer in another twenty years. 

Freia bounces her little legs up and down against the side of the cot and fidgets with her hands, plays with the plain fabric of her white cotton skirt as she leans her tired head to Sansa's upper arm. 

Jon lays his hand on Sansa’s small non-existing bump, ‘There is something in your mama's tummy.’ 

Sansa grins at Jon then, because she feels so excited suddenly. There's a baby in her tummy. A real one, for four moonturns already. It has hands and feet and moves. A little brother or sister for Freia. That's madness. 

‘Do you want to know what it is?’

Freia frowns at her father, seems confused, a bit apprehensive, even worried, and then shakes her head. 

‘Okay, well, I'm going to tell you anyway.’ 

Sansa keeps a careful eye on him when Jon presses a reassuring smile to his face, ‘Cake?’ Freia guesses and Jon fails to stop himself from laughing out loud. 

‘No!’ Freia looks a little hurt at the way he laughs and he immediately shuts up, ‘No- I mean, yes! Of course there's cake, but something else too. You know what it means to be a big sister, don't you?’

Freia nods.

‘You were in your mama’s tummy once. Before you were born, when you were a baby.’

Freia still seems extremely confused and Sansa decides the time has come to help. She places her hand over Jon’s, ‘Babies grow in the tummies of mama's, where they're safe.’

‘Something else is growing in mama’s belly now, another baby.’ 

‘A baby?’

‘Aye, a little teeny tiny baby, and when it will come out, we’ll have a baby and you'll be a sister.’ 

‘Sibster?’ 

‘Yes,’ Sansa nods and she can't stop beaming because this feels like such a magical moment, it's something she dreamed of so often, and for a long time thought impossible, ‘When mama and papa have another baby that makes you a sister.’ 

'And me?’ Freia asks, ‘Am I only one sibster?’

Sansa pulls Freia closer to her chest, ‘Freia, do you know what a sister is?’

Freia nods. 

‘Aunt Rhaenys is Papa’s sister because they have the same papa.’ 

‘Papa is papa!’

‘Yes of course, he is your papa, but he has a papa himself too, everyone has a papa.’ Sansa explains. 

‘Where?’

‘Papa’s papa is not alive anymore, but he'll always be his papa, remember?’

‘Why?’

‘Like I will always be your mama. And uncle Robb is my brother, because we have the same mama. Grandmama is our mama. Do you understand?’

Freia nods again. 

‘You see, the thing… you’re going to be a sister too.’ 

‘Sibster?’

‘ _Sister_.’ Sansa pulls on Freia’s little hand and places it to her flat belly, ‘You will have a little brother or sister, and it's in my tummy now, it's growing so it can be big enough to be born, like you were. Before you were born you were in my tummy too, growing. And I protected you until you decided that you wanted to be born.’

‘Blother or sibster?’ Freia asks. 

Sansa nods, ‘It's in my belly.’ 

‘Why?’ 

Sansa bites her lower lip as she tries to think of the proper answer, ‘Because the gods gave it to me.’ 

‘I helped too.’ Jon says and he laughs but stops instantly when Sansa gives him a look. 

‘And you'll be a big sister Freia, like aunt Rhaenys is papa’s big sister, that is a very important role.’ 

Jon re-find himself and strokes through Freia's hair, ‘It's a really important job, being a big sister, it means you'll have to protect your little brother or sister and always take care of him, always, even if you don't like him.’ 

‘Or her.’ Sansa adds and she gently strokes some curls from Freia's confused face, ‘You can do that, right? You're a big girl, you can be a big sister, you'll make mama proud?’

Freia nods then, and smiles, ‘When?’

‘Nobody knows.’ Jon smiles and Sansa feels like kissing him. 

‘When the baby is big enough.’ 

‘When mama’s tummy is as huge as Ghost’s head.’ Jon adds and she's going to make him pay for that comment. 

‘Ghost is _head_?’

‘My tummy is going to grow, because the baby will too, it’s normal. You'll see, it's not scary, it's nice, at one point the baby is going to move and you can feel it.’ 

‘He's going to kick you.’ Jon says, ‘With his feet.’ 

‘Kick me?’

‘She won't mean to! She'll mean to… she'll say hello.’

‘You can say hello too.’ Jon says, ‘It means he's excited to meet you, it's as if... as if he's reaching out for you, but mama’s tummy is in the way.’ 

‘It's nice.’ Sansa says again, ‘Being a big sister. I am aunt Arya’s big sister and Bran and Rickon’s… it's really nice. Being a big sister is a very important.’ 

Freia nods and looks away from her mother to her father who smiles sweetly at her and then Jon manages to says something that brings tears to her eyes, as many things bring tears to her eyes lately, ‘You'll always be our little girl Freia.’ He promises, ‘Always, no matter how many babies are in mama’s tummy, you'll always be my girl, okay? No matter what happens, we love you, always and forever… me and mama both. Understand?’

Freia grins and leans over to wrap her skinny arms around Jon’s neck, ‘Lob-you too, papa!’ 

‘Come here, sweetling, it’s time for the great wide somewhere.’ Sansa whispers and when Freia lets go of Jon, she allows her mother to put her down in the cot. 

‘Hoooooow many sleepy nights?’ Freia asks. 

‘Until the baby is born?’ 

‘Hhhmhhm. I tell Ghost and u-wicorn!’

‘Oh… so many days, uncountable.’ 

Freia holds both her hands up, ‘Ten?’

Sansa shakes her head and kisses the little fingers, which makes Freia giggle, ‘Many, many more. I'll tell you, is that okay?’ 

‘Not is… soon?’ 

Sansa shakes her head apologetically and Freia seems genuinely disappointed. 

‘Blother _or_ sibster?’ Freia asks again, just to be sure. 

‘Yes, but we can't know that yet, we'll have to wait and see.’ 

‘I want sibsters!’ Freia says, ‘Aunt Arba is a sibster!’

‘And aunt Rhaenys too.’ 

That makes the prospect of a sister suddenly a great deal less attractive and Sansa wonders what it is exactly that makes Freia so little fond of Jon’s older sister. 

‘Song?’

‘Song of stars!’

Sansa crawls into bed with Freia and pulls her close against her when she sings and even before it's over Freia's eyes are closed and Sansa snuggles her nose in the full head of curls on top of Freia's sleeping head, resting on her mother's shoulder. 

‘Jon…’ Sansa whispers when he gets in the cot with her and wriggles close to her back, ‘You’ll protect me from Rhaenys’ meddling won't you?’ 

‘Why?’

‘She told me to get a wetnurse, because it's better for the baby.’ 

‘What does Rhaenys know about such things?’

‘It's just that-‘ 

‘Remember that one time I told you not to listen to all the things Rhaenys says?’

‘Rhaenys never shies back from speaking the truth.’ 

‘She's shies back from hearing it though.’ Jon huffs and he presses a kiss to her neck, ‘Don't worry about Rhaenys, you can handle her.’ 

‘You think so?’ 

‘Of course.’ He sounds so convinced it makes her smile.

‘Will our son have to grow up at Dragonstone?’

‘We don't have a son.’ 

‘You know what I mean.’ 

‘I can't recall Aegon ever living there.’ 

‘So?’

‘So, there's your answer. Dragonstone is terribly gloomy, not a nice place for a child to live… and how am I ever going to teach him how to ride his pony and shoot his arrows when he lives all over there?’

‘But it's custom.’ 

‘If this would all be custom I'd be married to Rhaenys and we would have both killed each other some time years ago.’ 

Sansa can't help but chuckle. 

‘Custom be damned.’ Jon ads before he presses his lips to her shoulder. 

‘It went well, don't you think? She seems excited.’ 

‘Freia? Of course. Do you think she'll be jealous?’ 

‘Not _jealous_ … we’ll have to wait and see. I'd hate it for them to become a new, younger version of Sansa and Arya.’ Sansa says. 

‘I won't ever let that happen.’ Jon decides. 

‘Father may have promised himself the same once.’ 

‘Don't worry, Sans. It'll be alright.’ Jon says and Sansa realizes for the hundredth time that day how lucky she is. It's what she missed most, she sometimes thinks; hearing him tell her not to worry, and her closing her eyes, smiling to herself as she actually believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll see you guys somewhere next week, probably Sunday. Have a wonderful week and please let me know what you think!x


	50. Queen of Love and Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’m sure my father didn't pluck the roses of my mother's crown by himself…’ he waits a second and then avoids her eyes by looking at something between the trees instead when he adds, ‘Queen of love and beauty is all he ever crowned her.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is chapter was never meant to be posted, I wrote it so long ago, and it doesn't really serve any purpose to the plot nor does anything really happen, so if there are people here who don't care about Jonsa happiness, want politics, plots, Rhaenys or Freia and are not interested in reading Jon and Sansa going on a date, you can probably skip this. There's a bit of Jon/Rhaegar character development, but it's not super duper significant and I'm ashamed to admit Jon and Sansa both are as ooc as I'm ever going to write them. I nearly NEARLY finished writing this thing, and I know I can waste a chapter on 'fluff' without overall spending too much words on nonsense.  
> I was gonna post it separately once, and I really wanted to gift that to Harumscarum, but unfortunately that's not possible now, so yeah, still, this one's for you Rina ;)
> 
> In any case... enjoy!

**Sansa**

Sansa is a little irritated when Jon barks into her tent in the early morrow, grinning like a boy of ten and six years, his eyes bright and awake, his hair a bit of a mess and his hands sweaty and sticky. 

‘Jon! Leave me, I was finally asleep.’ 

He pulls the blankets off her and she yelps. Sansa shoots up to grab it but he keeps it from her reach, ‘Come with me,’ he says, ‘I have some hours that I believe I can spend hiding away from view.’ 

‘What are you saying?’ Sansa hugs herself to protect her bare arms from the sudden cold. 

Jon offers her a hand which she eyes with suspicion, ‘Do you want to accompany me on a travel full of enchanted and mystical discoveries?’

‘ _No_.’ She says, ‘I was finally sleeping, it’s a little hard lately, considering all my organs are being pushed up and away and wherever by the growing womb, never mind Freia who had a nightmare last night, and all these _godsawful_ men behind the canvas who are _supposed_ to protect me but all they ever do is mock me and-‘

‘That's why, sweetling, you need to relax a little, let me court you.’ 

‘Jon!’ She manages to grab her blanket, ‘This is not funny! Leave me, I'm tired and exhausted and soar.’ 

‘I'll make it better.’ He says, climbing in the cot with her as she wraps the blanket back around herself.

‘Please don't make too much effort.’ She says with a huff. 

‘Sans…’ he scoops her displeased body closer and scratches her cheek with his beard when he clumsily kisses her cheek, ‘Please? I could finally shake these nagging lordlings and their countless sons, brothers, uncles, nephews and cousins off… come with me? Before Rhaenys finds me.’ 

‘Where do you want to go?’ She asks, her eyes frowned hesitantly. 

‘Somewhere… where we can be alone.’ 

‘No.’ She says, ‘I know this is some uncomfortable fantasy of yours and you know I'm always happy to try new things, but I'm not _that woman_ , this is-‘

He bursts out laughing but quickly stops when he sees her humiliated furred brows, ‘That's not what I mean, I just thought… we could spend some time together. We never do, I'm always busy and I miss you.’ 

‘It's not my fault you're always busy, and it doesn’t make you entitled to my time whenever you wish. I have turned into the lady in the tower, waiting for her dear lord husband to return from his daily heavy duties, always ready to-‘

‘You're such a impeccable lady wife…’ he says grabbing her hands and he starts kissing her neck, scratching her some more, ‘I'm sorry I've neglected you.’ 

‘If that is the word you wish to use.’ 

He grins with his lips pressed to the bone of her jaw, ‘Sans, I mean it, I've been wanting to take you with me somewhere- some special place for some time now. You'll love it, I promise.’ 

‘I meant it, I don't do special places.’ 

He laughs some more, pushes himself off her and she can't help but smile to herself when she allows him to help her up too. 

He ties her in an ugly, brown, unwashed, dusty and smelly dress and then pulls her on her hand out of the tent. 

‘Don't be ridiculous.’ She tells him as he pretends to look over his shoulder. 

He clearly can't help himself but laugh again, though he tries to keep it in, muffling the sound behind his hand in a way that reminds her of Freia, ‘Rhaenys has a tendency of miraculously showing her arrogant little face at the most unexpected times with the most tiring demands.’ 

‘Don't I know it.’ 

‘Not the way I do, trust me.’ He says and he tickles her nose with his fingers.

‘Seriously. Where _are_ we going?’ he obviously guides her towards the horses and she prefers to stay away from there, Freia gets her love for horses from her father. Sansa doesn't like horse riding and least of all she likes stables. All these awful flies and the smell of what comes off these beasts. How do people stand it? She can't remember the last time she saddled a horse by herself. 

Sansa realizes she probably doesn't smell much better herself. She glances at Jon who grins at her, all excited because of their little unplanned escape. Why couldn't they have simply stayed inside the tent? It was relatively warm with a cot that feels nice to her back every now and then, when she's really tired. As tired as she is now. Though she feels disgusting she can handle his natural scent. Maybe it's because it's Jon, maybe her mind is playing with her because she shouldn't like the smell of his sweat, yet she does, she always has. 

‘You'll see.’ He says and once he finds his horse he helps her in the saddle, waving at Freia in the distance, who's sitting in the grass with Robb, making, what looks like a sandcastle, and doesn't seem at all disturbed by Jon and Sansa taking off and leaving her behind. 

He gets up on the horse himself too and tells the guards ready to follow them to stay behind, ‘No, don't, I can look after my own lady wife, thank you!’ 

And he stirs the horse to move.

Sansa doesn't like riding, so she doesn't like riding with Jon either, which is something they rarely ever do. Jon may have been a bastard when they married, he was still a king’s bastard, so never short on coin. 

Despite her discomforts, even Sansa has to admit, it's nice to spend time together, even when it's like this. His body is warm against her back, his breath tickles her neck and every time he laughs she feels it roll through his lungs. His voice is husky yet sweet as he whispers in her ear and every now and then he presses his lips to the valley where her neck becomes her shoulder. 

He pulls her off the black stallion called Everglow at the rim of a meadow of bright scarlet autumn flowers and when she turns around she blinks and finds herself staring at the way sunlight flashes on an icy thin waterfall as it plunges over the lips of sheer stone cliffs. 

Sansa feels her sixteen-year-old self again because of the pure beauty of it, ‘Oh, it’s so pretty!’

He grins at her entranced face and then presses soap in her hands, ‘They gave me one that smelled of lavender but I know you hate that.’ 

‘I don't understand.’ 

He makes a head gesture towards the pool, ‘You should wash, you stink.’ 

She smacks his shoulder and he laughs. 

‘Seriously Sans, you can't stand feeling filthy, do you think I haven't noticed? Just get in the water.’ 

‘I can't get in there!’

‘Why not?’ 

‘Because it's… it's nature! There might be fish in there, or other creatures.’ 

Jon grins, ‘If they hurt you I’ll kill them- anyway, haven't you ever before gone out swimming in the wild nature? I used to swim in Blackwater Bay all the time.’

She looks from the water back at him, ‘You know I haven't.’ 

He can't come up with a defense there and pulls on the leeches on the back of her dress, ‘You'll like it, you can wash your hair.’ 

‘It's far too cold.’ 

‘No, it's not, it's a hot spring.’

‘How can you be sure it's safe? What if there are-‘

‘Because Rhaenys goes here on a daily basis.’

‘She does?’ Sansa turns around with a jerk and now she feels betrayed, ‘Why hasn’t she told me! That's hideous.’ 

Jon shrugs, ‘You never before mentioned hating the lack of bathing water. I'm sure she would've told you if you'd mentioned it.’ 

‘Jon, that is-‘

‘Sans just get in the water.’ 

‘Are you sure it's warm?’

‘Get in the water!’

‘Fine!’ she pulls everything but her smallclothes off, then waggles over to the rim and peeks down at the water. It's so deep and black it seems certain to end in some hell and the uncertainty of it, the darkness, causes her to shiver. 

She looks back at Jon, who smiles reassuringly and Sansa decides right there and then, that the water can’t possibly be worse than the layer of filth that covers her whole body, head to toe. She jumps in, avoiding the muddy water bank, and sinks down with her head under water. She comes back up with a gasp and is pleased to find that the water is indeed warm. 

She triples with her legs to keep herself up and splashes around with her arms in a way that must look ridiculous because it makes Jon laugh. 

‘You coming too?’ This really is nice. It's warm and clean and it smells of grass. She feels the filth cleansing from her body. 

‘Naah, I have to stay on guard in case someone shows up and sees you naked.’ 

‘Standing on guard won't help, they'll see all of it anyway.’

He shakes his head and turns back towards the horse to pad its neck, ‘I'll have to kill them so they won't tell a soul what you look like. Nobody but me is allowed to know that.’ 

Sansa rolls her eyes, ‘I can't believe you just said that… so disappointing.’ She accidentally swallows a gulp of water and coughs as she makes her way to the actual waterfall. She feels like a child as she climbs her way up the slippery rocks and the moment she reaches the falling and clattering water she yelps, ‘It’s cold!’

Jon laughs again, ‘That’s the funny thing about hot springs, I suppose.’ 

Sansa moves away from it and almost slips. 

‘Careful.’ He unnecessarily tells her and were they still in the tent the lack of necessity would probably annoy her, but it doesn’t now.

Sansa hugs herself, digs her nails in the skin of her upper arms, closes her eyes firmly and sucks her lungs full of air so cold it bites her throat before she walks through the waterfall all the same, ignoring her own shivering. She's not sure why, mayhaps because she can, or because she likes the feeling of water falling down on top of her like the heaviest rainfall, tickling her skin with goosebumps. The cold and itchy touch hardens her nipples and when she cups them, her eyes open again, heavy because of the drips in her eyelashes, she can feel the ache she remembers. They're growing and soon they'll fill themselves with milk again so she can feed her child. 

The cotton of her smallclothes sticks to her skin and she moves her hands down to take her belly in her hands. She can't wait to feel the kicking, she remembers how it first feels like a little flutter, a tiny fish swimming around in your belly. 

Sansa turns around to smile at Jon who stands there, still patting his horse, with his mouth opened a little as if something surprised him, keeping his eyes off her for reasons she would not have guessed four years ago, but now she can see it by the way he turns away from her and it makes her smirk. He's such a boy.

‘Throw the soap?’ She asks, holding her hands out to him. 

He only nods and after catching the dark-green soap between her hands she lifts it to wash her hair, which is nicer than nice. 

‘Jon!’ She calls after moments of silence, ‘Jon, are you still there?’

‘Yeah.’ He says and when she turns she finds him sitting in the grass, plucking the red weedy flowers, tying them together in a flower crown. 

She swims her way back to the water bend and he helps her climb out as she nearly falls back in, slipping and sliding on the muddy side. 

He wraps his cloak around her shaking shoulders and adds to that his own arms. Her chattering teeth are forced to stop doing that the moment she presses her face in his doublet. He rubs her upper arms with his hands to warm her up and after standing there for a while, leaning against him so weakly she knows she'll drop down to the ground if he'll let her go, he moves away just enough to place the crown on top of her head, ‘I crown you queen of love and beauty.’ He tells her. 

She grins, ‘I thought you never wanted to crown me that, ever?’

‘It's not a crown of winter roses.’ Jon shrugs, ‘It's a crown of weeds.’ 

Sansa giggles and moves her hands up to touch and straighten it on top of her head, ‘Well, thank you still.’ 

‘I’m sure my father didn't pluck the roses of my mother's crown by himself…’ he waits a second and then avoids her eyes by looking at something between the trees instead when he adds, ‘Queen of love and beauty is all he ever crowned her.’

'I hope that doesn't make you feel indebted to crown me anything grander.’ 

‘I do feel obligated because of it, but not to crown you, though you have such a pretty head for it.’

‘Do I?’

He smiles a lopsided grin, takes her head between his hands and kisses the crown of it.

Sansa curls her fingers around his wrists as he leans his forehead to hers and she's glad to find that his eyes are wide and sweet, avoiding hers no longer, ‘You must think of him so often.’ 

‘All the time.’ He admits and he drops his hands and his arms fall to his sides, ‘I feel I never truly knew him- I only met him when he was long dead.’ 

‘I can understand that.’ She hates how they haven't had this conversation long before, ‘He said you were just like your mother, just as good. He kept saying her name. The day before he died, I mean. I was there and he… Rhaenys told me how her name was the last thing he said before he passed away.’ 

‘I know, she told me too.’ 

‘He loved her, Jon.’ she says, ‘Your father made mistakes in his life, surely, but he loved your mother and that's a good thing, I know it scares you because you never believed it-‘

He finally looks at her again when he cuts her words off, ‘It doesn't scare me. I always knew he loved her.’ He moves his hand to pull her wet hair from her shoulder to her back, ‘Do you want to know what scares me?’ 

Sansa nods though she's not actually sure. She remembers how Tyrion once told her most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. 

‘If you were not my lady wife I'd steal you too. I’d take you with me to some tower where we could be together and if you'd spread your legs for me and told me to love you I'd probably put a bastard in you too. I'm just as much a fool as he was. I understand him now. _That_ scares me.’ 

‘But I _am_ your lady wife, and you could never put a bastard in me, ifs don't matter, you will never make your father’s mistakes, we’re not repeating history, we’re nothing like them.’ 

'I suppose we aren't.’ He says and he rubs her cheek with his thumb. 

‘He told me you are the best thing the Gods ever granted him.’ 

‘It wasn't the Gods.’ Jon says and he turns around to pick her heap of clothes from the ground, ‘Let's get you dressed.’

‘Do you want to go back?’

‘I have food. Do you want food?’

‘Is it rabbit?’ She asks, she's sure her voice tells him how undesired rabbit is because it makes him laugh. 

‘Cheese?’

‘Cheese is good.’ 

‘I just think it's better when you're dressed up and ready to run in case we're hijacked by wildlings, a jaguar, or the Others or something else.’ 

Sansa ignores that prospect, 'Maybe next time I can bring Freia, she'll love the swimming.’ 

He doesn't tell her Freia has never tried swimming before, the way she expected him to, ‘Maybe.’ He nods, ‘But you can't go here on your own.’ 

‘We’re on our own now.’ 

‘I can wield a sword.’ 

‘You'll fight a jaguar?’

He grins, ‘I'll skin it too, so you can wear it as a dress, like some savage queen, put its head on your head and all.’ 

‘That's disgusting.’ Sansa says as she puts the bodice on and pulls her arms through her sleeves.

He chuckles at her facial expression, ‘They do that! Wildlings.’ 

‘You once told me they eat the flesh of their killed enemies too.’ 

‘They do that too, yes, sometimes.’ Jon says, smiling to himself as he pats his horse and feeds the beast a carrot. 

‘That's disgusting too.’

‘I hear it doesn't taste that good at all, human flesh, it's very hard to chew.’ Jon says, he leans his cheek to the neck of his horse and the sight makes her smile. So fond of these animals, it's both endearing and incredulous. She sometimes catches him whisper to the beast too, he calls mares _sweet lady_ more often than he calls her sweetling. 

‘Can't be as bad as rabbit.’ Sansa huffs and he chuckles some more. He's laughed more by the side of this waterfall than he has all week, and she’s missed hearing it, ‘You look after yourself, don’t you? I can’t have you go all Targaryen on me.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asks, though he smiles. 

‘Don’t lose your wits.’

He shakes his head and kisses her lips then, only shortly but it surprises her and the way he looks at her afterwards still gives her butterflies, ‘You’ll keep me sane.’ He whispers to her lips, his eyes closed. 

She will bring Freia here, and she'll get him in the water too and they'll bring guards and she'll convince him not to care because they can stand with their backs to her swimming around in her smallclothes. He can play with Freia in the water, he'll love that, it might wipe the frown from his face. He can wash his hair too and he can teach Freia how to float in the water, he loves teaching Freia things, though not as much as she loves watching him teach Freia things. 

Sansa wrings her hair so the water leaks out and she re-braids it more tightly, ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

He just grins as he loosens his horse from the tree again. 

‘Despite me being too stubborn to admit that I really hated the lack of bath.’ 

He throws one of her shoes in her way, ‘Don't worry about it.’ He says and though he still grins she knows that he thinks she wouldn't have the problem of no bath water if she'd just stayed at Winterfell and that makes her feel anxious and nervous and clingy most of all. 

So clingy that she doesn't put her shoes on, ‘We can't go back can we?’

‘We _can_ , it's just that-‘

‘We won't be left alone for a single moment.’ 

‘No.’

‘So we’ll stay here then.’ she doesn't put anything on, nothing, she just pulls her small clothes off, one piece of clothing after another, all of it and when he turns and spots her bare naked in front of him his eyes widen first, then he blushes and hides his face, he nearly giggles when he places his hand in front of his face, ‘Sansa you can't-‘

She'll never find out what it is she can't because he pines her down on top of her many layers of dresses and Sansa wonders if this is what he means when he says wildlings ‘make love in the muck’. He probably doesn't, because this is not muck, and no one can see either, and she does care about that possibility, but still. 

‘You said you don't like special places!’ He pulls on her hair to force her eyes to find his. 

‘We've never done special places before, how could I know.’ 

‘Yes we have.’ He says as he allows her to push his breaches down, ‘Outside on the terrace of the Red Keep, on a bench, during a feast, when you said you wouldn't ever do the thing I like again if I wouldn’t dance with you.’ 

‘I didn't.’ Sansa says and she feels a spoiled annoyance when he pulls his face away from her, to tease her as she tries to kiss him, ‘You did the thing I like though.’ 

‘On the bench.’ 

He finally allows her to kiss him, ‘Until it started raining, remember?’ she whispers to his lips. 

‘Like I would forget.’ He mutters before he pushes in, roughly, with little grace or care, and he grins when she gasps. 

She can't stop laughing for some reason. Probably because he's funny, and he's making a fool out of himself, which is just great because so is she and she loves that, she loves how she is so in love with him, that making a fool out of herself makes her laugh when she's with him. She could never feel embarrassed. 

Her arms are covered in goosebumps and she should be so cold, but she doesn't feel it. He kisses her sloppily, which makes her laugh again, because usually he's so amorous in his kisses. The way her breasts compress against the leather of his doublet makes her shiver and her fingers tremble when she pulls on the laces, until she lays her hand to the bare skin that covers his heart and the touch burns. 

‘Jon-‘ she can't finish what she wanted to say because her voice gets caught in her throat when she gasps as he pushes in too deep. She’s not sure what it was she wanted to say anyway, so it doesn't matter. 

Sansa draws her legs further up and he groans as he places some wet kisses along her collarbone. He grabs her knee and holds it in his hand, his thumb rubbing the inside as he pulls it up. He's relentless in his teasing, more than ever, and that too, makes her laugh. 

‘Stop laughing,’ he laughs, ‘You have to be…’ he doesn't finish his sentence either, just presses his hand to her mouth, which she slaps away and he laughs some more. 

After he rolls off her he glances sideways at her with an amused frown. 

‘That was a fucking stupid idea.’

Sansa turns to her side, her head leaning in her hand when she looks down on him, a broad grin on her face, ‘You want cheese?’

‘Yes? I'm starving.’ 

‘You can get it yourself I’m not moving closer to that horse.’ 

‘Well, never mind then.’ 

Sansa hides her face behind a hand and her ribcage aches when she giggles. This field is not the most comfortable of beds. 

‘Can’t believe that just happened, I can't. Literally the stupidest thing ever.’ 

‘As if you didn't hope this would happen when you brought me here!’

He's very good at pretending when he widens his eyes in shock, ‘No! I mean, I did not!’

‘You started!’

‘That is… you can't… that's not fair! You were naked.’ He turns his gaze down, ‘You still are.’ He grabs a white cotton dress covered in grass stains and throws it at her, ‘Stop being naked!’

Sansa can't stop laughing when she grabs it and puts it on, ‘I want you naked!’ She moves her hand to the belt of the breaches his has already pulled up, ‘You should be naked! You need to get in there!’

He pushes her grabbing hands away, ‘In where?’

‘There!’ She points at the water, ‘I want you clean.’ 

Jon throws some more smallclothes in her way, ‘We can't always have what we want.’ 

She starts slapping him with a shoe, ‘Don't say that to me, you tell Freia the same at least three times a day!’

He laughs as he holds up the other shoe to shield himself, ‘I know! You are her mother, the two of you are so alike! Maybe that is why and I- ow! Stop!’ 

He grabs the shoe, pulls it from her hand and they frolic like little children. The way they always have. Ever since thy got married, that is. They never used to frolic when they were actual children, growing up like siblings in a household too big and too diverse to grow close. She's glad they were never close as children, it might have changed things. She wouldn't want anything different from the way they are now. Not between the two of them. 

‘Fight me Jon Snow!’ She calls when she drops herself down on his back and the broad and happy grin that decorates his face may or may not be her favorite. It's real, his laugh is breathless, hoarse and shaky, careless and young. She makes jokes about it, but it's true. She knows he doesn't often enough feel his age. 

She promised Rhaegar to help him, perhaps this is one of the many ways how she will. She always will. If it means that she must give him some easy, secure, carefree and breezy hours every now and then she'll do it gladly. She'll always feel grateful that she is sometimes the only one who can make him stop brooding. 

When Sansa can't breathe no more, she screams, ‘I yield! Let me go!’

‘You don't yield.’ He says, ‘It's not in your nature to yield.’ 

Sansa grins when he pulls her against his chest, ‘I don't mind yielding to you.’ 

‘I'm sorry, I should have pretended to be beaten.’ 

‘I'm not so easy to fool, my name is not the princess Freia of house Targaryen.’

‘I can fool you, don't tempt me.’ 

‘I suppose it's enough granting when you allow me to cheat all the time.’ He always has. Every time they fight like six-year-old boys she is the only one who is allowed to do the kicking. 

‘Your nails hurt me.’ He says and she immediately kisses a scratch on his cheek. 

‘Sorry.’ 

‘Don't be.’ He says and he pushes her dress back in her face, ‘Please get dressed before some things might occur that will make me hate and detest myself to the end of my days.’ 

‘You’re so dull.’ Sansa says pushing her green dress away, ‘Really super dull. All you do is kinging all day, act all responsible and well-mannered and I want my exciting lord husband back.’ 

‘When was I ever exiting? You've always told me I brood too much.’ 

Sansa pushes him down on his back which makes him hide his grinning face behind his hands, ‘More exciting than this new you.’

‘There's no _new_ me, I've always been me.’ 

Sansa finally feels somewhat a queen, though not the queen they all expect her to be, when she straddles him, dressed in that one, grass stained, sheer underdress, ‘You’re such a father now.’ 

He immediate pulls his hands from his face, ‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing!’

‘It is when you constantly keep telling me to get dressed.’ Sansa leans her head to one side and grins, ‘Freia's not here.’ 

‘I _know_.’ He skates his hands up her body, still a little damp. 

‘So, I can be naked.’ 

‘No! Not in this place.’

‘What's wrong with this place?’

‘People can see!’

‘No one can see it's just you and me.’ 

Jon's eyes move around and peek at the trees, ‘You never know that for the absolute truth.’

Sansa giggles, ‘I want my exciting husband back.’

‘When were you ever an exciting lady wife? You wouldn't even let me kiss you in front of anyone when we were just married- you _still_ don't. You’re duller than dull, as dull as I am.’ 

They grin at each other like fools and Sansa would be more ashamed of anyone seeing that than she is about the nakedness, not with the way he looks at her. His eyes burn the flesh of her skin, as if he tries to memorize it with marks on every inch, ‘You won't even get in the water!’

‘I told you why!’

He pulls himself up and his words don't match his twinkling eyes and pleased grin when Sansa moves away from his lap and throws the other dress back, it hits his face and he has to pull it down before he forms it to a ball.

‘Well don't touch me again, you are smelly and dusty and-‘ she yelps when he pulls her against him again and though she tries to fight him off it’s a lost war from the start. It always is. He's too strong, and she likes it too much. 

He tickles her first, then she kicks him and he pretends it really hurts so she worriedly shoots up to apologize and he laughs at the shock on her face after which she kicks him again, harder this time and he only laughs some more.

Then he kisses her. First her leg, all the way from her foot to the inside of her thigh and Sansa gulps to prepare herself. Nothing ever fully prepares her. She's tried various things, but nothing ever calms her enough to keep her from whimpering when her hips start shaking. 

She grabs a strand of grass in her fist and watches her own fingers tremble around the dark green of the meadow. What a magical place this is.

She stares up at the sky and lazily follows some eagle fly circles around them with her eyes, as if he’s watches them, as if he knows. He circles effortlessly on his great blue-grey wings, the color reminds her of Robb’s banner, and as he moves, as she stares, the bird seems almost one with the sky. 

She holds Jon’s face between her hands as he presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closer, a soft and small smile around his lips, and then, stupidly, she feels emotional. She wants to pinch herself for being silly. It must be the baby, she thinks, babies in bellies always cloud your mind. 

When Jon kisses her it’s not sloppily, but soft and slow and she sighs as her muscles relax. He moves his hand along her left leg as she raises it to wrap it around his waist. He palms her foot first, before his fingers tingle the skin of her shin, her calf, then her kneecap and her thigh. She expects to feel his hand on her most sensitive spot but instead, he cups the small and vulnerable swell of her belly. 

‘Can you feel him?’ He asks. 

Sansa shakes her head, ‘No, it's still so small, but I will soon, I'm sure. I can feel it grow.’ 

He rubs her nose with his own and Sansa closes her eyes when she feels her lips curl into her most content smile. 

‘You'll be there? When it's born?’ 

‘Of course I will.’

‘In the room, I mean.’ 

When she opens her eyes, she sees a frown on his face, ‘If that is what you want.’ 

‘Is it what you want?’

‘I don't know, I know nothing of these things. Isn't it dangerous when I am there?’

Sansa giggles, it's not often when they find a subject she knows more of than he does, ‘Of course not, silly.’ 

‘You'll be in pain.’ He says. 

Sansa nods, ‘That is… unavoidably true I'm afraid.’ 

He seems to think about that for a moment, which visibly tortures him, until he nods, ‘Of course I'll be there.’ 

‘You can tell me I can do it, to not give up.’ 

‘I'll tell you.’

‘You can't lose consciousness.’ She says, ‘You have to… you can't freak out and go mad.’

‘Why would I go mad?’

‘Because you're _you_.’ She says, ‘You can't be you, you'll have to stay calm and hold my hand and support me.’ 

‘I won't be me.’ He promises, ‘How much longer? How many moons?’

‘Five at least, probably more.’ 

He nods, ‘So how big is it?’

‘A berry? Maybe a raspberry, or a blueberry, or an olive…’ 

Jon doesn't help her guess but merely strokes her swollen belly with the back of his fingers. It's so invisible she might as well have just left a great feast banquet. 

‘Jon?’

‘Hhmm?’ 

‘What if it’s a girl?’ 

‘Then… she’ll be a princess.’

‘I’m sorry if it is.’ 

He moves up with a push, ‘Don't ever say that.’

She plays with the fabric of her smallclothes, ‘You should be disappointed.’

‘It won’t be _you_ that I'm disappointed in.’ 

‘You need a son.’ 

‘No, I don't.’

She rolls her eyes, ‘Yes you do? Especially now. What if this will be the last?’

He seems to think carefully of what to say, ‘You don't _have_ to have ten sons.’

‘Yes, I do.’

He shakes his head, ‘I don't want you to worry about that.’

‘I want _you_ to worry about that.’

‘Sans…’ he wriggles closer and she lets him pull her in his arms, ‘Worrying about it won't change anything.’ 

‘It'd be nice if you wouldn't wave it away.’ She says, ‘You're the only one who can continue the Targaryen bloodline, having a son will strengthen your claim, to know that you have a successor to-’ 

‘I don't care about-‘

‘Don't tell me you don't care, I'm not that girl anymore who believed you once when you said that.’ 

He sighs and presses his nose in her hair, ‘I care about you more,’ he says, ‘And I really, _really_ don't want you to feel like you're failing when we're having another daughter.’ 

‘It's not a feeling.’ Sansa explains, ‘People will think I fail, they'll say it.’ 

‘I'll kill them.’

‘Don’t be-‘ Sansa sighs, ‘There's only Daenerys, if I won't do it, Daenerys will have to-‘

‘I’m going to kill Daenerys too.’ He doesn't mean it, he's never said that before, she knows he never will. Somewhere… sometimes she wonders if he still cares for her. 

‘Her dragons will come after you and roast you in your armor.’ 

‘I’d like to see them try. Daenerys Stormborn is not the only unburnt person around here.’

Sansa giggles, ‘That will truly be my greatest nightmare come to life. Daenerys killing you without lifting a finger, unleashing her pets to do the job.’ 

‘Life is full of little ironies.’ Jon says as he sits up. 

‘I didn't lift a finger when I killed Joffrey.’

‘Now, that is different, many people benefited from his death, mine would be so terribly worthless.’ 

‘I'm afraid not everyone agrees with you there, my love.’ 

He shrugs, ‘Daenerys has about as many supporters in Westeros as Viserys had, none at all, that is. I'm just over here hoping she knows it and if she doesn't we'll have to pray no innocents will die in her journey finding out.’

‘You don't have a son.’ 

‘Nor does Daenerys.’ 

‘She could have children.’ Sansa says, ‘She's not wedded, she could-‘

‘I’ll peel every sword of that damned throne before she ever gets to sit on it.’ 

‘I’d love to see that.’

He grins as he looks down at her face as she lays her head in his lap, then he presses his lips together before he says, ‘Maybe it's a boy.’ 

‘Maybe… maybe you'll die and all this will be-‘

‘Maybe _you_ will die, maybe Rhaenys will die, all these freaking loudly men in the camp may die, we can _all_ die.’

‘If I die you'll still be able to produce a string of heirs, I can't do that without you.’

‘I'm not producing any string of heirs with anyone else.’ He says immediately and his voice is high when he speaks, ‘I won't.’ 

‘Rhaenys will want you to.’

‘Rhaenys can go fuck herself.’ 

She smiles because even though he’s being too harsh, he seems to mean it and that makes her heart swell up with love as well as fear, ‘Everyone else will want you to.’

‘You're not going to die.’ He says and he seems convinced when he says it, so convinced it makes her wonder if he ever considered.

‘I almost died twice,’ she says.

‘I remember.’ Is the only thing he says and they fall silent for a moment as he strokes her hair. 

‘Aren't you scared?’ She whispers then, and she truly wants to know. 

‘I'm always scared.’ He says, ‘Thankfully, because only fools are never scared so… perhaps some parts of me are not that foolish after all.’ 

‘Never being scared is not quite the same as always being scared.’ 

‘I love you.’ And saying it seems to almost pain him, ‘And I am paranoid to lose you, I am, I'll admit it, but talking about how that makes me feel is… I can't do it because I wouldn't know how to describe it.’ 

‘I love you too.’ She nudges his nose with her own, ‘So terribly much.’ 

‘I don't mind a girl at all.’ He tells her and he moves his hand down to her belly, ‘I like girls.’ He grins and moves down at her non-existent bump and his grin makes it impossible for her not to smile as she sits up to give him better access, ‘I love my girls.’ 

‘We are your girls.’ She says, ‘You have your army of girls. Me and Freia and Rhaenys too... sometimes even Robb, arguably.’

‘Who cares about sons?’ 

‘All men do.’ She says as she moves her hands to his hair, ‘Or so I've been told.’ 

‘I'm not all men.’ 

‘Thank heavens.’ She closes her eyes because suddenly she feels tired and she barely notices how he moves down to face her belly.

‘I really love girls.’ He tells the child as he moves his hand over her, ‘I'm getting a second chance at being there for real this time.’ He says, ‘I'm not ever going to mess it up.’ 

‘Just don't go.’ She says and she knows that there is a fear in her voice that she cannot hide away, ‘Please stay with us.’

He moves up and when she opens her eyes she sees his face. He doesn't look scared, he looks terrified, ‘I will.’ 

She nods, ‘Good.’ She says, ‘And don't die.’ 

‘I'll try.’

‘Trying is not enough.’ She says, ‘Don't you die on me Jon Snow.’ She says and she cups his face, he smirks at her and it makes her smile again, ‘I need you to stay with me until we both die, age 80 when we're old and ugly and annoying our children with our terribly boring advices and complaints and I need you to give me so many more babies, don't die on me because if you will I'll blame you for not giving _me_ a son.’ 

‘You could never be ugly.’ He says and he starts kissing her mouth, ‘No matter how old and wrinkly you are, you could never be ugly.’ 

She giggles, ‘You could, you have so many wrong kinds of bloodlines in your tree.’ 

He still smirks and kisses the rest of her face, ‘That’s why I married you! For the better bloodlines.’

‘You liar, you married me because you were told to.’

‘No! I came all the way to Winterfell for a wedding because I was told to.’ He shakes his head as she starts kissing his face back, ‘When I spoke my vows I did it because I wanted to.’ 

‘You are one filthy liar.’ She whispers to his lips before she dips her tongue in his mouth. 

He kisses her the way she likes best for some time before he pulls his face away, panting against her mouth by lack of break and when he shakes his head she only knows he does so because his nose bumps hers, since her eyes are closed, ‘No, no I… when I saw you… I felt sorry for you because you had to marry _me_ , but I definitely did not feel sorry for myself.’ 

She opens her eyes and finds him looking serious, the grin has been wiped off his face and she pecks his lips again before she says, ‘I felt sorry for myself because I was a blind young girl. But I felt guilty too, because I knew that you were not worthy of my disappointment. You were so kind.’ 

‘And young and foolish.’ 

‘And sweet, gentle, handsome and ridiculously good to me-‘

‘Not _that_ good, I was young and an idiot and I recall saying some _things_ to you.’

‘Far too good! So good, I couldn’t help falling in love with you.’

‘Which was, if I remember correctly, about half a year after we got married.’

‘Not half a year!’ She tucks his curls behind his ears, in the way that makes him look a little younger, ‘Far sooner.’

‘I fell in love with you long before you fell in love with me.’

She shakes her head presses her forehead to his, ‘No, that’s not true at all. I was simply better at hiding it, that's all.’ She grins, ‘Truly, all day I looked forward to you coming in my room and you'd ask me what my day had been like and you'd listen and I loved that. I loved the nights, because I had you all to myself.’ She kisses his lips softly, ‘And you were so handsome. And so sweet to me. You'd make love to me like lords are supposed to make love to ladies back then.’

‘I don't do that anymore?’ 

She grins, ‘Thank the Gods you don't. It was the right thing to do back then, I was so scared… Gods, My mother! I was so scared after she told me what would happen. But you were nervous too and that made me feel better and I liked being with you. I liked kissing you.’ 

‘I wanted to kiss you real bad.’ 

‘I know, I wanted to kiss you too.’ 

‘Really?’

She nods, ‘I looked forward to being with you all day.’

‘The Gods know how much I looked forward to it.’

‘The first time too? After our wedding?’

‘If I looked forward to it then? I don't think so, I was afraid I'd hurt you and you'd hate me for the rest of your life.’

Sansa giggles some more, she can’t stop doing it, ‘No, I mean _yes_ , it hurt a little bit, but you were shaky and at least as nervous as me.’ 

‘True.’ He says, ‘I was terrified. But so were you so I told myself I had to be brave.’

She grins and happily lays her head on his shoulder, where she can smell his neck, there where it smells nice, still the same as it did back then, of soap and grass and wine too, ‘You were so good to me. You made me feel safe.’ 

‘You squeezed my hand in the Godswood, when it was snowing and you were in your white dress and you seemed so cold and nervous and your hand was all sweaty and you squeezed mine, do you remember?’

She shakes her head, loving the way he looks at her, his face is so sweet and she cannot believe it has been so long. Has she truly loved him for so many years now? It feels like yesterday when he vowed to protect and care for her in sight of the Gods, when he cloaked her in black and red of house Targaryen and warmed her with fur.

‘I do.’ He says, ‘I'll never forget it.’ 

‘I'll never forget what you promised me that night.’ She says, tucking hair behind his ear.

He looks away suddenly, ‘I’ve wondered many times if I should have done that.’ He admits, ‘If I’d known I’d not be able to keep them I never would-‘

‘You did Jon.’ She says and she kisses his forehead as she hugs him closer, ‘You kept all of them. You protected me, you have never failed me, never, don't you ever even think that.’

She knows he thinks exactly that, all the time, and often, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘I am sorry too.’

‘If only I could turn back time…’

She sighs, ‘I don't want that. I wouldn't be able to live without Freia anymore.’

‘We already could've had a string of babies.’ Jon says. 

‘Maybe it's better we don't,’ Sansa says, ‘Can you imagine? How hard that might be, so many Freias, we wouldn't sleep a wink.’ 

‘I'd imagine you'd dump them all with a wet nurse.’

She gasps, ‘Never!’ 

He laughs, he doesn't often and that is why she loves it so much, it's why she loved it in the first place, ‘You're an amazing mother, you know that? Do I tell you enough?’ 

‘Not really, I wouldn't mind it if you'd do it more often.’ 

‘You're an amazing mother.’ 

‘Well, thank you.’ 

‘We’ll do it, Sans,’ he says, ‘I'll bring you back to Winterfell, the way I always promised and we'll have our string of heirs, boys and girls, plenty of both, and they'll look like you and we'll grow old together and we'll be ugly and-‘

‘I thought I wasn't going to be ugly?’

‘Shut up. We'll be ugly and boring and annoying and rude, you'll be the rude old grandmother-‘

‘Rhaenys is going to be the rude old lady, I'll never be able to even challenge her there.’

‘Shut up! Let me finish… You can sing to all of them and knit clothes for them, tell them about the myths and the age of heroes and braid their hair, wash them and everything... I can do the stories from books and teach them how to ride and Freia will be an amazing big sister and it will all be the way it should be.’

‘For a man who thinks he failed his promises you make quite some heavy new ones.’ 

‘Maybe if I'll promise it will give me the tiny extra strength I may need to not die on you.’

She kisses him again, ‘Don't you die on me, Jon Snow.’ She whispers again, ‘Don't you dare. I can't live without you.’ 

‘We have to go back.’ He murmurs to the skin below her ear. 

‘You'll be away from me all day.’ She whispers, ‘All these lords demand your attention.’ 

‘I'm sorry.’ He whispers and his face makes her feel guilty then, ‘I know that I-‘

‘Please don't apologize.’ She says as she cascades her nails over his shoulder, ‘I know it was stupid of me to come here, I'm sorry if I am a burden.’ 

‘How could you ever be a burden?’

‘If I complain and-‘

‘I don't hear it.’ Jon says, ‘I'm very good at ignoring you, you don't know I do because that's how good I am.’

Sansa laughs then kisses him and eventually shakes her head, ‘I should be used to it. Missing you during the day. I _am_.’ 

‘When this war is over, you and I we’ll… I'll take you with me somewhere and we can… we could be together all day, for some time.’ 

‘Like a holiday?’

‘if you like.’ 

‘We've never been somewhere just because we wanted to.’ 

‘We’ll go wherever you want.’ 

She thinks of what that place would be and she can't think of anything, ‘Wherever you want to go.’ 

He grins and shakes his head, ‘Perhaps Summerhall.’ 

‘Summerhall? But that’-‘

‘Burned down, I know. Father loved it.’

‘Do you want to rebuilt?’

‘In ten years’ time maybe, I can't expect a realm recovering from war to pay for the recovery of a summer palace.’ 

‘Right.’ She bites her lip as she watches her hands move over the muscles in his upper arm, ‘So what would we do in a burned down castle?’

Jon grins, ‘Look at the stars through the burned off roofs. It’s what Rhaegar always did.’ 

‘I can see the stars perfectly from here.’ Sansa says and she looks up at the clear blue sky, ‘Look! It’s an eagle!’ 

‘That’s a falcon.’ 

‘Whatever.’ 

‘Fine, not Summerhall. Do you have other suggestions?’

‘I’d say home but I'm not sure where that is anymore.’ She says, ‘Why even bother traveling?’

‘To get rid of all these other people, of course.’ 

Sansa laughs, ‘That does indeed sound like a good plan.’ 

‘A place is just a place, you shouldn't love it too much, they don't love you back.’ 

‘That's deep.’ 

Jon smirks, ‘Rhaenys always says it, you've never heard her say it before?’

‘No, if I have to remember all the things that come out of your sister’s mouth my head will explode in a thousand bloody pieces and the headache will not leave me until I feed myself those special herbs Robb puts in his milk before he goes to battle.’ 

Jon laughs loudly and lays his hand to her hip, ‘We have to go back.’ He says again, he presses his lips to her forehead before he pushes himself off her and offers her the muddy green dress she took off hours ago, ‘They’ll think we got lost or kidnapped and they’ll come looking for us… we shouldn't want that, I’d rather not be guilty of wasting everyone's precious time.’ 

Sansa takes the dress from him and stares at the fabric in her hands, ‘I am not complaining.’ She says then, ‘I mean, I know I _am_ , but you know I don't mean to, right? Please don't send me away.’ 

He smiles first then pushes that off and shakes his head before he cups her face between his hands, ‘Never, not ever.’ 

She nods and when she breathes out she realizes how badly she needed to hear him say that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who cares, This chapter was inspired once upon a time by this book quote: 
> 
> _Yet even so, Jon Snow was not sorry he had come. There were wonders here as well. He had seen sunlight flashing on icy thin waterfalls as they plunged over the lips of sheer stone cliffs, and a mountain meadow full of autumn wildflowers, blue coldsnaps and bright scarlet frostfires and stands of piper's grass in russet and gold. He had peered down ravines so deep and black they seemed certain to end in some hell, and he had ridden his garron over a wind-eaten bridge of natural stone with nothing but sky to either side. Eagles nested in the heights and came down to hunt the valleys, circling effortlessly on great blue-grey wings that seemed almost part of the sky.”_  
>  ― George R.R. Martin


	51. Properly Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really wishes he could get up now, to hold her in his arms and tell her the only war they’ll ever fight is growing old, ‘Fate has placed me in a position of responsibility and I have accepted the burden.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once I don't really have much to say... just, enjoy! :)

Sansa is up before both her husband and her daughter in the morning of the Castle Sarsfield attack and she cannot remember the last time that happened. The sun is only peeking its way up and it's still dark, but as she moves the tent flap away so she can get out, her feet bare and her body only clad in the thin fabric of a nightgown, she stares right into the eyes of a little group of Northern soldiers who stand so far away that she cannot hear what they say to each other when they point at her. 

She has no time to hide her see-through cotton from their view because she coughs and throws up. 

The men stare at her for a while and then they grin stupidly and make jokes she chooses not to hear. 

Sansa drags herself back into the tent where she checks if Freia is fast asleep and then drops herself back in the crook of Jon’s arm, who has woken up by the sudden cold of her absence. 

‘You okay?’ He asks, his voice and eyes sleepdrunk. 

Sansa nods and lays her head on his shoulder. He moves his hands through her hair lazily and turns his face to look at the sleeping figure of Freia. 

‘You shouldn't wake her up, allow her to sleep for as long as you can.’ 

Sansa nods and she scoops her hand up to push his hair from his face, ‘There were men outside, shouldn't you be too?’

He shakes his head, ‘Some men in the camp barely sleep a wink, that’s what war does to you.’ 

‘But you can?’

He shrugs, ‘Rhaenys knows where to find the right drugs.’ 

‘Rhaenys stuffs you with dangerous herbs?’

He chuckles, ‘Naturally.’ He kisses her forehead, her temple and her cheek and grins as she presses her own lips to his. 

‘Shouldn't you be terrified out of your mind, then?’

‘I am.’ He says and he pulls her back against him again, his eyes closed, ‘But there's no right reason to let your feelings get the better of you.’

Sansa looks sideways at Freia too, ‘You'll be back by the time the sun goes down.’ She tells herself. 

‘Uhuh, of course I will, promise.’ 

She moves her hand back up to grab his hair and forces him to look down at her in her eyes, ‘You better, I'll come over there to get you if you won't.’ 

He wriggles down a little to press his nose to hers, ‘If I die, I'll die such a happy man.’ He means it as a joke but she doesn't think it's funny at all so she pushes him away angrily which only makes him laugh and he presses his face down with his lips to her collarbone. 

‘Jon!’ She hisses, ‘Get off me, you can't say thing like that!’ 

‘I wasn't only try-‘

He doesn't get to finish his sentence because Sansa curls herself over the rim of the cot and falls down in front of the chamberpot to throw up in it. 

‘Are you okay?’

He helps her get up and she pushes his arms away to wipe her mouth with a cloth, ‘Perfectly alright.’ She says, ‘Just very pregnant.’ 

‘I can't remember you doing that so much the other times.’ 

Sansa glares a little at him and sits down on the rim of the cot, ‘The first time was the worst, but you always woke up before me so you never noticed- with Freia we thought it was the boat and now it starts before I wake up- so I suppose it's worse.’ 

‘Do you want me to get you something?’

Sansa shakes her head, lays back down on the cot and rubs her cheek to the pillow. 

‘You can't stay here.’ He says. 

She opens the eyes she just closed and looks at him standing there in the middle of the freezing tent, ‘I've been here all night.’ 

He doesn't say anything and though Sansa initially decides to keep her mouth shut in the vague hope that he might too she feels his eyes burn right through her skin and when she looks up she finds his eyes looking at her not in the brooding way she expected but in an intense sort of worry, in conflict with many types of feelings. 

‘Just say it.’

‘I won't.’ 

‘Why not?’

‘You _know_ why not.’ He insists. 

Sansa cannot help but agree, she'd be terrified to suggest it too. She has not kept count of the many times she made him vow to her to never leave her again and each time, with no exception, he did not only promise, he swore it to her, and she knows he spoke the truth. 

Sansa closes her eyes all firmly again, because for some reason, she feels guilty. His stare burns through her eyelids and she opens them again to give him a glare, ‘I don't want to fight about it.’ 

‘We won't.’ He says. 

‘Well then.’ 

‘We won't even discuss it.’ He sits down at the side of the bed and lays his cold hand to the warm skin of her neck, ‘But you know what's best.’ 

‘I can't be away from you.’ 

‘Jon rubs her jaw and sighs, ‘What do you think they'll do, when I lose this battle? What do you think will happen to you and to Freia?’

‘Don't say that.’ 

‘I'm asking… do you have any idea?’

Sansa decides that perhaps she has no idea, not really, and all Cersei told her about sacking cities comes back to mind. Her silence is answered with worse than Cersei’s tales. 

‘They'll rape Freia in front of your eyes, cut her open, kill her and they'll kill you too, after they'll rip your unborn child from your belly with a rough knife.’ 

‘ _Jon_!’

‘Do you want to know what my nightmares look like? They look like that and worse.’ 

Sansa can't imagine much worse, but perhaps he can, when he claims he can she'll have to believe him, ‘But you _won't_ lose this battle.’ She decides, ‘And you promised to never send me away, you did.’ 

‘I did and I won't.’ 

‘So?’

‘You're being irresponsible.’

She angrily pushes his hand from her neck, ‘I don't care.’ She says and she turns around to make him face her back. 

‘Sansa the war-‘

She sits up when the emotion get the better of her, ‘You can't do this to me now! Not when I'm pregnant, you always leave me when I'm pregnant! Always, and you always come back when it's too late! I won't let you do it again, it has happened twice, _twice_ , the first time they killed our baby and the second time they killed me, no one is going to-‘

‘Mama?’ Jon turns around with a jerk and presses a smile to his mouth.

‘Happy morning, pumpkin.’ he says and he gets up from Sansa’s bed to kiss the top of Freia’s head who rubs her eyes with her knuckles. 

‘Are you angry?’ Freia asks her father who presses the stuffed wolf that dropped to the ground back in her hands.

‘No.’ He says, ‘Why would I be angry?’ He kisses her hair multiple times, and rubs her cheek then, ‘You should go back to sleep, it's in the middle of the night!’

Freia nods and closes her eyes all firmly to show her papa how good she is at falling asleep. 

Jon pulls the blankets a little up to cover her shoulders and then moves back to Sansa, who's still sitting upright in the bed. 

‘It's not like last time.’ He whispers to her, ‘I’ll never leave you again, I promised, did I not?’

‘Then don't send me away.’ She says and she knows she's begging.

‘I won't leave you, this time you'll be the one to leave me, so that is not at all he same, you see?’

Sansa glances over at Freia, who can't hear them and still keeps her eyes closed, ‘I’ll be away from you.’ 

He shakes his head and places his hand to her belly, ‘It's not about you and me anymore, we have other people who are more important and you can't have a baby in an army tent.’ 

‘But… Dothraki women give birth lying in a grassy field, and Wildlings when they're in a ditch or in the muck… you've told me so often.’ 

‘But you're not a Dothraki woman, you're the queen.’ 

Sansa gulps. Jon doesn't often pull that card, in face, she can't remember him doing it before, usually that's all Rhaenys. 

She lays her hand over his and sighs, ‘I don’t want to… I can’t be parted from you again.’ 

‘Me neither, but we'll have to. You'll have to let me win this war for you so I can keep you safe, and we'll be together forever after that, I promise.’ 

She cups his head between her hands and pecks his lips, ‘I can't do it Jon.’

‘For Freia, you can do it.’ 

‘But that's… she doesn't want to leave you either.’ 

‘It's not a good place to grow up.’ 

Sansa looks at Freia's sleeping figure and gulps when she feels the taste of guilt change, it gets worse, more painful, like a sting, ‘You should sleep some more.’ She says but he shakes his head. 

‘I don't think I can sleep, I'll go to Robb and we'll drink some wine to wash away our dread and then we clad ourselves in our armor and drink some more.’

‘You'll be drunk on the battlefield?’

‘No.’ He says and moves his mouth to her ear and whispers, ‘I’ll drown my head in a bowl of ice water or something.’ 

She shakes her head and kisses him again, realizing there are tears on her face only because she tastes them on his lips, ‘So I'll see you soon?’

He nods, and grabs the back of her head by her hair and grins down at her face, ‘I'll see you very soon.’ 

 

**Jon**

The last time Jon needed stitching was after the battle of Oxcross when he took an arrow right below his chest. One of the Westerling girls nursed him back to health but he can’t really remember what that was like because he refused dreamwine and ended up screaming his lungs out when they pulled the pointy end from his flesh. After that he begged for dreamwine but they stuffed him with milk of the poppy which caused him to lose consciousness, during which he had vague dreams of a crib with a crying baby, Sansa's face covered in blood and Ghost, nervously running through castle corridors… that was all before he threw up all over the poor girl. 

He managed to apologize to her for it, told her the story of him throwing up in the woods after he dislocated his shoulder, but in the end, he doubts he managed to behave around their daughter the way the Westerlings would have liked… would have _hoped_.

After the battle of Sarsfield Jon wakes up, moans, and hears Sansa’s voice, ‘Ssshhhh…’ She tells him and when he opens his eyes the only thing he sees is her mop of red hair dancing in front of him in all sorts of shapes, as if they have a life of their own. He knows her hair does not have a life of its own so he assumes he’s under influence again.

“Told you I’d be back with you by sundown.’ He says, or he hopes that is what he says, he wonders how much he can actually pronounce, but she presses her lips to his cheekbone, so he supposes she may actually, magically understand. 

He feels her pull her fingers through his hair and the combination of her red hair still dancing and the warmth of her breath on his face tells him her head is close to his, then he knows it is because she lays her cheek to his forehead, with her cold hand to his neck. 

‘S-sansa-‘

‘Sshhhh… don’t.’

He wants to ask her what the hell hit him this time, but he understands her desire for silence and truly, laying there, not feeling any pain _yet_ , closing his eyes to keep the nausea at distance, hearing her soothing and feeling the comfort of her soft cheek to his forehead is arguably not the worst situation he has woken up to in the past two years. 

‘Sssshhhh… Jon, you scared me a little.’

‘A-a little?’

She turns her head to kiss his forehead multiple times, without removing her lips from his skin, ‘Just an arrow in the leg, the wounds not deep but the pain seemed unbearable so I might have given you a little too much milk of the poppy.’

‘Is okay.’ 

‘They made you chew on willow bark.’ She goes on, ‘I don’t think you liked it very much.’ 

‘I never do.’ He turns his face and his nose bumps hers, ‘Where’s Robb?’ 

‘With Rhaenys and Freia. He’s untouched, he and Malckom are the ones who dragged you into this tent, actually.’ 

‘I don’t remember.’ 

Sansa looks up and caresses his face with her fingertips, ‘I told everyone to get their asses out of here, said I wanted to be alone with my lord husband in case his wounds would prove vital. They said, _but my lady, he only has a single arrow in his leg, he cannot possibly die_ , and then Rhaenys started scolding them for calling me _my lady_ and I finally managed to be alone with you.’

Jon lifts his arm up and stares at his hand, it almost seems as if it has eight, maybe ten fingers, not five, but when he looks sideways at her face, he can see her smiles and he moves his hand to tickle her nose and she turns her head away, her smile growing. 

‘You took the castle, by the way.’ She tells him then, ‘Thought you’d might like to know.’

He can’t help but smile, though the pull of his facial muscles makes him feel sick, ‘Always eager to hear good news.’ He remembers that time when he had no good news for moons and moons on end.

She starts stroking through his hair again and as she sits there, and he lays there, her face becomes more and more clear to him. After some time, his vision is clear enough for him to notice the inner battle she’s fighting, he moves his hand to take hers and he squeezes it.

‘I’ll be alright, don’t worry.’ 

She flutters with her eyes and presses a false smile on her lips, ‘I know you will, I just… This won’t be the last time, will it?’ 

He wants to take a deep breath but that too makes him feel sick, ‘It was my own fault, I was being foolish, I never should’ve gotten off my horse, it won’t happen again.’ 

‘You’ve been hurt more than Robb has.’ She says. 

‘That’s because they want me dead more than they want Robb dead. The moment they spot me all arrows point at me and they just-‘

‘Then why are you still fighting?’ the tone in her voice causes him to drag himself up and his head turns and his back aches but he manages to ignore it. 

‘Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved.’ He says, it’s such a common saying that he’s sure she’s heard it before and that can only annoy her, she hates it when he compares their life to common sayings, but there’s another reason for her to raise her eyebrows and it surprises him.

‘Is that something your father told you?’ There’s still that tone, and he’s never heard her use it while mentioning his father before.

‘No, it was your father, actually.’ He says, he wants to throw his legs off the cot to move closer to her, but the drugs in his body made him forget the wound in his leg and he groans in pain. The annoyance fades from her face instantly and she moves her hands towards him to help him lay back down.

‘Careful…’ she says, using her softest voice and she strokes his hair from his sweaty and filthy forehead. 

‘The difference between being dragged into the midst of battle to face a fight with death and walking into the field with your head held high is all that matters.’ He tells her and her frown returns, ‘I cannot ask men to die for me if I am not willing to die for them.’

‘Rhaenys told me the rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction.’ She says, still frowning and he moves his hand to rub her cheek with the back of his fingers.

‘You don’t actually believe that, do you?’

‘Will you tell me not to listen to what Rhaenys says? Because if you dare say that I am leaving this tent and you can clean your own wounds.’ Sansa shakes her head and suddenly she looks so terribly miserable, ‘Men fight the battles, but women wage the war.’ 

‘Who told you this?’

‘Me. I told myself, I am telling you. Where will I be if that arrow hits your face next time, what must I do when you have one scar too many? And _Freia_ …’

He really wishes he could get up now, to hold her in his arms and tell her the only war they’ll ever fight is growing old, ‘Fate has placed me in a position of responsibility and I have accepted the burden.’ 

‘And I am left to suffer and behold?’

He takes her hand in his and pulls it to cover his beating heart, ‘All I ask is for you to never….’ He needs time to think of what it is he needs, ‘to never ever leave me.’ 

A smile appears as quickly as it disappears, ‘Even if I tried.’ She says and she moves forward to replace her hand on his heart with her ear. Her tears drop down on the armor he still wears, they make a recognizable sound on the iron and if sounds can describe a feeling, that sound describes his in that moment perfectly. 

She helps him out of all his layers and says no word as she moves a wet cloth over his chest to clean it. The first time she saw him bare naked his skin was as fair as a maid’s, now it feels as if every wound that caused a scar is carried with him to each resemble a stab life stuck into his back. She smiles again when she rubs the cloth over his face, ‘Don’t lose your head Jon Snow, it’s such a handsome head, what a waste it would be.’

After she helped him in a clean tunic she kisses his lips, takes his hand in hers and places it to cover the swell of her bump. He believes she’s growing fatter far sooner this time, he feels it took much longer for her to grow this big when she carried Freia. Perhaps this baby is bigger or perhaps it means she carries a boy, like the measter says. Jon hopes the measter is right, he’d like a son, more so he’d like for Sansa to not have to kneel below the burden of being obligated to produce him an heir for any day more than necessary. 

‘Can you feel it?’ she asks and he’s ready to shake his head but then remembers to close his eyes and wait a moment, sometimes it takes a little longer. He waits a little too long, longer than he needs to know he can’t and won’t feel a thing, then he shakes his head but makes sure not to remove his hand. 

She looks disappointed and moves her fingers to gently caress his hand on her belly, ‘You’re growing so big.’ He says.

Sansa smiles all proudly then, like the way she smiles when they tell her Freia is such a well-behaved, charming little thing, ‘I felt him move for the very first time a while ago, but now I know he's kicking and he's so strong.’ 

Jon can’t help but smile with her, though he feels less pride and more concern, ‘I am sure I’ll feel it soon.’

Sansa caresses the back of his hand with her nails and presses a train of kisses to his face, ‘the baby's moving.’ She says, ‘He or she is very strong.’ 

Jon nods, and when he looks down and watches his thumb rub the wool of her dress, he feels and urge to lay his ear to her stomach, in the desperate hope that he’ll be able to hear, ‘ _He_?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sansa says, ‘It is all… they make me too anxious, I don’t dare to say what I think.’

‘Don’t you dare let them make you feel anxious.’ 

Sansa smiles, moves his hand a little then, ‘He's _here_ … I can’t believe you can’t feel it, he's dancing, I’m telling you.’ 

Jon grins, ‘Dancing or fighting?’

‘A battle with my guts… The measter told me they can hear you, he said I must talk to the baby, so he'll recognize my voice when he's born.’ 

‘You talked to Freia all the time.’ Jon helps her remember and she breathes a laugh. 

‘Don’t even mention last time, it was so very different. It’s why… The measter is certain it will be a son, he says you can see it, because of the way I carry.’ 

‘What’s that?’

‘At the front or low or something, I do not know.’ 

‘Does it work that way?’

Sansa shrugs, ‘There are few women I can ask to compare. I wish my mother were here.’ 

‘Your mother is at Winterfell.’ Jon says before he can stop himself, ‘As you _know_ , I mean… she could help you, Sansa, she could take care of you in a way that I can’t.’ 

‘No one takes care of me the way you do.’ 

Jon entangles his fingers with hers as he won’t remove his hand, ‘I’m no longer that ignorant foolish bastard boy who believed I had to protect you all by myself. I don’t think I can, as much as I hate to admit it.’ 

‘But I am perfectly save here.’ Sansa assures, ‘Nothing will happen, I… you won the battle.’ 

‘It’s not about that, it’s… the tent, the camp, the food, the soldiers, the one useless measter from a stupid holdfast in the one poor region of the Westerlands…’

‘Have you spoken to Rhaenys?’ She asks then. 

‘Too often lately, I can’t recall the last time.’ Jon says.

‘Rhaenys has… Rhaenys wants me to go back to Winterfell.’ Sansa admits then.

‘You should always listen to what Rhaenys says.’

Sansa chuckles, ‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ She tells him, ‘She’ll remind you of it for the rest of her days.’ 

Her chuckling makes him smile again, ‘Don’t worry about that.’ He says and he looks down at his leg. It was only a small wound, it will heal quickly, he’s sure, it doesn’t even hurt so much, he’ll be able to walk like a fresh and young squire within a couple of days. 

‘I used firemilk to burn the wound.’ She tells him as she watches him inspect his bandages, ‘I’ll have a measter look at it, once Rhaenys found one she approves of.’

‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ He says.

‘I think you must find a measter to bring in your service… As father had measter Luwin. If only so you won’t need me to do the stitching for you. Before it’s too late people will whisper behind their hands and call me a witch.’

‘Why would anyone ever call you a witch?’ 

‘ _Because_.’ 

‘They say you’re kissed by fire.’ 

‘I am what?’

‘Its what wildlings say. Women with hair the color of fire… they’re lucky. They’re kissed by fire.’ 

‘I’ve not been kissed by fire.’ Sansa decides, ‘Only by you.’ 

‘I _am_ a Targaryen.’ 

‘ _And_ a Stark. I’ve been kissed by ice and fire.’ 

‘That sounds like the absolute worst song… we should write it.’ 

Sansa giggles and opens her mouth to speak but then the tent flap is lifted and Robb stands in the opening, looking a little uncomfortable as if he’s not sure if he’s interrupting something. 

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks as he takes a few long strides inside. 

‘Perfect.’ He says, ‘How’s Freia?’

‘Happily playing with her dolls, I am torturing Rhaenys by leaving her alone in the company of the girl.’

Jon looks sideways at Sansa who smiles quickly, glances at him and then gets up, straightens her skirts and announces, ‘I’ll go and save her then.’ She smiles warmly at the both of them and then leaves the tent, her hands holding her belly to protect the baby from the world outside. 

Robb moves to sit down on the stool Sansa left empty and looks at him with badly hidden worry, ‘Truly, how are you feeling?’

‘It’s starting to hurt like hell.’ Jon admits, ‘But it’s not deep.’

‘Sansa panicked and drowned you in milk of the poppy, no one dared stop her, I’m sorry, though it caused you to be in some deep and distant sleep when they burned the wound, so at least that is a good thing.’

‘It really doesn’t matter.’ 

Robb nods and squeezes his shoulder then, before he folds his hands in his lap, ‘Lord Glover believes we should march west as soon as we possibly can, Casterly Rock will panic after this, we must give them as little time as possible to raise their rations and built their defense, lady Mormont wants to wait for the Dornish fleet but prince Oberyn insists they'll arrive just in time… then there's Lord Bolton and Lord Florent who disagree over the amount of cavalry we should bring alone. I _personally_ believe we can wait for the navy's support if we must, if we attack without it they might actually think we have left it at home-‘

‘Why would we leave our navy out home?’

Robb shrugs, ‘To save our strengths? They could assume we’ll save our ships for the attack on the capital.’

‘They know we’re not as stupid as Viserys.’ 

‘So, you want to wait with marching, then?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘No, we march in three days, after our men have regained their strength, the dead and wounded have been send home properly, and we have had enough time to consider and decide what to do with the land conquered, I’ll leave it to Rhaenys to meet with the defeated.’

‘You have some strength to regain yourself.’ Robb says. 

‘I’m afraid that’s true.’ Jon sighs.

‘Lord Tyrion still believes we should leave the Rock and point all our arrows at Lannisport.’ 

‘What does Rhaenys say?’ Jon asks.

Robb shrugs, ‘Strangely she has said very little about it, she repeats how you are the king and she leaves it to you who’s advice you decide to follow…’ Robb waits a moment and then admits, ‘To be honest with you, I believe she sees truth in the imp’s words but she’d never admit it aloud and gives you the painful task of admitting his words are worth listening to.’

Jon cannot help but see the sense in that reasoning. Though Rhaenys accepts that his last word is law, she never fails to inform him exactly of how she feels and why, ‘We’ll have to change our entire strategy, then.’ He says and he winches, ‘We won’t need as much naval support, that might be nice, we could use these ships to conquer the Shield Islands. Lord Glover and princess Arianne both believe those islands are not worth fighting over with little importance but I agree with Rhaenys and the Mormonts… Islands have some specific strategic value.’

‘I think… I think it is most important to consider whether or not you trust the imp. If you believe you can trust him, then I see sense in his suggestions, but if you decide he is a Lannister to the bone, we must follow the plan we made a year ago.’

Jon bites his lower-lip, ‘Lord Tyrion is a Lannister to the bone… yet, or perhaps that is why there is much sense in his advices.’

Robb nods, ‘So you trust him, then?’

‘Trust him… He is the Lannister I prefer to trust if I must trust any. Ultimately all kinds of wars end at forgiveness. We march west, that I know for sure. I’ll discuss it with Rhaenys first.’ 

Robb nods to let him know he accepts that temporary answer to the big question, ‘Remember what father always used to say? You don't go into battle because you're sure of victory, you go into battle because it's the right thing to do.’

‘I’ll remind myself of that when I wage the biggest battle I’ll have to fight to this day.’

Robb seems confused and Jon makes a head gesture to the tent flap Sansa just disappeared behind, ‘Right.’ He says, ‘She’s growing rather big, isn’t she?’

‘This is only the beginning.’ Jon says, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to say the same about this war, I cannot allow her to willingly birth the child in a place like this Robb, it’s dangerous enough, I cannot let her do that to herself, it is my job to protect her, if that means protecting her from her own foolishness then so be it.’

‘She’ll be less easy to bring to her knees than lord Melwyn Sarsfield.’ Robb decides and Jon cannot help but agree.

‘Still,’ he says, ‘It’s not safe here, for her, and it’s not a proper place for Freia to grow up.’

‘The Gods know how long it’ll be before you’ll see them again.’ Robb says and he knows how much Jon knows that. 

‘I’ll send them to Riverrun first, after we’ve brought the Westerlands in its entirety to its knees I’ll leave Casterly Rock- or Lannisport, either or, in charge of Oberyn.’

‘You trust him that much?’

Jon nods, ‘I do. The man is… He has been out most loyal and he is my sister’s uncle, he loves Rhaenys dearly, he would never betray me. I never liked him but he is kin.’ 

Robb bites his lower-lip, ‘Did Rhaenys propose it?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘No but she would have if given the time to do so.’

‘Definitely, yes.’

‘I would leave Rhaenys in charge but I need her when we move back north, where I can be with Sansa and we can plan our attack on the capital on safe soil, I hope that in the meantime the fleet might bring the Shield Islands to their knees and when we march upon King’s Landing I suspect the Rock to have surrendered and the prince can join us when we launch the attack on the capital.’ 

‘Will that be one of the arguments you’ll use when you convince my sister?’

‘I do not need to convince her.’ Jon says and he shakes his head, ‘I’ll give her the impression that I care what she thinks but I have made my decision, her safety is of the outmost importance, it’s _paramount_ , If I have to, I’ll take advantage of my power, even if that means she’ll declare me a traitor and a neglecter. I’m happy to sacrifice her warm feelings for me if I must.’ 

‘She won’t be angry for long- not when she’ll be in a castle with a heard and bathtubs and handmaidens.’ 

Jon can’t help but agree, ‘Do me a favor, and remind her of these things when she goes to you, all furious and betrayed.’

Robb grins, ‘I will.’ He promises.

‘Thank you, truly.’

‘You know… she told me of a certain prophecy once, a prophecy she believes has come true up until now.’

‘You mean the things that witch told her after the Hand’s tourney?’

‘Sansa believes there’s truth in it, and Rhaenys believes it too.’ 

‘Rhaenys was always too eager to believe in things we cannot see with our eyes, especially for someone with her rational.’ Jon says.

‘Prophecies are not the same as Gods. I know she’s very devout, but not all pious men believe in predictions.’

‘Prophecies are dangerous, Robb.’ Jon says, ‘Viserys used to believe in wishful words and saw messages in the dances of flames, he believed himself a dragon who could never burn and look at what happened to him? They told my aunt Daenerys she carried the prince that was promised and the child died in her womb.’

‘Rhaenys has told me about the prophecy of the prince that was promised once.’ Robb says, ‘She says it’s not a prophecy but a song.’ 

‘Songs are just as bad, if not worse than prophecies.’

Robb shrugs, ‘If that one prophecy is true it means you’ll have three sons, many men will be awfully jealous of you.’ 

‘Any man who’s jealous of me is a loon.’ Jon decides and Robb chuckles. 

‘I’m not jealous of you.’ He confesses and Jon is glad. 

‘I used to call the imp uncle Ty before the war… Myrcella and Tommen too. Joffrey always hated him because Tyrion told him the truth, Aegon hated everyone and Rhaenys was too eager to please our father to come near Cersei’s disfigured shameful dwarf brother, but you cannot imagine how much I enjoyed his presence when I grew up in King’s Landing.’ 

‘He says some peculiar things, I can understand they must be entertaining to an adolescent.’

Jon laughs, ‘He always used to bring me along to some whorehouse and I’d sit in a corner, pressing my thighs tightly against each other and I’d hide my eyes behind both my hands, hoping it would soon be over.’

‘He did that?’

Jon nods, ‘Though I must admit I removed my hands from time to time, more and more when I grew older.’ Jon can’t help but smirk at the memory, ‘Uncle Ty always said I’d better take as many maidenhoods as I possibly could during the little time that remained me before I’d join the black and give up all that.’

‘But you never did, did you?’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘Came dangerously close to it once though, I can still remember the humiliation on her face when I pushed her off me and she dropped to the floor, naked.’ Jon chuckles, ‘I was fourteen. Poor me.’ Jon remembers his fourteen-year-old self and wishes he could go back to that time and shake him, tell him to open his bloody eyes, ‘She had red hair actually, though I believe it was much lighter than Sansa’s, and she was probably much older too, I don’t know, can’t even remember her name to be honest, I’m sure she still tells the tale of her being paid a golden dragon to _not_ take the bastard of Winterfell’s maidenhood.’

Robb grins and shakes his head, ‘What a life, to grow up in King’s Landing.’ 

‘It wasn’t King’s Landing, I mean it _was_ , but it really was mostly uncle Ty.’

‘Rhaenys calls him a disgusting pervert and… To be fairly honest, I think he may or may not have had some improper feelings regarding Sansa- I mean, that is what _Rhaenys_ says, it’s what she believes. She thinks he helped Sansa to… I don’t know.’

Jon knows, but he doesn’t quite feel like talking about that, some things are better left ignored, or at least undiscussed, ‘He _is_ a disgusting pervert.’ Jon agrees, ‘He… He frequently visited whores. But then, so did most men in the capital.’ 

‘Except you?’

‘My father didn’t either. His grace once found out how Tyrion brought me to… they always called it _pleasure houses_ , which is a terrible word… in any case, he refused to let me spar for a full turn, it was one of the hottest moons of summer and all I was allowed to do was sit inside as my measter forced me to repeat aloud the Targaryen kings from Aegon I to Rhaegar I, over and over again, including their sister wives and the years they ruled… poor me.’ 

‘And you didn’t even touch a whore.’ 

‘I said I didn’t bed a whore, never said I didn’t touch one.’ 

Robb laughs.

‘Tyrion always said prophecies are like vile whores. I remember him saying… He said it is like when she takes your member in her mouth, and you like it first... and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams... Prophecy will bite your prick off every time.’

Robb’s not laughing anymore, his grin has been replaced by a confused frown and he turns his face a slight bit away from him, ‘W-why would they bite you… there?’

‘They don’t.’ Jon says and he feels blood flush to his face when he realizes what he just said, he can't actually believe Theon never mentioned this, he must've have, absolutely must have, it was _Theon_ , ‘Nobody ever does that, it’s a… it’s a metaphor.’

Robb still clearly doesn’t understand, ‘But you said- you said you like- Do women do that? Women who are not whores?’ 

‘Only whores.’ Jon says, and he says it far too quickly.

‘Only whores right?’

‘Uhuh.’ Jon lies when he nods, thank the gods it’s a lie, but he’s not going to admit to such things to Robb… he’s Sansa’s _brother_ for crying out loud, he doesn’t want to have his prick _chopped_ off and worse than that Sansa will never forgive him for sharing such intimate details of their nights, and some mornings, with Robb, of all people, ‘Would you like some wine? Let’s drink some wine.’ He gets up, winches, decides the physical pain is less awful than the painful view of Robb’s confusion and drags himself towards the table with a goblet of wine. 

He sits back down after offering Robb a glass and he’s happy to find him look less confused, though more nervous. 

‘It’s nice wine.’ Jon says and he presses a far too big smile on his face that Robb fails to see.

‘I and Rhaenys… we were not properly married.’ Robb admits and Jon hates how much it seems to pain him to admit it- not because it embarrasses him, but because it means their marriage lacks that what makes some marriages only a little different from most friendships. 

‘I know.’ Jon blurts out and he regrets it when Robb looks up in surprise. 

‘She has told you?’ He shakes his head at his own foolishness, ‘Of course she has, she tells you everything.’ 

‘Not _everything_.’ 

‘She was scared. I want you to know I never forced her, never, I always… I could never hurt her.’

Jon takes a large gulp of his wine, ‘I-I never thought you would… I-I told her you wouldn’t.’

‘Did you? Well, thank you.’

Jon frowns a little, ‘Of course I did.’ He says, ‘I’ve known you all my life.’

‘I can’t help but assume you have doubted you knew me at all, from time to time.’

Jon is so glad for the wine in his hands because taking another sip gives him a moment longer to come up with a proper response, ‘That is true.’ He admits eventually, because lying is not going to do either of them a favor, ‘But forgiveness is… Your mother told me to forgive you if Sansa did, and she has. So now it is in the past. I have my lady wife back and you and I still live, we fight alongside each other, like brothers, because… Because you are the only true brother I have ever had and no matter what you could possibly ever do… that will never change.’

Robb nods, ‘It… You know that goes both ways do you not? Though you have never betrayed me as violently as I have betrayed you.’ 

‘Rhaenys told me to forgive you,’ Jon admits, ‘She said you would feel guilty if I did, and she said... She said that is how hearts work.’ 

‘Is that why you said you forgave me? The eve before my marriage?’

Jon nods only once. 

‘I have you to thank for her, without you she would not have been my lady wife.’

Jon grins, ‘I stole a few years of your life when I made you marry her, I bet she’ll turn your head grey early too.’ He takes another sip of the wine because it lightens his head and the pain in his leg. 

‘I love her.’

It takes all the power Jon has to stop himself from spitting the wine in his mouth out but he still ends up coughing. 

‘I think she loves me too.’ 

‘R-really?’

Robb nods, his frown has returned as he watches Jon wipe the wine from his chin, ‘I hope I’ll be a father soon.’ He goes on to admit, ‘I see you with Freia and I am really envious.’

Jon can only comprehend there, fatherhood is the most magical thing, but instead of feeding the desire, he shakes his head, a sick dread in his stomach that is a combination of guilt, shame and pity, ‘I- I… You must be properly married to have a child.’ He realizes what an awful thing that is to say, but he cannot think of anything else. 

‘I said we weren’t for a long time,’ Robb says and Jon’s eyes have already widened before he finishes it with the undeniable words, ‘but we are now.’

‘Hhmm?’

‘We are properly married, as married as any lord and lady ever were.’

‘Rhaenys is a princess.’ Jon says- again, an awful thing to say but he prefers it to silence. If he’ll be silent Robb might ask questions.

Robb chuckles, ‘I know that!’ 

Jon humorlessly laughs along and stares deep in his glass before he takes another extremely long gulp.

‘But what I wanted to say was… As I said, I have you to thank for her. The Gods know she never would’ve married me were it not that you… I was and still am not good enough for her.’

‘No one is good enough for Rhaenys.’ Jon says, and he actually really means that.

Robb chuckles some more.

Jon realizes he’s still smiling his sheepish smile but it’s almost as if he has completely forgotten how to wipe it off, thankfully someone gifted him a lady wife who’s far better than him too, and she knows exactly when to waltz in.

‘Freia wants to say night-night.’ She tells them a bright and slightly fake smile adorning her face.

Freia wiggles in her mother’s arms in her desire to be dropped to the ground and she stretches her arms out to Jon. 

‘Hey there, pumpkin.’ He says and he has never felt so blissful to be handed his daughter as he does in that moment, ‘Are you going to sleep tight?’

‘Sleepy sleep!’ Freia tells him and she hops on the knee of his good leg.

‘Careful!’ Sansa tells her, ‘I told you papa has an ow, have I not?’

‘Ow?’ Freia looks all worried suddenly, ‘Papa you having ow?’

Jon nods sadly, ‘I’m afraid so, but I’ll be perfectly fine and we’ll go out riding again, I promise.’

‘Harry! I sit on the horseys?’

‘Uhuh, On Harry, yes.’

‘Harry…’ Freia sighs and leans her head against his chest, ‘Papa, you ow…’ She says and she pats his chest as if she means to comfort him, then leans up to kiss him on his cheek, which she barely ever does, and it’s both equally adorable and endearing and he can see Sansa wipe a tear away. 

Robb coughs and gets up, ‘I’ll leave you…’ he says, ‘We’ll speak in the morrow.’

Jon nods but Sansa glares at her brother, ‘Midday,’ She says, ‘My lord husband needs to recover, he deserves some proper night’s rest.’

Robb just grins at Jon before he leaves and the moment he’s gone Sansa presses a wide smile on her face and drops herself down next to him on the cot, crosses her legs and leans her head on the one shoulder he has still left. He wonders how he’ll manage this when they’re with four, not three, he’ll have a lack of shoulders they can all lean on.

‘How are you? Has he tired you with boring politics? You should’ve send him away, you must be tired, how is the pain?’

‘Hardly have any.’ He says.

‘Rhaenys wanted to come and visit you but I told her to wait until the morrow, she would've bothered and tired you with strategy and I won't let her. You should sleep.’

Freia looks up at the both of them with her big and wide blue eyes as she has curled herself in the crook of Jon’s lap, ‘Aunt Rhae-lys is stupid, she saying I must stay.’ 

‘Remember what I told you about calling people stupid?’ Jon asks, trying to use his warning voice, but he feels too tired to succeed entirely. 

‘No one is stupid ever.’ Freia says and she hides her mouth behind her little hand as if she wants to stop herself from saying more undesired things. 

‘She means that Rhaenys told her to stay in the tent when they brought you in, she heard someone say you got hurt and she was worried, right, Freia? You were worried about papa, weren’t you?’

Freia sticks her thumb in her mouth and nods. 

‘I was sleeping, so I couldn’t talk to you anyway, you should always listen to aunt Rhaenys.’

Freia ignores that piece of advice and hides her face in Jon’s tunic, grabbing a part of the cotton in her fist.

Sansa leans her head in her hand and watches him carefully, ‘What’s wrong?’ She asks and her eyes tell him he cannot deny a thing, she won’t let him. 

He thinks of how to say this without Freia asking questions and he sighs before he confesses, ‘Robb and Rhaenys are properly married.’ 

Sansa raises her head from her hand and he knows she understand perfectly, ‘I see.’

‘Do you think I should talk to her about it?’ he says and he looks down to bury his nose in Freia’s full head of curls, she’s smacking her boots against each other in an attempt to get rid of her energy even though she needs to sit still in his lap.

‘I’m afraid you must.’ Sansa says, ‘Does Robb still not know?’

Jon shakes his head, he’s confident Robb doesn’t know a thing. He moves his hand to rub Freia’s back and sighs. 

‘He must know.’ Sansa says and her eyes widen, this concerns Winterfell, suddenly, and he can see how it lightly frustrates and angers her. It frustrates him too.

‘So, I have to talk to Rhaenys?’

‘It won’t help much, I've already told her.’ 

‘Why would you?’ He looks up and Freia frowns at the change in his voice. 

‘Robb told me… a while ago. I promised her not to tell you, I'm sorry.’ 

‘You knew?’ He can't help but feel a little betrayed and there's at least some shame in her eyes when she nods. 

‘I'm sorry.’ She says again, ‘Robb told me and when I mentioned it to her… I promised her I would not tell you if she'd tell Robb.’ 

‘Well, obviously, she hasn't.’ 

‘She hasn't.’ 

‘Papa, I see mouses!’ Freia suddenly tells him, ‘All the mouses!’

‘Oh, really?’

Freia nods and she seems so excited, ‘All mouses everywhere, mama saying no when I say _hello mouses_!’ 

Sansa looks at Freia on Jon’s knee, sighs and shakes her smiling head, ‘I told her mice are dangerous, they can make you ill Freia! But she didn’t listen of course, went right over and when they ran away she chased after them and I chased after her.’

Jon grins, ‘Mice are dangerous.’

‘All the mouses! I was running after all the mouses!’ Freia makes a squeaky sound that’s surely supposed to resemble the sounds mice usually produce. 

‘Freia, what does a cat say?’ Sansa asks.

Freia cheekily grins, leans against Jon some more and when she says, ‘Moooo!’ He’s absolutely convinced she knows very well only cows say moo. 

‘Do they really?’

Freia shakes her head, ‘Meow!’ She says and she claps in her hands, ‘And the… the donkey is saying he-haw and Ghost is saying ou ou ouoo!’

‘Ghost howls, doesn’t he?’

Freia nods.

‘I'll have to talk to Rhaenys.’ Jon decides, ‘I don't want to talk to Rhaenys.’ 

Freia is wonderfully understanding, ‘Aunt Rhaenys is stupid.’ She says again, with a nod of agreement. She lifts her fluffy toy wolf up in her arms and puts one of his pawns in her mouth. 

‘Don't… Freia.’ Sansa pulls the wolf from her hand but once Freia makes her displeased moany sounds she hands it back immediately.

‘You're not angry with me, are you?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘It wasn't your story to tell.’ 

Sansa breathes out as if that relieves her and he leans over to kiss her forehead and she smiles at him sweetly. 

‘Say night night, to papa, then?’ Sansa asks. 

Freia doesn’t seem eager to leave but she smiles sweetly at Jon, tells him, ‘Night night, papa!’ and jumps off his knee.

‘I’ll come and kiss you when you are already in no-where’s land.’ Jon promises and Freia nods, takes her mother’s outstretched hand and leaves the tent with a wave. 

That night Jon lays his hand on Sansa’s belly, tries his very best to feel a thing, is left disappointed once again, even when she pushes his hand to the right spot, ‘Here, she’s here, feel?’ and then decides that if he moves his hand way up, he can feel her beating heart, and that is nearly as lovely below his palm, with her growing breast too big to fit in it now. 

She asks him if his leg hurts and he shakes his head, though it does, but he doesn’t want that to be an excuse for her to push him away. She doesn’t push him away, she’s curiously eager. Sansa sits up, places her legs on each side of him and lifts herself as she grins at him with her lustful eyes. If some women have the capacity to make love elegantly, Sansa is one of them, she’s graceful in all her movements, in the way she closes her eyes and the sounds she makes. She doesn’t always do it, sometimes he’s rough and she’s not at all sweet, scratches his skin with her nails, but tonight, she’s gentle and amiable, careful, proprietorially tender, as tender and as soft as butter, though not frail, with her warm lips pressed to his skin, close to his ear to tell him things no one but him would ever dare believe she would. Only he knows, and he’s exceptionally proud of that. It’s an odd sensation to yearn for something, even miss it, when it’s still lying in your arms. 

They both know it’s because this will be the last time in a very long time, and they’ll miss it, long for it, feel irritated and alone by the lack of it, but eventually it will be alright, because he’ll come back to her, and they will have the rest of their lives to be together the way they like best, the way he feels he was born to do. 

The next morning he wakes up by the sound of birds twittering as if the world is at peace, and he feels her moves her fingers over his chest as she draws circles on the aching muscles. She's already crying and he nudges her nose with his own, ‘You don't have to go today.’ He whispers, partly because he doesn't want her to. 

‘If I don't, I fear I won't find the strength again.’ She admits and he finds reason in these words. 

Jon takes her hand in his and presses kisses to her fingers, ‘You promised me once that you'd come back to me as soon as you could-‘

‘I'll promise I'll come back to you as soon as I can.’ 

Sansa nods once, ‘not too long.’ She demands, ‘Not so long.’ 

Jon can only shake his head, ‘I'll miss you more than you'll miss me.’ 

‘That's not true.’ 

‘Yes it is, you'll have Freia, I'll have… Rhaenys and Robb.’ 

That's brings a small smile to her lips and she bites the lower one to stop it from trembling, ‘Jon…’ she whispers, ‘Look at us, where we are, in this tent... I can't believe I am so grateful of some stupid stolen moments in a tent.' 

'When they war is over we can sleep in soft silky bed and you'll be angry with me for stealing your blankets.'

'You promise?'

Jon holds his pinky finger up and she eagerly accepts the pinky promise, 'I'll wake you up when you have a nightmare.' She promises, 'And you can go get the fresh loafs of bread from the kitchens when you wake up and bring them to me, and we'll break out fast in our bed, like we used to do... remember?'

Jon nods, 'Once the war is over.' 

'We'll be boring and simple.'

He grins because these words sound rather magical, 'As boring as any king will ever be.' 

'I'll keep you boring, I won't let you lose your mind.'

'Course you won't. Were going to get real old, remember? I promised.’

‘You did.’ 

‘And you claim I've never broken a promise to you so… maybe I won't break that one.’ 

Sansa lays her hand to his cheek, ‘I'm not growing old without you.’ She says, ‘I once thought I'd have to and I didn't like it.’ 

‘I'm glad to hear it.’ 

‘Will you tell Freia herself?’

‘What?’

‘That she'll be parted from her favorite person in the world.’ 

Jon can't help but feel pleased at her choice of words, ‘Ill tell her myself, and she'll understand, she's… she's s very smart girl.’ 

‘She's also stubborn and pigheaded, strong minded and adventurous… she's too much like you.’ 

‘She'll be a proper princess.’ Jon decides. 

Sansa smiles, wriggles closer to him, her face buried in his neck and she sighs, ‘Oh no… I doubt that, but it won't matter so much because her father's not exactly a proper king either.’ 

‘Must I take that as an insult?’

Sansa shakes her head and kisses his jaw, ‘Proper is as useless as a furry cloak in Dorne when it's time of war, at times of war... we need strong minds.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh right, I'll be updating every Sunday I'll try update on wednesdays too, but I don't know if I'll be able to make it every week. So yeah, every Sunday and every other Wednesday or so, hope that's good news ;)  
>  I just really wanted to say thank you (again) for all the amazing love and support. I sort of hit a new goal of mine when it comes to kudos count (as in, #1 in the jonxsansa tag) and I'm so so so proud! I just want to say that, despite me writing it, I would not have made it this far without you guys and the amazing messages and support (on here and on tumblr). I'm so grateful and I hope you all have a wonderful day, wherever you are in the world <3


	52. Damaged Goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I don’t want you to turn back time, it’s too late for that now.’ Rhaenys says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I have no responded to last chapter's comments yet! I've not found the time yet, but I will! hardly any Sansa in this chapter, but she'll come back next chapter and we have some Catelyn and Rhaenys pov's in the near future.   
> In any case, here's chapter 52!

**Jon**

Freia is as furious with her father as she has ever been and Jon’s not very used to that. He’s ashamed to admit he usually leaves the unpleasant announcements and refusals to Sansa with only few exceptions, and has therefore managed to maintain his status of the papa who only does and says nice things. 

‘You are stupid!’ she yells at him and she cries. She cries because he’s sending her away and he doesn’t know what words to use that she’ll understand to explain that he’s doing it for her own safety, because if anything his task in this world is to protect her from any possible harm. 

Usually he can handle her trembling lower lip and her watery blue eyes much better than Sansa, but this time, it’s not displease that causes her tears, it’s the feeling of rejection, the fear of being unwanted, and it makes his knees weak to know he caused that. He swore to always make her feel wanted and loved, and he doesn’t know how to uphold that when she clearly seems to feel so betrayed. 

‘We’ll see each other soon, so soon, before you know it.’

‘You do the lying!’ she says and she hides her sobbing face behind her hands as her mother struggles to put her in a cloak of white fox fur. 

‘No, Freia, no, I could never lie to you, I’ll miss you too, so much.’ She can’t begin to imagine how much he’ll miss her. 

She doesn’t want to hear it, she grabs her wooden unicorn, hugs it tight as if it is her only friend and pushes his hands away when he tries to hold her. He’s never wanted to comfort her this much, with the exception maybe of that one time, when a cat hissed and pounced on her. 

'Freia...' Sansa sighs and sinks down beside him and they both kneel in front of her, as she sits on the side of the cot she’ll never sleep in again, ‘We’re going to Winterfell… Ghost is coming with us, and Brienne, we’re going home.’ 

‘NOO!’ Freia sobs and squeezes her eyes shut when the stream of tears blocks her sight, she rubs them with her knuckles and hiccups and gasps as she cries.

‘You’ll go back to grandmama and Rickon.’ 

‘I want to stay with you!’ Freia says, again pushing his hand away, ‘Uncle Bobb and… and Greywind! I want to stay with my papa and papa says… you say I stay with you ALWAYS!’ 

‘I want that too, but I have things to do and it’s far nicer at Winterfell, there’ll be more snow and you can sit on Harry!’

‘Harry is _here_!’

'Papa is not sending us away, Freia,’ Sansa says, ‘He’s only bringing us to a safer place.’

Freia shakes her head, 'He is not coming...'

‘Freia…’ It doesn’t help, none of what they say helps, ‘I’m so sorry, I am, don’t be angry, please.’

Freia remains angry up until the very last moment. Sansa sits her down in the wheelhouse, where she grabs her unicorn again, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and she turns her face away from him.

‘She’ll have forgotten all about it when you come back.’ Sansa promises as she turns to him, to say good-bye.

He nods but fails to take his eyes off the back of Freia’s head. This is not how he imagined their good-bye to be like. He wishes he could hold her one last time, to memorize the feeling of her small and vulnerable body safe and protected in his arms, but she won't even look at him and thus he's left with only Sansa, and he never thought that could possibly ever not be enough. 

Sansa moves her hands to his cheeks and forces him to look at her, ‘Don’t feel guilty Jon, she’s two, she doesn’t understand. She’ll miss you, that’s a good thing.’ She smiles sadly then, ‘I’ll miss you too.’

He tries to smile but he’s sure it’s a grimace, ‘You look after her, for me? And yourself too… Look after yourself?’

She presses her forehead to his, ‘I’ll be the seize of a castle, not a fort when you next see me.’

His smile is a true one now, ‘Look after all three of you.’

She moves herself closer and their noses bump, ‘I promise.’ She says, ‘If you look after yourself too.’ 

He nods and then closes his eyes, to take in the feeling of her warm body close and the scent of her hair, her fingers on his cheeks, her nails scratching his beard. 

She kisses him and then drags herself away to join Freia in the wheelhouse, postponing the moment she’ll have to let go of his hand by holding on to it as long as she can while walking away. Right before she takes the offered arm of Brienne to help her in, Freia jumps out and runs towards him. He crouches down just in time to catch her as she throws herself in his arms, sobbing like she’s done all day, like all nearly three-year-old cry. 

‘Papa, miss you.’ She tells him, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck. 

‘I’ll miss you too.’ He says, kissing her hair repeatedly. 

‘Papa, don’t go.’

‘I’ll come back to you, I promise.’ 

‘Pro-wis?’ She asks, looking up in his face.

He nods, ‘I’ll always come back to you… Freia, I would never send you away if there was another way, I don’t want you to go, I want to stay with you too, you and mama so I can… So I can protect you, but that is… I’m sending you away to protect you, because I need you to be save. I’ll miss you more than you’ll miss me, I promise, you have to believe me.’

She takes his head between her small hands the way she has done uncountable many times before and a sob escapes her throat, ‘Pro-wis?’ she asks again.

Jon nods, ‘I promise.’ 

‘Miss you.’ She says again and she presses her face in the fabric of his cloak, her arms wrapped around his neck with all the strength she can find in them, as if they’re locked and will never let go again. He stands there like that, holding her, gently rocking her as she cries, his cheek to the top of her head, until her breathing calms, her sobbing stops, and only the hiccups remain. She used to fall asleep like this all the time, when she was a little smaller. Freia woke up in the middle of the night, crying because she missed Sansa, and he only got her to fall back to sleep by walking around the Winterfell castle halls and corridors, humming to her as her head lay on his shoulder. He always lay her back down in her bed once she was dreaming again, but sometimes he waited, sometimes he just held her like that and tried to force himself to realize she was real.

Sansa moves her hand to gently wipe the curly hair from her daughter’s eyes, kisses her temple and carefully, so slowly Freia must barely notice, takes her back from Jon and he has not felt so empty in a long time, he doesn’t remember the last time he did. 

Freia screens her face away in the crook of Sansa’s neck and when Sansa’s eyes and frown ask him if there’s anything she can do, ‘It’s alright.’ He says, ‘You can go, I’ll be fine.’ 

She nods and kisses him then, her eyes fiercely shut, presses her forehead to his the moment their lips part again. Jon strokes Freia’s hair, pecks the top of it and when she looks up at him with her blood-stained eyes he smiles reassuringly. 

‘Papa loves you Freia,’ He whispers to her, ‘So much.’ 

He nods at Brienne, who nods back. There’s a promise in that nod and Jon takes the promise as something he’ll hold onto. Brienne brought him Sansa once and now she’ll protect his wife and child with her life. All Jon can do is pray that’ll be enough. 

Jon tries not to stare after the wheelhouse as it leaves, instead he turns his back towards it, wipes the emotion of his face, and marches back to his tent. He goes back to his cot and lays down in it, planning on following the promise he just made his lady wife, and take the rest he needs, maybe cry some more too, except then ser Malckom barks in his tent and loudly proclaims that ‘the princess Rhaenys’ requests his presence.

Jon groans and drags himself up from his cot, asks what’s wrong and gets ignored. This is why he can’t have a King’s Guard, he thinks, as he follows Malckom towards Rhaenys’s tent, he needs ser Malckom to ignore his stupid questions, he’ll lose his senses when people actually start answering them. 

The flap of Rhaenys’s tent is lifted up by ser Luran, a loyal member of the Princess’ guard, and when Jon moves inside, pulling his wounded leg along, he is surprised when he stares into the eyes of the one and only Lord Petyr Baelish. There’s no one in the tent but Baelish and Rhaenys, and Jon’s initial response is _oh wow_ , but he keeps that in when he sees the deep frown on Rhaenys’ face. 

‘Your grace.’ Littlefinger bows for him, actually bows, and when he gets back up he smiles.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jon demands to know.

‘Lord Baelish has come here to offer us the support of the knights of the Vale.’ Rhaenys explains, a deadpan look creeping in on her face.

‘Oh really?’

‘His lady wife, the lady Lysa Arryn, or Tully or Baelish, whatever one prefers, has died, as we already knew, and he has come here to declare fealty to the rightful king in name of lord Robert, of house Arryn, warden of the east.’

Jon quizzically looks at the man who stands there, upholding the appearance of pretending to be whatever it is he wants Jon to think he is. An innocent man, perhaps? Trustworthy? Jon doesn’t know, he can’t bring himself to care.

‘He has brought us Myrcella Targaryen.’ Rhaenys adds, ‘As a hostage, to prove to us his favor.’ 

“Myrcella is here?’ the mention of his sister’s name disappears the humor he found in the situation he sees spread out on front of him.

Rhaenys nods.

‘Have you seen her?’

Rhaenys shakes her head. 

‘You mean to give her to us as a hostage? Is she not betrothed to marry lord Robert?’

‘Engagements end.’ Lord Baelish says and it’s the first time he opens his mouth, Jon had forgotten how awful his voice is, ‘Lord Robert does not wish to marry the bastard daughter of Ser Jaime Lannister.’ 

Jon cannot help but feel understanding there, was it not that he knows as well as everyone else in this tent knows, that whoever betrothed lord Robert to Myrcella in the first place, has always known that she was not a trueborn princess. 

‘Lord Baelish is lord Robert’s ward, he is here in his name.’ Rhaenys goes on to explain the situation some more. 

Jon nods, ‘I see.’

‘You must understand, your grace, surely, that I had no choice before, but now that my wife has passed, sadly, I finally saw the opportunity to-‘

‘Let’s not play silly games, lord Baelish, I’m not Cersei nor am I lord Robert, I am not even my father, I would like it for you to tell me and my sister what it is you want so I can decide whether or not I am willing to give it you. If you wish to please me then for the love of the Gods help me spend as little time in your company as I possibly can.’

Littlefinger doesn't seem much flattered at Jon’s honesty, he can't imagine why, but he still manages to speak the words he must have carefully memorized, ‘I wish to support your cause, your grace, the cause of our rightful king.’

Rhaenys chooses to let him know of her dislike after that and she ridicules him with her scornful laughing, ‘Your timing is spectacular, I love it.’ She tells him, as she moves closer to her prey in a way that reminds Jon of Oberyn. 

‘What makes you think we are in need of you?’ Jon asks.

‘One can never have too many fighting men.’

‘One can always have too many unloyal friends.’ Rhaenys raises her voice, despite being so close to Baelish that she might as well press her forehead to his, her eyes are as purple as ever, and she does not shy away from looking him right in the eyes.

‘Are we friends?’ Bealish asks, and Jon can see the way it creeps in on his face how this may not have turned out as easy as he hoped or expected. 

Jon shakes his head, ‘Kings never have friends, only subjects, kinsmen and enemies.’ 

‘I am your humble subject.’

‘Are you?’ Jon hopes his smile is sneering, by the way Rhaenys glances at him he’s confident it is. 

Littlefinger sinks through his knee and bows, ‘King Rhaegar’s son.’ 

‘I am King Rhaegar’s son.’ Jon says and he takes a step forward, ‘But I doubt you truly know what that means.’ 

‘He wanted you to be his successor.’ 

‘I’m sure you know, were you not a member of the council, when Cersei ripped my father’s will and his dying wish in a hundred pieces? Is that not the sole reason I am here, fighting this war, wasting money, time, lands and lives to win it, asking men to die for me, when I should be sitting on my father’s throne?’ 

‘I was indeed a member of the small council when-‘

‘You betrayed my uncle, the man who raised me, watched them all behead him, watched them keep my wife as their hostage, you did nothing when they abused her, insulted and humiliated her… Joffrey made you lord of Harrenhall, did he not? To thank you for your _loyal service_.’

‘Your grace-‘

‘Do you think I am a fool?’ 

Baelish opens his mouth after a moment, he is no longer smirking, which does little to brighten Jon’s mood. He’s tired and very agitated. In this moment, he prays to the Gods that the magical reason to cut that arrogant little head from its neck will come flying towards them, just to be done with it. 

Rhaenys doesn’t allow Littlefinger to say another thing without a clear reminder, ‘Don’t forget we know you. We don’t play games for fun alone, lord Baelish, as clever as you think you are, you miscalculate and overrate yourself… is that not your weakness?’ 

‘I was never Joffrey’s loyal servant.’ Baelish says, ‘I killed him.’

‘You and my queen killed him.’ Jon has never called Sansa his queen before, it surprises him how much it pleases him to feel it roll over his tongue. 

‘Indeed.’ 

‘You have made a vile mistake, lord Baelish.’ Jon says, his voice deep and low, ‘We thank you for gifting us a hostage and it sure pleases me to inform you that you’re our prisoner now.’ 

‘The knights of the Vale entail of 45,000, you could never-‘

‘I’ve never been to the Fingers, I recall one man once telling me it is a lovely place, if one happens to be stone… Was that you? Perhaps it was… Perhaps you should’ve stayed there.’ Rhaenys says and she takes a step away from Baelish to stand shoulder to shoulder with her brother, ‘I shall write a letter, to Harry Hardyng… I think it was? Lord Robin’s heir. He is a man grown, perhaps he has the sense, honor and chivalry of a lordling, not a scheming political self-made man.’

 

‘Your father had me in his service for years.’ Baelish then reminds them in an attempt to spasm. 

‘Father never trusted self-made men, did he?’ Jon asks Rhaenys, without taking his eyes of Baelish. 

‘I don’t believe father trusted many people, so it’s an easy assumption to make, _but_ … yes, he definitely was right in his claims that those who climb the steps to greatness all by themselves will never put a halt to their own never-ending growing ambitions.’

‘He said… ambition without goodwill is a bird without wings.’ Jon helps her remember and Rhaenys nods and smiles at him as if the memory makes her feel bright and happy.

‘All the words you speak, lord Baelish… _littlefinger_ \- can I call you littlefinger?’ Jon can’t help but grin at the smile Rhaenys wears, she’s such a master at this, it won’t be long or he’ll start to enjoy such takedowns just because she makes him proud, ‘They all come from a belly filled with pride. You have been eating nothing but your ambition for far too many years. You’re starving now, and if you don’t know what happens to starving people, perhaps ask the smallfolk.’ 

When Baelish says nothing, it is Jon who clears it up, ‘They die.’ 

‘If you believe we need you there has been an error in your calculations.’ Rhaenys looks down at her hands, at the many rings she wears, rubies, black diamonds and a gemstone, ‘We need no one, least of all you. My brother is not his uncle, not nearly as noble and neither of is our father either, as much as we desire to honor him, I fear he was always a tad bit too forgiving,’ Rhaenys is no longer smiling, her eyes are two blocks of molten lava, ‘Don’t you think?’ 

‘When it came to the crime of backstabbing… Certainly.’ Jon agrees. 

Jon suppresses the urge to spit the ground underneath the man’s feet, but then he realizes his father wouldn't believe that to be very ‘kingly’ behavior, and since he's playing that part now, he better control himself.

‘Seize him.’ He simply says instead and he can’t help but enjoy the look of both shock and fear on the man’s face when two guards drag him out of the tennt, his arms bound to his back. 

He and Rhaenys both know they’ll surely accept the support of the knights of the Vale, but they also were both equally eager for the spectacle of humiliating littlefinger. Littlefinger may not know it yet, but he is not the key to the Vale. 

What Jon and Rhaenys both know too, is that once this damn war is over, the dolls will be scattered and it’s left to them to place them back on their old spot- or switch them to somewhere completely new, they might even remove some entirely, and Baelish is certainly one they'll wipe off as soon as they both can. Those who smile to you in your face and stick a dagger in your back when you turn around are the most useless of the bunch. 

Rhaenys wasn't joking, Rhaegar was too forgiving sometimes, and Jon will be the same, he already knows it, but the man who betrayed Ned will never receive mercy and Jon can't wait until they have found a reason to behead the sneaky little asshole. 

'How did you know that?’ She asks him when they’re alone, ‘How do you know he betrayed your uncle?’

‘Tyrion.’ He shrugs.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She seems genuinely upset that he didn’t. 

‘Because I didn’t believe him, I thought it was… He claims Ned offered to give Cersei time to escape, so they would not behead her and her children. Tyrion said it caused Cersei to prepare to fight, and she did, and she won.’ 

‘That is- that was not a very bright move.’ Rhaenys decides and she keeps the words she must prefer to use in, for which Jon’s grateful. 

‘My uncle was a good man.’ 

‘Not very practical.’ 

‘We can't all be like you.’ 

‘Thankfully not, no.’ Rhaenys smiles as if he complimented her but Jon did not mean it as such. 

‘It seemed unlikely for Ned to want to help Cersei, to offer her a way out, though it all makes sense now.’ 

‘Why have you been talking to the imp? He is one of them, a Lannister, you cannot-‘

‘I accused Littlefinger, and now I know he was speaking the truth.’ Jon says, ‘He may be a Lannister and he may be a traitor, but at least he’s not a liar.’

‘They are all liars.’ Rhaenys says and she huffs, ‘Liars to the bone, the imp is his father’s son.’

‘Mayhaps,’ Jon says, ‘But he was Joffrey’s Hand, he is Cersei’s brother, he grew up at the Rock, he knows things, of course I was going to talk to him, diplomacy is the safest warfare.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you've spoken to him?’

‘Because I knew you’d disapprove and I am too old and too tired to be scolded at.’ 

‘But Jon-‘

‘All we need now is proof to take his head lawfully and we can add the knights of the Vale to our army without having to nod and smile at Littlefinger.’ 

It doesn't take long until that reason is thrown in their face. 

Jon finds Myrcella in a tent worthy for a prisoner, sitting on the ground, her hands tied together, her hair a mess and her dress brown, muddy and too tight.He has not seen her for nearly three years, the last time he did she was fourteen, now, she is seventeen, a woman grown, with the same golden curls he remembers, Cersei’s emerald eyes and the Lannisters cheekbones. 

She looks up and seems to be uncertain for a moment that it really is him, ‘Jon?’ she asks, badly hidden disbelieve in her frowned eyebrows. 

‘Cella…’ He says and he didn’t ever except to feel so relieved seeing her, out of all people. He sinks down, frees her hands with a daggar and she drops into his opened arms where she breaks down in sobs against his chest, ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now.’ He promises. 

‘I d-didn’t know if you… I-I thought you might…’ 

‘Of course not.’ He says and he strokes her blond curls, ‘Never, I’ll protect you.’ 

She cries and he holds her, even pulls her in his lap eventually, because he cannot contain the urge to comfort her. The poor thing. 

‘Will you murder Tommen?’ She asks eventually and he shakes his head.

‘Why would I murder Tommen?’

‘E-everyone says you will.’ She admits. 

Jon pulls his lower lip in and then forces himself to smile, ‘I could only ever kill evil men.’

‘And women?’ 

‘Maybe, yes.’ He says and he thinks of that red-headed wildling again, the one he hanged. 

‘Will you murder mother?’

Jon knows he could tell her of all the things Cersei did, but he doesn’t, he only says, ‘Your mother is not a good person, Myrcella.’ 

‘I know that.’ She says, and he recognizes her perfectly, she looks the way he remembers as when she challenged Joffrey, sometimes she was the only one who would, ‘And I know that your father is not my father.’ 

‘But you loved him like a father, did you not?’

Tears appear in the corners of her eyes again and she nods. Rhaegar was arguably the best father to Myrcella and Tommen, who were, painfully and confrontationally, not his true children. 

‘Then I think perhaps… I think that is all that matters.’ 

'But you are not my brother, you are nothing to me.'

‘I wouldn’t call it nothing.’ Jon decides.

‘Lord Baelish is an awful man.’ She tells him then, ‘H-he… he manipulates Robin, he's giving him poison! A drink to make him tired and sick, and h-he… he threw… he pushed… he has…’

‘What did he do? Cella, tell me.’ In that moment, he feels like he’s manipulating Myrcella. Perhaps he is, but at least he’s not doing it the way Rhaenys planned on. Rhaenys wanted to threaten the poor thing and the Gods know what else she might have been willing to do. Jon is sure his wish to make Myrcella feel safe is sincere, he’s still that much of a good man.

Myrcella shakes her head as tears drop down from her face, ‘Lady Lysa didn't throw herself down the moondoor…’ she admits, and Jon is not surprised when she confesses, ‘He pushed her. I saw it, I was there, he did! He pushed her down the moondoor after she tried to push me… she admitted to… that he… she admitted to have… she said…’

‘What did she say?’

Myrcella takes a deep breath to comfort herself, scans Jon’s face, and then tells him with her surprisingly steady voice, ‘She said she drank moontea when he put a baby in her belly when they were young, and then she said she murdered her husband because he asked.’ 

‘Her husband?’ 

Myrcella hiccups once and nods, ‘Lord Arryn! She said she poisoned him because Littlefinger asked!’

‘Gods be good.’ Jon says and if he were Rhaenys he'd pray for all these lost souls now. 

As much as he knows his father will come back and haunt him if he ever dares hurt Myrcella, that girl Rhaegar pretended to have fathered, he knows that Cersei’s daughter as a hostage… is the absolute most perfect opportunity for revenge. Rhaenys helps him remember, but as Rhaenys rages on and on about how they must use this to their advantage he cannot help but feel almost betrayed, as if she disappointed him and therefore her words and opinions have less impact. 

Myrcella is Cersei’s only daughter, they might not even have to invade on King’s Landing if they threaten to send Cersei a chopped off golden-haired head in a Dragon-adorned wooden box, they might force Myrcella to admit to her bastardy, to proof yet again that Cersei is a lying whore, they could even make Myrcella write to her mother, to ask her mother to please bend the knee, because, ‘You know she would have done the same, Jon, we have to-‘

‘No.’ Jon says.

‘You cannot-‘

‘Sansa was her hostage for _two_ years, they humiliated and abused her, separated me from her and my child, I will never forget it, they shall be punished for it, I am planning on defeating all those who have wronged me, wronged her, but Myrcella is not among them, she is a victim, as innocent as Freia, she is a child… a child our father raised as his own.

‘She is ten and seven years of age! That is not a child. Sansa was wedded to you at the same age.’ 

‘I knew her for half my life as my sister, she was one of the few who were kind to me when I came to King’s Landing. I cannot bear to hurt her or mistreat her. Most importantly, I am no Cersei, I refuse to lower myself to her sick and twisted standards for the weak reason of revenge, we are better than that, we are human, I am stronger than my hate.’

Rhaenys blinks a few times and seems sincerely stunned, ‘So you propose?’

‘We’ll send her to Riverrun, where she can be with Sansa, afterwards she’ll go with them to Winterfell, as my own ward, and when the war is over she is free to go wherever she pleases.’

‘We might just as easily send her to Cersei, wrapped up with a ribbon as a nameday gift.’ Rhaenys huffs, it’s her last shrug, he knows however, that the argument had been won. 

‘But we won’t- we’ll let Cersei know that she is with us, safe and healthy and we’ll specifically promise not to hurt her.’ 

‘If we could ask her to write-‘

‘No.’

‘But-‘

‘No!’ Jon crosses his arms, ‘Can you for once not be so unfeeling? She was brought up as our kin Rhaenys, seven hells!’

‘She is a bastard, she was never my sister.’ Rhaenys says, shaking her head, ‘She is nothing to me.’ 

‘Father treated her like his daughter, he was fond of her, don’t you remember? Fond of her and Tommen both.’ 

‘Do you plan on forgiving Tommen too? Will he be your ward as well? He’s a usurper, Jon.’

Jon shrugs, ‘What is your plan Rhaenys? Beheading him and spiking his head on the top of the castle walls? Their mother is our enemy, don’t confuse them, they’re innocents, they have always been innocents, father understood that.’

‘There has been plenty of innocent blood spilled to make up for it.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Do you remember your uncle’s mistakes? He told Cersei to flee. If he truly told Cersei she had to take her children out of King’s Landing and escape, as the imp claims, if he _told_ her he was going to tell everyone who fathered her brood then he was an even bigger fool than I have believed all this time.’

‘Don’t ever speak of him in that way.’ Jon says, he hears his own voice rasp. He can take her scorn, but not when it’s about Ned. Everyone but his uncle. Rhaenys hardly ever tries, but sometimes she does, and it’s always when they disagree over something that has little to nothing to do with Eddard Stark. 

‘It’s the truth is it not? Starks always melt in the south.’ 

‘I am not a Stark.’ He says, his throat aches when his voice goes deeper, as hoarse as the voice of a dying man, and Rhaenys straightens her back. 

‘Then do not act like one.’

‘I’m not telling Cersei I’m about to betray her, am I?’ Jon shakes his head, ‘I refuse to do to Myrcella what they did to Sansa. We won’t send her to Cersei, we keep her in our company, but she’ll be our guest.’

‘Our _guest_ … it would be stupid to keep her alive and you know it. If not for us then for the future. Surely you can see that any offspring of Cersei’s, living now or yet to be born, is a threat to your own bloody bloodline!’

We do not unlawfully kill nor abuse or torture innocent children because of their parents’ deeds or the seeds they were born from. Is it not a king’s duty to protect the innocent and uphold the good? Myrcella _is_ innocent. A king does not rule on emotions and feelings, anger and fear. I don't want to be the unpredictable ruler, the one who only loves those in his favor, I'm king of all my subjects, even the children of the enemy.’ 

‘Jon I-‘

‘Give Myrcella a trial and if she comes out an enemy of the crown, guilty and charged I will punish her suitably, but you can't. We cannot let our emotions get the better of us, our conscious rules, our sense and our mind. We uphold the law of our state, not our fear or our anger.’

Jon looks at her, she shakes her head and then sinks down on a cot. 

‘What is it? Why are you-‘

‘You do this little trick… you’re getting better at it.’ 

‘What _trick_?’

‘You open your mouth and father’s words come out.’ 

Jon feels an urge to thank her and that almost scares him, because he has never thanked anyone before, for comparing him to Rhaegar. In this, he realizes, it is the greatest compliment. Especially when it is given by the person who admired and loved the man all her life. Rhaenys comparing him to Rhaegar is not only a compliment, it's an honor. Yet all he can think of saying is, ‘You accuse our aunt of ruling on her emotions, let's not do the same.’ 

Rhaenys huffs some more and crosses her arms. 

Jon wants to lie down, close his eyes, fall asleep after a large portion of dreamwine. His leg burns and his head hurts. Mostly he wants to get on a horse and make it gallop right after his wife and child. The realization that it might be a moon’s turn from now until he’ll find a way to finally do it hurts more than his leg and head combined. 

‘We have other things to discuss.’ Jon tells her after a long silence.

‘Have you decided whether or not to attack Casterly Rock or Lannisport?’ she asks, looking up.

Jon shakes his head, ‘No.’

‘Well you should, it will have great influence on the battle plans we’ve made, we need to discuss it with at least a dozen bannermen and it concerns not only the ground troops, our navy is-‘ 

‘That’s not what I meant.’

She seems annoyed now, ‘Then what is it?’

‘Robb.’

‘What did he do?’

‘I was hoping to discuss with you what Robb _and_ you have done.’

When the realization hits, he sees an inner battle of conflict behind her eyes, going on in her pretty, blonde head, ‘Has Sansa told you?’

Jon shakes his head. 

‘Are you going to scold _me_ now?’ She asks after a moment of silence.

‘Why would I? It wouldn’t turn back time, would it?’

‘I don’t want you to turn back time, it’s too late for that now.’ Rhaenys says. 

Jon bites his lower lip and watches her avoid to look at him for some while until he states, ‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘Nor do I, really.’

That makes him laugh a hollow laugh, ‘Oh, I think you do.’

Finally, she looks up and she seems a little insulted now, ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Robb tells me he loves you.’ 

Her conflict only worsens at that piece of information and she actually reddens. Rhaenys blushes. He cannot believe it. 

‘Rhaenys?’

‘ _What_?’

‘I don’t understand.’ He repeats.

‘Of course you don’t, you know nothing.’

Jon sighs and then moves to drop down next to her on the cot, which hurts like hell to his leg, and he wraps an arm around her that she thankfully doesn’t shake off, ‘I know some things.’ He tells her, ‘I know that being with the person you love is the absolute best thing in the whole wide world.’ 

She avoids to look at him and her inner-conflict has turned to shame, ‘I know it is wrong.’ She says, her voice trembles.

‘It’s not wrong, he is your lord husband.’

She breathes a humorless laugh at that, ‘Don’t fool yourself, I am a horrible person and I know it, I suppose that means that at least I have not gone mad.’ 

‘You are not.’ He rubs her upper-arm with his hand, ‘Even the best of us make mistakes.’

‘It doesn’t feel like a mistake.’ She says and she flicks her gaze up to his, ‘I hate that, it makes me hate myself. I always believed… I always told myself I could never understand what our father did, but I was wrong.’

In that, he and Rhaenys are the same, ‘It’s not the same.’ Jon remembers what Sansa told him, ‘We will not make Rhaegar’s mistakes.’ 

‘I am already.’ She says.

‘You have to tell him now, you understand that, don’t you?’

‘He’ll hate me.’ She says. 

‘You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.’

‘I’d rather hate myself than see the look in his eyes when he finds out I have betrayed him.’

Jon knew it was going to be like this. Rhaenys is such a Targaryen. She has every reason to be both a realist and a pragmatist, but she has the nasty habit to feeling tremendously sorry for herself and he understands that so well because he does it too. 

He thinks of what to say to make her realize that, as hard as it may be to swallow, this is not about her, when she starts crying. 

‘I’m as weak as Aegon.’ At one point Aegon became a measure for her to explain how weak someone has been exactly and he hates that. 

‘Aegon was a troubled soul, he was unhappy and he didn’t want to live anymore because he believed death would bring him all the consultation and revenge he needed. You blamed father for his death but sometimes I wonder if truly, you aren’t angry with yourself. It was no one’s fault, he was sick Rhaenys.’

‘He left me on my own.’ She says then, ‘He chose himself over all of us, over his own kin, we’re fighting this war because he could not be strong and I swore I would not make his mistakes.’

‘This is not about Aegon,’ Jon says, ‘He is dead, it’s just you and me now. You have Robb and… I know he’s no replacement, but Aegon will not come back, and it’s time to accept that, leave the past, let Aegon rest, it’s what he wanted, he’s not coming back.’

‘I know he’s not coming back, it is my fault he’s gone.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rhaenys!’ they should have had this conversation years ago, right after he died, right _before_ he died preferably, but it’s too late, far too late and that is _not_ her fault.

‘He told me Jon! He told me so often, he said he was going to do it, he said _Rhaenys I can’t do it anymore_ , and I didn’t believe him, father never believed it, he might have-‘

‘Nobody believed him! He was always saying the weirdest things, he threatened about all sorts of things when he didn’t get his way, he _said_ he’d rather die than marry a woman, but how were we supposed to know he meant it this time? He never asked for help, all he ever did was hate the world, that is not _your_ fault, you have to… You have to forgive him for leaving us behind with his problems to solve, the Gods know I have.’

‘I should have helped him.’ Rhaenys decides nonetheless. 

Jon grabs her hand, ‘You loved him, I am sure that for Aegon, that meant the world.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she says, ‘You never loved him the way I did, you didn’t know him, you never saw his torment.’

‘Perhaps I didn’t, but you are wrong to assume that I do not know what it is like to not feel loved. I may understand Aegon far better than you ever will.’ 

‘He was always so jealous of you.’ Rhaenys says then, her anger and frustration has faded and she’s only sad now, that specific sadness she saves for Aegon only, ‘Did you know that? He admitted it to me.’

‘He had no right, he was the crown prince.’

‘He had every right. Everyone pushed Aegon around in all sorts of directions all his life, he never asked for any of it, all he wanted was to be left alone and that was the sole thing he could never have, the sole thing you had that he did not.’

‘Perhaps he was weak then, he refused to accept his fate, at least I accepted my bastard status in life.’

‘ _Please_ ,’ She says and she huffs, ‘All you ever did was use that as an excuse, you have always known what your destiny was, everyone knew it.’

‘Oh, really?’ She’s wrong, he never did, nor did everyone, his father succeeded in fooling some, and Jon truly believed he was the greatest shame, the living and breathing proof of his father’s weakness, a reminder of Lyanna Stark, that women who was in her own way the cause of thousands of worthless deaths. Jon is not only his father’s son, he is his mother’s too. 

‘We were all a disappointment to father in our own special way. Me because I was born a daughter and carried a useless womb, Aegon because he loved men and you… Perhaps you never disappointed him. You never disobeyed him, you are just like him. You were always supposed to be the prince and Aegon the bastard.’

‘Life plays funny games with irony, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s our job not to let it.’ Rhaenys says, her eyes wide and fierce, ‘All my life I have crippled under the burden of feeble men, I cannot afford fragility, I decided to choose strength. I make my own destiny.’

‘Sometimes being strong is not an option, sometimes we’re human.’

‘Not me.’

He nods, ‘You too, or are you going to tell me now that you do not love Robb back?’

‘That is not the point.’

‘That is the only point, that is what this is about.’

‘Don’t tell me what this is about.’

‘You’re scared because he makes you feel weak, and he makes you do things that make you believe that you have lost all control and the worst of it is… that you actually like it. Don’t you? I know you Rhaenys, don’t forget that. Loving Robb is your worst nightmare come to life.’ 

‘Don’t you dare.’ Is all she says, her voice a whisper again, though she doesn’t seem scared, she only means to threaten him, and she fails.

‘Rhaenys…’ he sighs and feels he has said her name a hundred times by now, ‘You have to tell him. You owe him that much, he’ll know sooner or later and the longer you wait the more it will hurt, the harder it will be for him to forgive you.’ 

‘He will never forgive me.’

For some reason, Jon doubts that, ‘He’ll know, it’s up to you to decide when and how and from whom he’ll find out.’

‘I cannot have it annulled anymore, I have bound him to a worthless marriage that I can only free him of by dying.’

‘You are not worthless.’

‘Don’t give me that speech!’ she says, her voice louder again and high-pitched, ‘Even in Dorne I was! They made me lay on my back, told me to spread my legs, investigated what was between them and came to the conclusion that I was a woman of no worth, they send me back home and informed me that no man would ever want to wed me, it was of no matter that I am a princess of the blood. I am _damaged goods_ , I will never give any man a son, not even Robb and at the end of the day… that is the only job a woman has.’

‘And you don’t think he deserves to know that?’ Jon knows better than to deny all she has said, it won’t help to tell her that all those who believe that don’t know her the way he does.

She avoids to look at him then. 

‘If you don’t tell him… you are weak.’

She has never looked at him with eyes this angry, ‘How dare you say that to me?’

‘If you don’t do it, I will.’

‘No, you won’t, I’ll kill you if you try.’ 

‘This is about the future of Winterfell, you may not care, Robb may not even care, but the North needs an heir. You wanted an annulment and you are right, you cannot have one now, and you need to look the consequences in the eye.’ 

‘You won’t tell him.’

‘Not if you will.’

‘There is no solution, I have made a mistake.’

‘Robb has brothers. Two. Bran is crippled… But Rickon is strong and healthy, and-‘

‘I know all that, I have been through it in my head.’

‘Then what can-‘

‘He wants to be a father.’ She says, her voice reaches its highest point yet when she swallows a sob and a tear escapes her eye, ‘He tells me, he says… He says he hopes that I can become a mother soon. I see him watch you and Freia… and he was so happy for Sansa when I told him you’ll have another… He wants to have a child of his own, he wants it so badly and I want to… I want to give that to him because he’ll be a wonderful father, he deserves that. I want to see him hold a baby of his own in his arms, give him a son or a daughter- but I cannot and that makes me feel… that is what makes me feel the most worthless of all.’

Jon cups her face in his hands, kisses her forehead, and then wraps his arms around her shaking shoulders. He doesn’t know what to say to make it better, he wonders if there’s anything he could possibly say that could ever make this better. The truth is, that she has buried herself in a mess that he set the grounds for. He never should have allowed her to do this to herself. She told him, and he let her anyway.

He wishes he could tell her that he’ll make it better but if truth must be told, all he can do now, is have faith in Robb, and Jon believes that he can do that. 

‘You must tell him, Rhaenys.’ He says again, his nose in her golden hair, the color of honey. 

She breathes in shakily, her cheek against his leather doublet, and then nods once, ‘I know.’ She says. 

‘Robb is… He’s Robb. If you tell him, and you _explain_ -‘

‘There’s nothing to explain, Jon.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I have only confessions to make and he will not want to hear these.’

‘It’s good of you to love him.’ Jon says, despite knowing it is something he’ll never get her to agree with. 

‘You say that as if such things are a choice we make- The past has taught me that our hearts simply sometimes have their own plans.’ 

Jon grabs her hand tight and squeezes it, ‘Whatever happens-‘

‘It’s going to be alright?’

Jon smiles and shakes his head, ‘Whatever happens, no matter how much I sometimes want to strangle you-‘

‘Don’t say it Jon.’ 

‘Say what?’

‘I know what you want to say, I’m asking you to please don’t. I’m not Sansa, I don’t enjoy poetry and heartfelt nonsense.’

‘I have to say it.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘You really do not.’ 

Jon raises his eyebrows, ‘Why not? Because you already _know_?’

Rhaenys finally smiles and leans over to peck his cheek, ‘Exactly.’ 

‘Know what?’

‘That you’ll always be there for me? I’ll always be there for you too. I never tell you, because you know.’ 

‘I know.’ Jon confirms. 

‘ _Good_ , because saying it is one thing, but doing it… I’ll never let you down Jon, and I plan to prove it to you with deeds, not promises. I don’t want promises from you either, promises are words and words-’

‘Are wind. But I wasn’t promising.’ Jon decides, ‘I was reminding.’ 

‘I do not need a reminder, I forget nothing.’ 

Jon takes a strand of honey blonde hair between his forefinger and thumb and studies the color, ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’ He concludes, ‘You’re too hard on yourself, the world, and others.’ 

‘It is because you are too soft.’ 

Jon shakes his head, ‘That is not true.’ 

‘Is this about Sansa?’

‘Sansa?’ Jon shakes his head, ‘Why would it be about Sansa? Why does me being soft always has to relate to Sansa?’

‘because she makes you soft.’ Rhaenys says with a shrug. 

‘Robb makes _you_ soft.’ He doesn’t mean to say it as an accusation, it’s only that she’ll interpret it as such. 

‘Not in the same way. Robb doesn’t make me do foolish things that could bring him to danger just because he knows how to make me feel guilty. You ought to have never brought her here, for starters, you only did that because she has a hold on you, because she knows how to make you feel guilt-ridden, she manipulates you and you know and willingly decide not to even care and lets her.’ 

‘Sansa does not _manipulate_ me, she only has her influence and that is only normal, understandable, it’s _natural_ , it’s because I trust her. She’s not a little girl, I value her opinion.’ 

‘Even if what she wants could possibly harm her? Because that is what bringing her here did. Anything might’ve happened, she could’ve lost the child.’ 

‘If I had not brought her here she would not have been pregnant, might’ve have missed out on the opportunity of a divine heir altogether.’ 

‘Have you lost the ability to count now or is this simply you knowing nothing of a woman’s body?’ 

‘What?’

‘Four moonturns pregnant, the measter said, and she had been here for-‘

‘Measters know nothing.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘Their predictions are barely ever correct, they were wrong about Freia too, and these were the king’s measters, this was a measter from some back alley holdvast near a deserted castle in the Westerlands.’ 

‘Still educated by the ancient Citadel in the city of Oldtown.’

‘Those same people who claim mammoths and giants don’t exist.’ Jon points at his eyes with his finger, ‘I saw them.’ 

‘Oh, seven hells, Jon, that is not the same.’ 

Jon shrugs, ‘I’m only _saying_.’ He watches her lean back in her chair, her arms crossed, her face unsatisfied and irked, ‘What I am _trying_ to say, is that I’d like it for you to give Sansa some space. You have been bossing around the world for as long as you can remember, but Sansa needs time and room to grow into her new role.’ 

‘Sansa has been basically brought up to become queen.’ Rhaenys argues but Jon shakes his head. 

‘You can’t sympathize with how overwhelming it is… and leave my children out of it.’ 

‘So, she did complain to you about that? I know I should have chosen different words, but I was _right_ , Jon-‘

‘Different words? Different _subject_ , you mean.’ 

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I was right.’ She says again, ‘Sansa still lives inside a bubble where you are her unimportant bastard husband who can devote all his time to her, who offers her life with a lack of worry and real trouble, where she can raise her children all by herself because they’ll be just as meaningless are their father… but you’re not Jon, you are not meaningless, nor will your children be, you’re _king_ , and it brings responsibility and duty, it brings _sacrifice_. You say she needs time and room to grow into her role as queen? She needs a bucket full of ice water splashed in her face to wake her up.’ 

Jon gets up and he can see in the way she widens her eyes that she did not see his sudden anger coming, ‘Whether she is ready or not is of no matter, what matters is that she _is_ , she’s your queen, I respect you wanting to teach her, I appreciate it, but don’t disrespect her. She’s my queen and the mother of my children and she does _not_ manipulate me.’ 

‘You cannot demand to stay in a warzone while being pregnant of what could very well be a future king, it’s irresponsible and reckless as well as immature.’ 

‘Shut up Rhaenys.’ Jon says, ‘You don’t understand. You are no mother- Sansa was alone in King’s Landing for _two_ years, I need you to give her a goddamn break.’ 

‘She told me... she threatened me, you know. She said she’ll make you have your pick between the two of us if I force her to.’ 

‘She better.’ Jon says.

‘She should not have said that.’ Rhaenys decides and she glares into a cup she grabs. 

‘She should not have felt it necessary to say that, but clearly she did and that is your fault entirely.’ 

Rhaenys only huffs, ‘Was she right? She was, was she not? If she’ll make you choose I will be-‘

‘Of course she was right, I would be the worst man if she’d been wrong, it’s not about me, it’s about you _knowing_ that. Stop judging her, stop telling her what she must think and do, don’t you dare think you get to have a say in how she raises a child that’s not even here yet.’ 

‘I was right.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Your son will belong to the Iron Throne, as Freia does. Will you be the one who’ll argue with Sansa over possible matches? Freia will be married off, is she aware of that? I am always left to be the mean, spiteful, cold-hearted bitch just because I’m the only one willing to face reality.’ 

‘You’re such a hypocrite.’ Jon decides.

‘Excuse me?’ 

‘ _Reality_? Fix your own life first, please, and when you do you can let me and Sansa know how you managed but before that you do not get to tell us how to raise children when you have no idea what it’s like to have any.’ 

‘I know how this world works, Jon, if saying it aloud makes people hate me then so be it.’ 

‘Since you know so well how the world works I suggest you both start treating Sansa like your queen and respectful sister-in-law, the way she deserves and leave this tent right now, so you can look Robb in the eye and tell him what you should have told him yesterday.’ 

‘What?’

‘But you won’t do that, will you?’

Rhaenys crosses her arms and challengingly glares at him. Jon glares back for a moment then feels like laughing, which he does and he shakes his head in disbelieve. 

‘It’s not funny!’ 

‘It really is not.’ He agrees. 

‘I’m sorry if I’ve angered anyone.’ She says, with loads of visible effort. 

‘It’s not that it’s… you don’t seem aware _why_ you anger people, which is what angers me the most.’ 

‘Do tell me? Why do I anger people?’

Jon shakes his head and makes his way out of the tent, ‘It serves no point.’ He tells her.

‘Serves no point?’

‘It’s good Sansa’s away, she can be away from all these people who treat her like cattle.’ 

‘I do no such thing.’ Rhaenys says, ‘You _know_ how important heirs are, you need this child to be a son.’

‘Sansa knows it too, there’s no need to constantly remind her, you’re torturing her.’

‘Well… in that case it is indeed good that she left, for the sake of her mental state as well as her physical safety.’

‘Let’s not talk about that anymore.’ Jon says, ‘Saying it won’t turn it into a boy.’

‘You’ll pray for one?’

‘I’ll pray for its health.’ 

Rhaenys seems only a little annoyed then and leans backwards in the chair, her eyes wide, watchful, tired and still red from all the crying. 

‘You look exhausted.’ Jon says, ‘How much exactly does this all keep you awake at night?’

Rhaenys ignores his question and studies her nails as she promises, ‘I’ll tell Robb… but not tonight and… you must like me do it the way I want, you must stay out of it. It’s my mess, it’s my mistake, my lie, my deceit, he’s my lord husband. I want to tell him and if I ever find out that you have I…’ she doesn’t finish her threat, and he’s glad. 

‘I won’t.’ Jon says, ‘If you’ll… if you’ll never mention my son growing up at Dragonstone again… if you’ll stop interfering in the way we choose to raise the girls. I want you to stop criticizing the way I decide to lead my personal life. If you’re my Hand, you give me council on state matters, not Sansa, only me, and only about state matters.’

He expects more resistance but there is none, ‘Deal.’ Is all Rhaenys says. 

‘Do you think Robb would like to behead Littlefinger? It was his father who was betrayed, after all.’ 

‘You should ask him.’ Is all Rhaenys says. 

‘Don't you think I should do it myself? To prove a point?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘He was Robb’s father.’ 

_Ned was my father too_ , Jon thinks, but he won't say it, because it will anger her, she'll remind him of their _real_ father, about how Rhaegar sacrificed everything for the greater good. Jon is not his father, he's not scarred by his own foolishness, he did not push the world into a war of his own making because he believed in… in what? 

Jon is nearly the age his father was when Rhaegar fathered Jon in Dorne, when he abducted Lyanna and unleashed a Baratheon Rebellion and he did not need to make his father's mistakes to learn the lesson they teach. Rhaenys _is_ right, the heavy duty of power comes with sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to give a Daenerys update (yaay!) and Catelyn's coming back (not sure if that's yaay or not). Hopefully I can update this wdnesday, I think I will, if I won't, it'll be this sunday.  
> Thanks for reading, and have a nice sunday!X


	53. The Prince That Was Promised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'We don’t let prophecies tell us what we must do. We make our own story, Jon, predictions be damned. I am who I am, and I write history, not a song- that is one thing father never learned.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's pov at the beginning was originally part of chapter 52, but I thought it worked a little better in here, even though this one has two Sansa pov's now, which I usually try to avoid. In any case, enjoy!

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Sansa has only barely settled in at Riverrun when Myrcella arrives, accompanied by no other than Ser Malckom. She hardly recognizes the child that is a child no longer. It scares her how much she looks like Cersei and Sansa cannot bear to see too much of her, only the sight of the back of her head is too much to stomach. She asks Brienne to welcome the new prisoner and Brienne hands her a letter from Jon with strict instructions and a detailed explanation.

‘They beheaded Littlefinger.’ Sansa murmurs as she feels Brienne’s eyes on her trembling hands, wrapped around the piece of paper.

‘Your grace?’

Sansa looks up and sees Freia’s wide and questioning eyes stare at her, almost in fear as she sits on the floor, dolls in hand. Sansa balls the letter in her fist, then throws in into the fire, ‘Lord Petyr Baelish is dead, my brother took his head, he was a traitor, he caused my father's death, betrayed my house and family and undermined my husband's rightful claim.’

‘Then it is good his head rolled off his neck.’ Brienne decides.

‘Oh no.’ Sansa can only say, ‘Not good at all.’ She shakes her head, walks over to Freia to hug her tight.

‘The lady Myrcella has requested to see you.’ Brienne then says.

‘I wish to see nothing of her, please make sure of that, do not send me her messages nor her requests, I don't desire any contact, nor do I allow my daughter in her presence.’

‘Of course, your grace.’ Brienne finds it hard to hide her lack of understanding, but Brienne doesn't _know_.

That night Sansa tries her best not to cry as she lays in her strange bed in this empty and strange castle, Freia's little, sleeping head resting on her shoulder, her stuffed wolf in one hand and the thumb of the other in her mouth. Images of a purple hairnet flash through Sansa’s thoughts in a whirlwind of dreams, the stones twinkle and the poison within drops down her forehead, over her cheeks, nose and lips and the taste stings on her tongue as she fails to wipe it away with her sleeve.

 _I want to go home_ , Sansa told him then, and she remembers how he looked when he shook his head, _I’ll give you revenge_.

Cersei's green eyes stared at her, as Viserys and his fleet were burning not so far away, the screaming of dying men still rings in Sansa’s ears, years later. Her eyes were drunk, angry, tired and vengeful, _Love no one but your children, Sansa_ , she said and Sansa said nothing but she thought plenty, _Love no one, the way you love your children_ , Sansa presses her nose in Freia’s hair to breathe in the smell, _Or else you’ll go mad_.

Sansa wakes up without realizing she finally sank away in oblivion and finds Freia in tears, wailing and sobbing and when Sansa pulls her close and asks her what it was Freia shakes her head, allows her mother to drag her close and whispers, ‘I saw the man… with a white cloak mama, and he was… I saw the boy, and they were all hurting you.’

‘No one is hurting me, sweetling.’

‘I saw it, mama, I saw it!’

‘Sssshh…’ Sansa tries to hush Freia as she sobs, her eyes are, even in the dark of night, piercing through Sansa’s soul with their fear and horror, there’s utter panic in her screams and sobs, ‘Ssshhh… Freia, Freia, it’s alright. It was just a bad dream, nothing more.’

‘His face was red.’

‘Red?’

‘I don't know.’

‘You can sleep, I'm here, mama's here, no one will hurt me or you.’

Freia trembles some more as she keeps muttering about her bad dream, mentions a shattered vase, flowers and aunt Arya screaming. Sansa sings to her through the darkness, and finally she falls back to sleep, though Sansa doesn't.

The night morning Sansa’s helping Freia feed the fish in the river around the thick castle walls. Freia throws breadcrumbs at the twirling fish and dances around when they finally eat it.

‘I call the red one Magic, and that one is Oceans, and this is her friend, that blue fishy, mama look! Mama, the blue one is Violet.’

‘Yes, I see… you have to make the crumbs a little smaller, so they don't sink to the bottom straight away, _look_?’

Sansa shows Freia how small the crumbs should be, then freezes when she hears a voice she recognizes call her name.

‘Sansa?’

Sansa doesn't move, and it's only when a cold hand is placed to her lower arm that she spasms in an attempt to move away.

‘Sansa I'm… I'm sorry, I only-‘

‘Don't touch me.’ Sansa lifts Freia up in her arms, and moves to make her way back inside.’

‘I'm so sorry Sansa, please forgive me, I didn't mean to…’ Myrcella follows her and then grabs a part of Sansa's long wing-like sleeve.

‘I said, _don't touch me_!’

Sansa turns and all she sees are those green emerald eyes. Cersei’s eyes, Joff’s eyes as he stood in front of the Iron Throne, pointing his crossbow at her, ordering Ser Meryn to strip her bare.

‘I had no part in it, please know that.’ Is all Myrcella says.

_Lannister eyes. Lion eyes. The eyes of murderers._

They pushed her brother through a window, tried to kill her husband, killed her first baby, humiliated and tortured her and they smiled. Cersei smiled and her eyes twinkled. The green color a shade of poison.

Myrcella looks at Freia, ‘I know they took her from you.’

‘You know nothing.’ Sansa spits and then Freia starts crying. Sansa turns her face away, just to screen her view from Myrcella’s face.

‘Jon said-‘

Sansa will never know what it is, Jon said, and she doesn't care. Jon doesn't know, nobody knows, not truly. Sansa feels a panic all through her body as she drags Freia back inside, her heart races and when she's inside she realizes her body's covered in sweat, her hands tremble and her knees are too weak to carry her.

Sansa sinks down in a chair, grabs her belly as if she means to apologize for her child, but when she closes her eyes, all she sees is Cersei’s face, with the green emerald eyes, the same color as the stones of the queen’s tiara, when she turned her head the light of the candles made them glitter and shine.

All her bastards had the same eyes. Joffrey’s eyes… rolling in his skull as the poison suffocated him, blood streaming from his nose, his hands grabbing his throat, his mother screaming for help that never came.

Did you wear that hairnet? Sansa wants to ask, Is it my fault? Have I done it? Have I murdered him? Did I kill Joffrey? Say no, tell me no, tell me I have not... but Myrcella tells her nothing, because Sansa never asks, Sansa’s heart starts wrestling in her chest the moment she only hears the girl’s name mentioned.

The same midday she orders Brienne to take Myrcella with her, to Winterfell, where the girl can be her lady mother's ward, ‘I do not want her here.’

‘But his grace ordered me to stay with you, at all times, he said.’

‘And now I order you something else, of more importance.’

‘Nothing is of more importance than your safety, your grace.’ Brienne insists.

‘I have Ser Malckom, he will not leave my side until you have returned to Riverrun.’

Sansa turns around and leaves to end the conversation. Rhaenys taught her that having the last word is often enough, and it is now.

And so, Sansa stands on the battlements and watches Myrcella’s wheelhouse as it takes Cersei’s daughter further up North, to Winterfell, away from Sansa, away from anyone she knows… a girl doomed from the moment of her birth. A bastard born from incest, her mother a traitor, her father a kingslayer, her brother brutally murdered by a poison she carried in her hair during his wedding feast.

As Sansa grabs the rim, she can only curse Jon, because he's too soft, too righteous, too noble, honorable and good. Myrcella deserved to keep her head, but Cersei nonetheless deserved to see it rot on a spike much more.

Cersei deserves nothing but pain, and pain is what Sansa gave her, as much as she regrets it, as much as it keeps her awake at night, shakes her body to the core… she would do it again. She'd do it all over just to revenge that moment, when everything was dark, empty and black. When she sank through her knees and her arms were empty, when Freia screamed her name and Sansa could do nothing but pull on her own hair and beg.

No one answered to her begs and prayers then, and Sansa will never forget it.

As Sansa turns her back to the sight of the wheelhouse, disappearing from view on its travel North, her baby moves as if it means to reassure his mother. Sansa places her hand to the touch, closes her eyes and swears then and there that this baby will never be pulled from her arms, that no one shall do that to her again.

She makes her way back into the guest tower, crawls back into bed, pulls the sleeping figure of her living and breathing child against her and swears it again.

No one shall ever take you from me again, she promises Freia, even though she cannot hear it, No man, no woman, no Iron Throne, no Game of Thrones.

In that moment perhaps, Sansa hopes, that she finally made peace with what she did, and with all they have done to her.

 

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

‘No one has ever crossed the Sunset sea to see what lies beyond.’ Robb says and he pulls on her hand along the docks. The water is as black as Blackwater Bay yet cleaner somehow, was it not that the rocks below have become a graveyard of corpses the waves push to the shores.

Rhaenys notices how numbers of deaths seem to have less and less impact on her and it scares her, she doesn’t want to get used to it, least of all she doesn’t want to shrug off the loss of valuable, innocent life.

‘Last time I was here father took me and Egg with him, he told me how queen Rhaenys considered climbing atop her dragon Marexes and finding out.’ She turns and smiles at him, ‘The Dornish killed her before she managed, of course, as you know.’

‘Perhaps it’s better to leave whatever is there undisturbed. You know what happened to the first men and the children of the forest when the Andals came, do you not?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Jon says he saw mammoths, and he says the free folk claim some of the children still live beyond the wall.’

‘I know he did, I heard him tell Freia… who would’ve thought a trip to the wall is so inspirational?’

Rhaenys smiles to herself and turns her head to look at Casterly Rock in the distance, ‘Somehow I am glad we chose not to take it, I would’ve hated to go back there.’

‘Is it true there are lions in the vaults?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Very true, you should’ve seen Joffrey’s face, honestly, he was terrified.’

‘My mother always says there is naught but stone at the heart of Casterly Rock.’ Robb says and he pulls on her hand which is enough gesture she needs to drop herself against him, her head on his shoulders, one arm around his torso. He welcomes her in his arms as if it is what he has been waiting for all day, and that might be true.

‘The imp urges we must march east as soon as we can to take Highgarden, to strip the-‘

‘Let’s not talk about that now.’ Robb says, ‘Not after all these days.’

Rhaenys looks up and nods, ‘I’m sorry.’ She says after which he kisses her hair, ‘You look so tired.’

Exhausted he must be… it took them four full days and three nights to bring the city to its knees, smoke still arises to the sky, hiding the sun and blocking fresh air. Lannisport has been taken by the Targaryen army, and it has suffered greatly for its defeat.

Apparently, Jon managed to get out with not one scratch, which was a nice surprise for a change, though Rhaenys knows it’s because he was careful with his life and limbs, more than ever this time, he wants to ride north to Riverrun as soon as he can and an arrow in his leg or arm will delay him with at least a fortnight. That is time he, according to letters from a measter at Riverrun, doesn’t have.

Lannisport cannot say the same, the eastern city wall is completely knocked down, the sept lays in ruins and the city streets are filled with corpses, the stench was unbearable and it was only when she found Robb and he took her with him to the shores that she could remove the cloth in front of her mouth. Not the sort of stench King’s Landing is known for, it wasn’t the smell of shit, it was the stink of death.

The entire fleet was burned and not all the fires have been extinguished yet, it fills the harbor with a hot air that would make you think it was one of the hottest days of summer, not a late autumn day.

Robb wipes his forehead, his hair is greasy and dirty because of the ashes that fall down the sky like snowflakes and his face has black mushes all over it that give him an almost Rhoynar appearance, was it not that his hair is still, even filthy, ever so auburn.

‘You should sleep.’ She tells him and she moves her hand to lay it to his cheek, ‘You haven’t slept for two days at least.’

Rhaenys tried to stay awake, she was on a ship at first when they attacked and she squeezed Arianne’s hand so hard it seemed almost as if she was eager to break some of the many small bones there.

Once the fires broke out and one ship after another went up in flames Rhaenys felt a fear she had never experienced before, a worry that made her throw up her food. Jon and Robb were on the land as well as her uncle, the idea of their bodies burning, their faces melting off, made her body shudder.

 _Thank the Gods Sansa is not here… and Freia, thank the Gods they’re far away from this place_ , she kept thinking as she pressed her hands to her ears to stop them from hearing the men screaming in pain, begging for their mothers. As she hid herself away, hurled over with her legs crossed, it was a Mormont who pulled her up and dragged her and Arianne towards a small boat that brought them to a ship further from the city shores, to safety, where they could still hear the rustling and the screams, but the air was cleaner, brighter, fresh and gave her room to breathe in deeply. It wasn’t so warm and the smell of burning wood and flesh was less evident in her nose thrills.

On that ship Rhaenys tried to keep her eyes open, in fear of them having to wake her with bad news, she’d rather faint, yet during the second night she dropped down and she and Arianne held each other like sisters, trembling with fear and worry as they both lost their own battle to sleep and exhaustion.

When Rhaenys woke, Robb was kneeling by her side and Arianne was gone.

‘You live.’ She said.

He grinned and she was so grateful for it, what would she do with her life if she could never look at his smile again, ever? She moved her hands to take his face and cup it before she kissed him, ‘Of course I live, silly… what else would I be doing?’

Robb is the only one in the wide world to call her _silly_ and get away with it. She only felt an urge to kiss him, so that is what she did. She pulled him down in the bed and she couldn’t stop kissing him, swearing that she’d be forever grateful that she still could.

She pushed her own skirts up and kept kissing him as he made love to her, real short, because truly, they were both too tired to do it properly, do it the way they actually wanted to, but it mattered not, they were too thankful to care about any such thing.

They lay there, entangled and exhausted by the wave of heavy emotion afterwards, most of their clothes still on and she lay her ear to the tunic he never got to take off and listened to his beating and living heart.

‘Where is Jon?’ she asked.

‘Kinging.’ Robb answered and there was no bitterness in his voice.

He told her to sleep some more but she wouldn’t have any of it, she had to make up for her weakness of the night before, she had felt only more vulnerable as he moved inside her, because that is what he does to her, he makes her feel liable and exposed, and safe most of all, as safe as she could possibly ever feel. She fell asleep again after that, right there in his arms, and she may have been gone for hours, she’s still not sure, for the sun can’t tell her properly with the many clouds covering it. When she woke up, he offered her some bread, and instead of washing their faces and their limbs clean of ash he grabbed her hand and took her with him to the little boat to bring her with him and show her Lannisport- what is left of it.

She looks at him as he gazes into the distance and suddenly she feels such an urge to pinch herself. Is this real? Is he? What has time done to her?

Rhaenys always expected the threat of the Targaryen madness to be her weakness, but now she knows that’s not true, she is not mad, her mind is as awake as the morning sun, as attentive, alert and observing as a bird brooding eggs. Robb is her weakness and losing him will kill her.

It’s why she hasn’t told him. Because telling him, will mean losing him, and she cannot lose him… not him too.

The words are already on her lips, have been for moons, long before Jon and even Sansa told her to tell him... _Robb I have to tell you something._ Rhaenys wants to say, but she can't do it.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

‘So, she wants to… she wants to end slavery?’

Jon looks at Robb who shrugs, ‘Well that is a nice dream a… a _purpose_ in life.’

‘Nice dream?’ Rhaenys laughs, ‘She has used forced labor to do public work projects, which seems a lot like slavery to me. It's _classic_ Daenerys, she can use slave workers, but when someone else does it, it is the worst crime. Astapor is in ruins, she has no long-term plan, she's destroying cities, communities, lives, with no guarantee for a bright end to this dark, bloody tunnel!’

Once Rhaenys begins, she won't stop and Jon takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He’s tired, his muscles hurt, he wants to take a bath, again, and he wants to sleep most of all. He doesn’t feel like listening to Rhaenys rant on and on about how Daenerys is the embodiment of all that is evil in this world, as if she is not someone he and Rhaenys herself once loved, cared for. As if she is not kin.

‘All this letter tells me is that she is making incredibly, unbelievably, _staggeringly_ dumb decisions.’

‘Are you sure that is all?’ Robb asks, an eyebrow raised and Jon wishes his didn't, he looks at the faces around him, one by one, Oberyn, Arianne, Robb, Rhaenys, the Blackfish, lord Tully, Tyrion… they all have their own way of responding to Dany’s actions.

‘She has told Ser Barristan that she knows how it _feels to be sold_.’ Rhaenys strokes the letter, which is a nice surprise, all she usually does with letters from the man is rip them apart, ‘One hundred and sixty-three of the Great Masters were nailed on posts on the plaza in front of the Great Pyramid In the city of Mereen.’

‘That's monstrous.’ Jon breathes, as he cannot find another word for it, but Tyrion shakes his head.

‘It is what they used to do to their slaves.’ He explains.

‘Is that how she excuses such behavior?’ Jon takes the letter from Rhaenys to see if it really says so, for he can barely believe it. _One hundred and sixty-three_ , it says, written on the paper, clear words, hard to miss, ‘Without a trial? So, they may have… they could have been innocent?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Worst of all is, she executed this one man for executing another without a trial… Do you follow what it is I say? She executes _one hundred and sixty-three men_ without a trial, then goes on to execute another, _without a trial_ , because he executed without a trial! It’s almost as if she’s desperately trying to be funny!’

Jon can’t help but feel confused and therefore manages to grimace, ‘Being funny was never Dany’s speciality…’

‘Rhaegar hated slavery, absolutely detested it,’ Tyrion says, ‘He never granted mercy to those who were guilty of the crime. In fact, the man who is with her, a Mormont, is one of the many who were banished and never forgiven.’

‘He was banished by my father, actually.’ Robb says and he looks at Rhaenys when he adds, ‘I remember well, Jorah was his name, he was deep in his depths.’

‘Jorah Mormont is a spy for the queen.’ Tyrion says, ‘At least he was when I left King’s Landing.’

Rhaenys can’t help but scoff, ‘Left…’

Tyrion is thankfully strong enough to ignore her, ‘These are just the words of one man, one voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found. Some call her the mother of dragons, breaker of chains, the liberator of slaves…’

‘I remember her well.’ Oberyn says suddenly, it's the first thing he's said all day, ever since they all came together here, in this tent, for this hurried meeting, ‘Small girl with even smaller tits, purple eyes, white hair… all Targaryens have blood on their hands eventually.’

Robb’s uncle Edmure eyes his ucle and shakes his head, ‘All we must concern ourselves with, is whether or not this child is dangerous to us.’

‘She's in Mereen.’ Robb says, ‘That's a far away from Westeros as you can get without getting lost in the Dothraki Sea.’

‘Daenerys Stormborn…’ Arianne looks at her uncle prince Oberyn in that way she always does, as if she fancies him more than nieces usually fancy their uncle, ‘A spoiled little brat, I believe? Terribly moody and displeased at all times of the day, very disappointed with life, always feeling sorry for herself… a Targaryen indeed.’

Rhaenys glares at her cousin, ‘Daenerys is mad.’ She simply says, as if that is the answer to all mystery that surrounds her aunt.

‘Is it so far from madness to wisdom, my princess?’ Tyrion asks, his eyebrows raised.

‘Are you insulting me, my lord?’ Rhaenys asks, her voice raised for the first time and from the corner of his eye Jon sees Robb watch her nervously as Oberyn grind.

‘I would not dare.’

‘Madness is an illness that needs to be wiped out.’ The blackfish decides and Rhaenys agrees.

‘It is an excuse for nothing, an explanation for only cruelty, something we must kill and fear.’

‘Mad she may be, but she fears very little.’ Arianne says, her eyes have found Jon’s face now and, as always, he pretends not to notice.

‘She is proud, yes,’ Tyrion says, ‘But what else is left to her but pride? Not even a family.’

Jon wishes that Tyrion would shut up, he is pressing all the wrong buttons and Rhaenys is losing her temper, it is not hard to make her lose it once Daenerys is the subject discussed, ‘She was never friendless! I gave her my love and my support, always, then she went to throw it right back in my face, only because she chose to believe the words of some priestess from across the sea, one who guaranteed her a son that would be a prince that was promised. Well, that son died, but I live, and I remember. Once I loved her with all my heart but she repaid me with betrayal and now I feel nothing. She is not our kin, nor our friend, she is my enemy.’

‘All I know is that somewhere in the sand, her dragons hatched, and so did she, she is no longer that fearful girl, she is strong and she had no choice, if Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys, but she did not, she chose strength. The way you taught her Rhaenys, or have you forgotten that as much as everything else?’

‘I forget nothing- _as I've told you_.’ Rhaenys breathes, the lilac flame in her eyes is burning dangerously.

‘Daenerys Stormborn is fierce, Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has survived insanity and conspiracies, grieved for a brother, a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.’

‘And she is mad.’ Rhaenys decides yet again, ‘You tell me we should not trust the voice of Ser Barristan alone? Let me tell you something imp… the only voice Daenerys trusts is the one inside her head, and it screams like Viserys. If something benefits her, then it is good. If not, then it the most hideous and unjustly act in the universe. She only listens to the words she wishes to hear.’

‘Ser Barristan is a man we trust.’ Jon says, ‘He was my father’s friend and he is our ally and no liar. He writes that she's losing control over Astapor.’

‘He also writes that she plans on staying there,’ Robb adds, just as eager to stop Rhaenys’ fury, the mere mention of Daenerys is enough for her to lose her mood for two days and a night, ‘Ruling Mereen as a queen, that she's not coming west, to… she doesn't wish to conquer the Seven Kingdoms.’

‘She has conquered plenty,’ Tyrion says, ‘With her three dragons she has brought city after city to its knees, Aegon the Conqueror with tits.’

‘And Aegon the conqueror showed us exactly how brave a man must be to conquer on the back of a dragon of such great seize it lay villages in darkness when it flew over them.’ Oberyn helps them remember.

‘He's your ancestor, am I right?’ Tyrion still looks at Rhaenys.

‘Oh yes, he most certainly is, I carry his name, his sister’s name too, but my _blood_ … there is more Rhoynar blood in me then there is anything of the Old of Valyria, and they never let themselves be conquered, not even by dragons.’

‘We shot Queen Rhaenys and her dragon Merexes from the sky and she dropped down like a dead sparrow.’ Arianne recalls, as if she was there, back in the days.

‘You are a Dornishwoman whenever it suits you.’ Tyrion decides, still looking at Rhaenys.

‘I am a Targaryen always, whatever that means… I want Daenerys and her three monster far away from the freefolk of Westeros.’

‘The Seven Kingdoms have suffered too much as it is.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘She has a slave army consisting of men who had a barbaric training that can’t possibly have left any humanity in them and three dragons, rumors say she has trouble controlling them.’

‘That is why we cannot afford to delay our cause.’ Rhaenys decides, ‘We must march west to take Highgarden, to break the flow of supply to the capital immediately. We need the Iron Throne.’

‘Are you sure?’ Robb frowns, ‘Won't that starve the city?’

‘The city is already starving,’ Tyrion says, ‘If you wish to end their suffering the quickest and best thing to do is sack it.’

‘We shall not sack it,’ Rhaenys tells him, narrowing her eyes, Jon knows she still refuses to trust him, not even after their victory on the Rock, and he prefers it that way, it's better if not everyone does, ‘We will take it. We're not Daenerys, we're liberators not tyrants, we ;………………rule not dictate. We are no conquerors. The freefolk want their rightful king, Rhaegar’s son.’

‘Daenerys Stormborn presents herself a liberator.’ Tyrion says, his eyebrows knitted.

‘I could present myself a rabbit and put on fluffy ears and I'd still not be a rabbit, am I right?’ Rhaenys asks, her voice loud and irritated though it doesn't stop Robb from smirking, Jon can imagine he’d love to tell her that she is, in fact, definitely a rabbit.

‘Rhaenys…’ Jon sighs, ‘This hostility brings us nowhere.’

‘Nor will friendship. Daenerys is a Westerosi princess with pale silver hair and eyes the color of amethysts-‘

‘Imagine the sunburns.’ Robb visualizes.

‘-all she has known is a shielded world under the protective wings of her linage and the wealth of her kin. Do you remember our lessons, Jon? Daenerys doesn't understand the culture she has invaded, she will make more foes than friends, all we need to do it wait until she’s brought to her knees by her own mistakes. Father groomed us for leadership, but all Daenerys knows is fear, it makes her strong and determined but she will need more than that to rule.’

‘She has dragons.’ Jon says again, he constantly feels like Rhaenys forgets that minor detail.

‘Dragons that will not only impress but scare her newfound subjects. I promise you, ruling one city only will be too much, Daenerys knows nothing, she is self-entitled solely because of the blood that flows through her veins, yet she has not realized that the blood of the dragon alone will not be enough to own respect from those she demands it.’

Jon can't help but frowns some more and he and Robb exchange some looks.

‘It is of the outmost importance that we take Highgarden as soon as we can, if this is as you wish.’ Oberyn says.

‘It is what we promised.’ Rhaenys says, she looks at Jon who nods, ‘We march east.’

‘I am afraid they will expect and await any form of attack after losing half their troops.’

‘As long as they don't successfully retake the parts of the Reach that are on our side.’ Jon says, ‘That would be a setback.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘Let's knit some end to this war, it's time.’

‘But…’ Robb looks at Jon again, ‘Does that mean we shan't go back to Riverrun first?’

‘Our troops can regain their strength when they're away from home, we have taken the Lannisport harbor, we don't lack provisions, I believe our soldiers would like to see it end as soon as we possibly could.’ Tyrion says, ‘Going back to Riverrun would be a waste of our time…’ he turns his head to Jon who looks at his hands and then nods.

‘We march east,’ he decides.

‘I'm sorry Jon,’ Rhaenys says and she sounds convincing though it is unnecessary, ‘I know how badly you wanted to be with Sansa when she has the child, but she will understand.’

He knows Sansa will understand, he doesn’t worry about Sansa’s disappointment. Sansa has proven how good she is at understanding all the cruelty he bestows on her, yet, that doesn't make him feel less guilty, far from it. It’s Freia he’ll disappoint the most. She must be bigger now, her hair longer, perhaps she has learned more colors, and what if she can count past ten? she'll be growing out of her clothes again, and her shoes. Perhaps it's snowing in Riverrun, he hopes it is, she'll love that.

‘Once we have taken all of the Reach you can go back to be with them, you will have some time then.’

Jon knows that the child will be born by then, the Gods know how old it may be, another birth he’ll miss, just like he’ll have missed Freia’s first, second and third nameday. He will not have seen Freia for moons, the idea alone makes him feel sick. He misses her nearly as much if not more and the worst of it is… that he promised her he'd visit, and now he won't she’ll feel so betrayed. Nearly daily he receives Sansa's letters and they remind him of the letter she sent him when she was a hostage, when these words in his breastplate were all he had of her that proved to him that what they were to each other was real. He still carries that letter with him wherever he goes and now it is accompanied by one of the many drawings of Freia that Sansa sends along with her own words.

_Freia wants me to tell you that she misses you and that you must come home soon, because that is, of course, where you belong, with us. She sends you so many kisses and I tell her you have already send them back._

Sansa must be the seize of a castle, she wrote him to tell her she is, she says the child keeps her awake at night, more and more, that she feels so tired, how the measter tells her that must mean it's a son.

He wishes he could be there to hold her, at least that he did right last time, for he was with her up until a fortnight before Freia was born. He rubbed her back and pressed his hand to her belly, kissed her neck and did all she asked him to do, no matter what tone she used. This time he sent her away to a castle that is not her home and she was to be all alone.

Jon has failed to properly take care of his family and he hates himself for it nearly as much as he knows that he does what he does only because this is the only thing that might bring them together forever eventually. When that time comes he'll never let them go again, ever.

Jon hands the letter from ser Barristan back to Rhaenys, ‘Give ser Barristan Selmy my gratitude for his everlasting loyalty.’

Rhaenys nods and finally cannot stop herself from crumbling the letter in her hand to a ball.

‘One more thing…’ Jon says as Oberyn already moves to the exit, ‘I want more spies in the Iron Islands.’

‘Iron Islands?’

‘I want the Shield Islands under our rule and they may be an obstacle, a threat.’

‘We destroyed great parts of their forces when I went North to take Winterfell back.’ Robb says.

‘And I'm sure their previous king is still unhappy about you beheading his last son.’

‘He had to be killed.’ Rhaenys says, ‘There was no other way.’

‘I'm sure but… more spies. I want to know what they're up to.’

‘Do you want their support? We don't need it, I suggest we focus on the Stormlands.’ Rhaenys looks at Robb as if she's worried he'll respond badly to the mention of Theon, even when his name is left in the dark, but his face shows nothing.

‘The Stormlands will be much like the Reach… ready to drop down on their knees when the end is nearing.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘The Stormlands don't threaten me, but the Greyjoys could harm the smallfolk more than they have already been harmed, we must avoid it.’

The Blackfish and his nephew both nod and Jon understands why, the Riverlands are an easy target always and for everyone.

Oberyn leaves quickly, as he always does and is followed by both the Blackfish and Catelyn’s brother, ‘We discuss Highgarden with all our bannermen and come up with a proper battle plan, I want them all there, no excuses, no exceptions.’ He tells Rhaenys, who nods again and glares back at Tyrion.

‘You can go back to your cave now.’

Robb moves to stand behind her and lays his hands on her shoulders, if only to let her know that there's no reason to get all angry and take out all her ever-lasting frustrations on the Lannister dwarf as, who dutifully obeys and leaves.

‘Write to Barristan to tell him that… tell him that he must come back to Westeros. I want my father's friend to fight by our side when we bring the lions to their knees.’

‘Don you not want him to continue to spy on Daenerys?’ Robb asks.

Jon shakes his head and feels Arianne’s eyes burn once more, ‘Daenerys is no threat to us, her true danger lies in her own mind. In any case… it is time I name my King’s Guard.’

‘Why? Do you no longer feel save, your grace?’ Arianne asks, her dark eyes deep black holes and her breasts perky in her thin silky dress, the tips clearly visible as if she tries to challenge the world with her femininity.

Jon fills himself a glass of wine, ‘No king should ever feel safe, whatever that may mean.’

‘A King’s Guard is tradition.’ Rhaenys says.

‘If we name a few first sons we might actually find a cheap way of securing some more loyalty here are there, if we choose wisely.’ Jon says, handing Rhaenys her glass and she clings his to let him know she agree.

Once everyone but Jon and Rhaenys have left the tent she drops back down in a chair and sighs. Jon watches her for a moment and notices how tired she looks; this conversation has drained her as this war is draining her and it worries him.

‘I’m sorry about Highgarden.’ Rhaenys decides, ‘I know how much you miss them.’

‘I do miss them.’ Jon admits, more than anyone knows.

‘The sooner this war is over the sooner they’ll be safe.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And the sooner we are all safe the better.’

Jon nods in agreement and sits down in front of her.

Jon wants to go to sleep, Rhaenys looks as if she needs to sleep as much if not more, but they don’t have the time. He remembers what his father always used to say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Jon can’t leave his sister because he has a question and he knows that she may be the only one with the answers, she is always the one with all the answers, Rhaenys knows everything.

‘What do you know about the prince that was promised?’ Jon asks, ‘Viserys believed it was a prophecy but Robb told me you said it is a song.’

‘It is a song.’ Rhaenys says and she looks away, Jon knows it may be a long time before she’ll look him in the eye again but he doesn’t care, he needs to know. This is something that has kept coming back to him and he cannot ignore it no longer.

‘Have you ever heard-‘

‘I don’t know how it goes though I dare say you shouldn’t sing it to Freia at bedtime. I know only what it is about.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Those who follow R’Hollor, the lord of Light, name him Azor Ahai.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He knows many other names… all agree he was a legendary hero.’

‘A hero?’ that doesn’t sound at all exciting, all songs are about heroes.

‘Darkness lay over the world and a hero was chosen to fight it, a prince promised.’ Rhaenys closes her eyes, ‘There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a sword, named Lightbringer and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.’

‘People believe this?’ Jon asks.

‘People… our own father.’

‘Rhaegar?’ Jon feels the urge to laugh, if anything Rhaegar had his whole life been scornful about all he never saw proven with his own eyes, the man can’t possibly have believed in such a thing as a promised prince send by a god who carried a burning sword…

Rhaenys nods, ‘He believed he was the prince himself, at first, because... the prophecy describes a birth.’ She sighs as if this story pains her and he understands why- it’s because it’s all bullshit, ‘When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again surrounded by the cold and betrayal to wake dragons out of stone.’

‘How-‘

‘Father believed he was the promised prince until Aegon was born, the night our brother came into this world a comet was high up at the sky.’

‘A bleeding star.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Yes… The dragon has three heads.’ She still can’t look at him when she sighs, ‘There is ice and there is fire. Hate and love. Winter and summer. Death and life. One cannot live without the other. The prince that was promised had a song of ice and fire, and it is said that the dragon has three heads for more than one reason.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our father named our brother Aegon and he named me- Had you been born a girl your name would have been Visenya, but you were never named Visenya either, you are Jon, and Lyanna Stark died.’

Jon feels cold suddenly, and he wonders if Azor Ahai is born at the very moment, for he feels so cold his limbs seem to have fallen off, yet an anger in him arises that could resemble a fire great enough to burn dragons. For a fraction of a second he hates his father, truly hates, him, not in the way he used to think he did, but real, painfully real and it vanishes only slowly, like smoke, but when it does, he feels like crying.

‘The dragon has three heads.’ Rhaenys says again.

‘I don’t understand.’ Jon says, though he wonders if he could, if only he opened his eyes, ‘He told me he loved her.’

‘Father was fond of my mother too, I know he was, that is why he never would have shamed her, if it wasn’t for the prophecy.’

‘Prophecies are all bullshit.’

Rhaenys finally looks at him, sighs again and shakes her head, ‘Will you tell the world, or shall I?’

‘You don’t believe in Prophecies.’

“Without that one prophecy, my mother would have lived and you never would have been born. The past is in the past, it’s written down and it cannot be undone but prophecies… they are just words, and you know what they say about words.’

‘Words are wind.’ Jon says and Rhaenys nods, ‘But Aegon was not the Prince that was Promised, and Rheagar wasn’t either. There is no such thing as a prince that was promised, it is not real, it poisoned Viserys’ mind, it made Daenerys to what she is today -‘

‘Daenerys is what she is because she lost you.’ Rhaenys says and when he opens his mouth to speak she raises her hand to shut him up, ‘Daenerys has always longed for something of her own and she loved you with all her heart, trusted you. I dare say you are all she has ever loved, I saw it and she told me, you were- are the only thing she has ever wanted. You were her home. Then father shipped her off to Dragonstone and you married Sansa. She believed she lost you to Sansa and with you she lost herself. That is her own fault.’

‘I've kissed her, more than once… I promised her we'd run away together.’

‘And she loved to hear you say it, yet she never understood that she didn’t need you to run, she ran without you and look at her now… power is an addiction, I won’t deny I do not know how it feels.’

‘Don’t make it right.’

‘I never would.’ She then says, ‘What is there to make right? We are at war, a war started so long ago. This prince that was promised to us is supposed to save the world, well… where is he? All his promise has ever done is kill.’

‘He doesn’t exist?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps he never existed, perhaps it’s you, perhaps it’s Daenerys, or it truly was Aegon but he never cared to wield a sword and died before the Gods forced him to follow his destiny.’

‘To defeat the darkness?’

‘With a sword called lightbringer. He drove it into Nissa Nissa’s breast, her soul combining with the steel of the sword, while her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon.’

‘Nissa Nissa?’

‘His wife.’ Rhaenys smiles at his look of disgust, ‘He did it with a heavy heart. Or so the story says.’

‘I don’t want to be the prince that was promised, then.’

‘You are not- and even if you are… we don’t let prophecies tell us what we must do. We make our own story, Jon, predictions be damned. I am who I am, and I write history, not a song- that is one thing father never learned.’

‘He told me he loved her.’ Jon says, ‘And I believed it.’

‘ _Of course_ , he loved her.’ Rhaenys’ voice is cold suddenly, and her eyes too, colder than he has ever seen them before, ‘He loved her and many parts of him died with her when she left this world. Do you honestly still not understand, Jon? He was weak, and he never choose to be strong.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Jon says and it feels odd to say it, yet he knows little so sure as this, ‘He was strong, for us he was.’

‘But he loved us, he feared to lose us, so it did not count.’

‘It did, you don’t understand. When a man is afraid it is the only time he can be brave. Rhaegar was no coward, he went to the trident, defeated the usurper and all his life after… all his life he has done whatever it was he believed he should do, to keep us from harm. I am a father too, I know it is what he did, for I do understand now, I would have done the same and that scares me, but it has given me peace too.’ Jon looks at her then and waits until his silence makes her look up, ‘Have you told Robb?’

Rhaenys shakes her head and looks away again.

‘He was our father and we are his children, we are just like him, we are weak for love.’

‘Oh yes,’ Rhaenys agrees, a haunted smile adorns her face when she gets up to leave him all alone in this cursed tent, ‘He was our father.’

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Freia gets a wooden horse for her third nameday that is far bigger than her beloved unicorn. It’s a rocking horse, a fury red one, and she loves it, ‘It’s papa’s gift.’ Sansa’s says, which is true in some sense, as it was Jon’s idea some time before Sansa took Freia away from him.

Sansa brings her to bed, sings her song about a roof of stars and when the time comes for Freia to tell her mother ‘sleep tight!’ she doesn't. Instead she looks up and asks, ‘When is papa coming?’

‘As soon as he can. He misses us too.’

'He is with aunt Rhae-lys?’

‘And uncle Robb. But he'll be here, and then we are together, and after that we'll go to grandmama and Rickon.’

Freia gasp, ‘Rickon?’

‘Yes! Uncle Rickon.’

‘Rickon is not uncle Rickon!’ Freia giggles at her mother's silliness and Sansa decides it's not worth the bother to explain Rickon too, is Freia's uncle, as much as his fifteen-year older brother, uncle Robb is.

‘You can make snow angels and snow knights again.’

‘With papa?’

‘No, papa can't come.’ Sansa sighs and gently kisses Freia's forehead when her little face turns into a disappointed grimace again, ‘Papa is a soldier and he is fighting because there are evil men in this world, he is fighting because he has to protect us from these evil men, they are dangerous, but it doesn't matter, because papa will always keep us save, that is what he does.’

‘Dange-trous?’

Sansa nods, ‘He's fighting for us. He's our hero.’

‘Hero?’

Sansa nods, ‘He'll always keep us safe.’

Freia thinks about that for a while and then asks, ‘Can I write when I wake up again?’

‘Of course, you can.’ Sansa says and she strokes the loose curly strands from Freia’s face. Her hair is getting so long. It's thick and curly, with the Stark brown color and it's a nightmare to brush or tame, never mind braid, but it suits her personality so well. Lively, rebellious and soft at the same time.

‘I write all the letters.’ Freia decides, ‘I say papa miss you, and love you and ask him, papa! How is Harry?’

‘Yes, you can do that, you must make a drawing for him too.’

‘I make dra-ling of baby!’

‘Do you know what the baby looks like?’

Freia frowns a little and then shakes her head, ‘I draw you with the tummy.’

Sansa takes her tiny hand and places it on her steadily growing belly, ‘Can you feel it?’

Freia beams and presses her nose to the bump, ‘Little brother or sister, hello!’

‘He can hear you,’ Sansa says, ‘Maybe you can sing a song?’

Freia sings a song she makes up right there and then about the wheelhouse, big rivers, her papa, bathtime and snow ladies to her baby brother or sister in her mother’s tummy, patting Sansa’s belly, ‘You have to come out! We are playing!’

‘The baby is going to be so small,’ Sansa says and she parts her hands to show Freia how small exactly, ‘You can’t play with her yet, not for a long while, you have to be careful and be so sweet to her, and you must always love and protect her, promise?’

‘Pro-wis!’ Freia promises.

'Can you say sleep tight to the baby?’

‘Sleep tight sweet baby! I see you when you are growing! Sleep tight!’

Sansa has sleepless nights when the baby moves and dances around, it’s never still, always restless, and though it convinces her of its health, it makes her tired, exhausted, and she sleeps all through the day.

News reaches them of Daenerys and her dragons and Sansa’s can’t help but let her frustrations get the better of her when Malckom tells her.

‘What do you mean she has conquered the free city of Mereen?’

‘It means she has conquered the free city of Mereen.’ Ser Malckom says, he looks at her the same way he looks at Jon when he’s asking his unnecessary questions.

‘Why is nobody stopping her?’ Sansa grabs the balustrade to steady herself as the weight at her front pulls her forward.

‘She has some rather big dragons, your grace.’

‘Dragons? Is that all it takes to conquer cities, now?’

‘Three-hundred years ago it was enough to conquer six of the seven kingdoms.’

‘I know that.’ Sansa sighs and looks at Freia who is playing down in the courtyard, jumping around through hoops with Ghost keeping an eye on her.

‘No worries, your grace, Mereen is a long way from the Seven Kingdoms, and the princess Daenerys has no ships to sail west.’

‘What do you mean? Do you believe that is what she wants? To come west? Do you think she wants the Iron Throne?’

‘I think the princess Daenerys is a moody brat who's as mad as her father and brother were before her, as mad as many Targaryens before them, and all I know is that there is nothing for her here.’

Sansa nods, ‘She hates me.’ She confesses then, ‘She told Jon I died of childbed fever.’

‘I know, I was there.’

It’s new information to Sansa, ‘Really? I did not know that.’

‘I am sure Jon knows how to handle it all.’

‘Daenerys is a child, and I know what children are like, I have one of my own.’ Sansa says, she points at Freia, ‘When Freia wants a biscuit she’ll bat her eyelashes and take advantage of my fondness for her. I give her a biscuit and she’ll eat and she’ll be pleased for a while, content even, and I think she won’t ask for another. I believe one biscuit is enough, that surely, she realizes that when I told her one biscuit and nothing more, I meant it, and she seems to know that, she nods and agrees, yet always… every time, she’ll come back and ask for one more, always. If I fall for her charms again and give her another, you’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you? Because I told her she’d only have one, and I gave her two, so that’s more than I promised, and Freia understands what a promise is. But every time, always, even two biscuits prove to not be enough. Sometimes I tell myself, what does it matter? It’s only a biscuit… and I allow Jon to give her a third. And it’s true, they’re only biscuits, but at one point, she’s had too many of them and the box is empty and she won’t take a single bite of her vegetables at supper because I allowed her to stuff herself with sweetness and she'll have stomach aches because of the sugar.’

‘The Princess Freia is a happy, healthy child.’ Malckom says and he frowns because he doesn’t understand.

‘I may be only a woman, and perhaps I don’t know the Princess Daenerys very well, not as well as my sister-in-law or my lord husband, not as well as you, even, but I know women, and that woman hates me.’

‘Jon will protect you.’

‘Once that may have stopped all my worrying.’ Sansa says, ‘But not anymore.’

‘She has a weak claim to the throne.’

‘Aegon the conqueror had no claim to any throne, but he had three dragons, remember?’

‘What do you want me to do about it, your grace? I could shoot one in the eyes, like the Dornish did once.’

Sansa smiles, ‘You could.’

‘If you are worried, you must write him.’ He says and with him he means Jon.

Sansa nods, ‘I just want to speak to him.’

‘They’re marching now, they’ve taken Lannisport.’

‘And now it’s over... How long will it take him to come to me?’ She has asked this often before and he has not grown too irritated by it to not answer it once more.

‘A fortnight, not much longer.’

Sansa steadies herself again by grabbing the balustrade tighter, ‘A fortnight… that is as long as a lifetime, don’t you think Malckom?’

‘I don’t, your grace.’ He says and she smiles.

‘I have always appreciated your honesty, but the truth is sometimes so awful, speaking it is cruel, not everyone wants to hear it… though I’m sure you know that better than I.’

‘I am not the one who’s cruel, the world is, of that you know more than I.’

Sansa looks at Freia again, at the way she dances around the courtyard and happily claps in her hands when she wins the game from her imaginary friends, ‘Mayhaps.’ She says, ‘Mayhaps…’ Sansa takes the stairs down to take Freia’s hand in hers and escorts her inside to have their luncheon.

The world is cruel, of course it is, Sansa thinks, but yet, when she watches Freia eat her soup and listens to her chattering, she can't help but feel blessed too, especially when she feels a little foot press to her skin. Sansa moves her finger to rub the push away and the foot disappears again, but the baby stays, safe inside of her womb, growing quickly, growing strong and healthy… and what could ever be cruel about that?

A day later Sansa is napping when someone strokes her hair, she smiles and for a moment she thinks it’s Jon, then she remembers it can’t be him and it must be Freia, yet when she opens her eyes, she sees her mother.

‘Mother? What are you-‘

‘I thought you’d be in need of some company.’ Catelyn says and she kisses Sansa’s temple, ‘How are you feeling?’

Sansa gets up and blinks before she rubs in her eyes to wake herself up, ‘I’m alright.’

That is rather a lie, she has felt ridiculously tired while the baby has not, it is as if the baby takes all her energy and uses it to dance around and fight with her guts while Sansa can do little but lay down and sleep.

'Why are you... mother, it is so lovely to see you. Why are you here? Why did you not write?’ Sansa sighs and she means it so much.

‘I thought I’d surprise you and Freia…Look at you…’ Catelyn says and she moves her hand to lay it on Sansa’s bump, ‘Are you _sure_ it’s only one babe in there, not two?’

‘Quite sure.’ Sansa looks down at her belly and has to admit, it’s huge, and one would think she’s about the burst. If only that were true, the measter was sure it will be two more moonturns at least and the mere idea of it lasting so long makes her feel desperate. Sansa is not sure if she’ll be able to bear it, she hardly gets to drag herself out of her bed, never mind dressed or bathed.

‘I have been an _awful_ and neglecting mother.’ Sansa admits and Catelyn smiles.

‘That is why I am here, and I've brought Rickon, to keep Freia company.’ She says and she takes Sansa’s warm and aching head between her hands, ‘No pregnant woman should wage that storm on her own, someone you trust must be here with you when the time comes.’

‘Once the battle in the Westerlands is over Jon will come to me.’ Sansa says, ‘And I will have Rhaenys too.’

‘That might be another moon’s turn.’ Catelyn rubs Sansa’s cheeks with her thumbs, ‘And I have no battles to fight.’

Sansa huffs, ‘Men fight the battles, women wage the war.’ She remembers telling Jon the same and she wonders to what degree he actually understood what she meant, her mother, however, understands perfectly.

‘You need your rest Sansa, take good care of yourself, I am here to help you and I’ll take care of Freia so you won’t have to worry about that. I’ll take care of you too.’

‘Did Jon ask you to come here?’

Catelyn shakes her head, ‘You don’t think I’ll leave my daughter all alone in my own childhood castle, about to have a baby with no true kin to help her? I wasn’t there last time but I will be here now.’

‘And Bran and Arya?’

‘They’re safe with measter Luwin, they won’t be alone for long, once the baby is old enough we’ll all go to Winterfell.’

‘I was hoping to give birth there.’ Sansa says, ‘If I could still travel-‘

‘It’s too late for that.’ Catelyn says.

‘The measter says it will be another two turns, at least.’

‘At most perhaps.’ Catelyn says, then she smiles sweetly and helps Sansa to lay back down, ‘You just sleep, I’ll go down and give Freia her luncheon.’

'She has missed you.’

‘I missed her too, she's so big, I hardly recognized her.’

‘Tell her that, when I wake up, I’ll tell her a story.’

‘I will, don’t worry.’

Sansa nods and lays her head back down on her pillow. She should feel at peace, and she does, until her mother’s hand on her shoulder moves away and her eyes close, and she’s back to dreaming these dreams where her body is clad in sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead, her hands clammy and cold. In her dreams, Jon takes her with him to show her the lions in the deep vaults of Casterly Rock.

‘My father _hated_ lions.’ He says, ‘It's about the greater good. Rhaegar always hated lions.’

Sansa watches them pace around… actual lions; big, threatening, angry and aggressive as they growl and glare at her with their yellow eyes. Cersei is there too, she looks at Sansa as if she wants her dead, she dares her to pull on the manes of one of the biggest cats, but when Sansa shakes her head and begs her to please not force her Cersei screams so loudly, gets so angry, that all her hair falls out, until only a man’s cut remains.

‘You killed him! You killed my son! You will pay! I will make you pay until you’ll beg, I’ll make you beg for the stranger’s kiss!’

Sansa shakes her head and wants to beg for mercy instead, ‘ _Please_ your grace, please…’ but then she turns and Rhaenys is there and she looks nearly as angry as Cersei.

‘ _You don’t have to beg for mercy, you are the queen_!’

Sansa moves her hands down to hold her bump, her baby presses a fist to her touch, strong, forceful, as if it’s finding a way to escape, to get out and scream loudly, as loud as only newborns are when their lungs fill with air for the very first time…

Sansa turns back to Jon, who keeps staring at the lions as they walk around anxiously in their caves. It’s so dim, Sansa can hardly see him. Jon’s face gives nothing away, it’s long, solemn and his eyes are exceptionally dark, the grey seems nearly black, ‘A bastard has to learn how to see things.’ He mutters.

‘Jon…’ Sansa whispers, his name burns on her lips, as if it's the name of her pain, not love.

‘Sansa, you’re my responsibility now.’ He swears.

‘ _It’s a girl_.’ She tells him and her legs give up as she sinks through her knees and the cold stone floor of a prisoner’s cell, as black as the one they put her father in before they took his head, is cold and painful to her touch, ‘My baby… You need a son and I give you one more daughter. My baby Jon, _my baby_ …’

Sansa turns her hand to fists, she digs her nails in her palms and blood streams down her wrists, crawls over her arms like worms, it tickles and gives her shivers.

‘ _My son_...’ Cersei whimpers.

Sansa wants to scream but it is as if someone clasps his hands around her throat, as if her lungs need more air but she can only suck in smoke.

’You’re a little bird in her cave, singing the songs they taught you.’ the Hound talks to her, she cannot look up, but she doesn't need to, to know he's not here, he's nowhere, only in her head, in her skin, in the dagger he pressed to her throat.

‘Jon chopped your head off, I told you he would but you didn't believe me and now you're dead.’

she remembers the disgust in his eyes whenever he looked at her and all she was, ‘Everything scares you.’ he said.

Sansa can finally scream again, ‘ _Nothing scares me_!’

‘Your son will belong to the Iron Throne.’ Rhaenys decides.

Sansa wipes the blood off her hands to her skirts, looks at Jon and wishes she could beg him though she's not sure what she wants to beg for, ‘I'm sorry.’ She says instead, ‘I wanted to have a boy, I know you need a boy, I tried, Jon.’

Jon says nothing.

’ _My son_!’ Cersei screams.

‘I know I'm not what you hoped for.’ Jon says, he kneels down to look in her eyes and when they're this dark, they look like his father's, not grey, but indigo purple.

Sansa’s cups his cheek with her hand, ‘Never leave me again?’

Sansa hears Ice dropping down and her father's head rolls over the ground.

'No one will ever hurt you again, I’ll protect you, I promise.’ Jon swears but Sansa can’t hear it.

‘Why do I always fail you?’

Jon only shakes his head and a lion roars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and next update is Sunday as usual and I'm not gonna give away what the name is of that chapter, both because I haven't actually named it yet and, well, it's going to be named after a new, very important, major character ;) XX


	54. Mylaena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An autumn baby with autumn hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! A thousand times sorry for the late update, please forgive me! My niece was born this week, a little earlier than we anticipated, so that's my excuse.   
> Obviously, I would very, very much like to dedicate this chapter to Milena, the prettiest baby in the world. 
> 
> (Yes, I did consider purposely misspelling measter)

**Catelyn**

* * *

 

It is as clear as water that this is not a first but a second child and as the midwives keep saying it will be at least another moon’s turn, the maester tries his best to convince them that it will be a son, for it is as strong as a horse, yet Catelyn knows better and so does her daughter.

Sansa shakes her head, ‘The man is an idiot, it is coming and it’s coming soon, I can feel it.’

Catelyn nods, ‘You should rest.’

‘The gods know I try.’ Sansa moves her hands over her belly as she lays in the bed, her back against the headboard, ‘This child already loves to dance.’

Catelyn smiles and moves a cold cloth to Sansa’s forehead, all covered in sweat and her hand is clammy in Catelyn’s, ‘Are you in much pain?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘Only anxious… to get out of bed, to get rid of this belly and to…’ she sighs, ‘To meet it.’

Catelyn squeezes Sansa’s hand again, ‘We all are.’

Sansa moves her finger over a spot in her lower abdomen, one more indication that it will happen soon, she rubs the press until the little hand or foot disappears, ‘I just wish he’d rest a little.’

‘It won’t be long now.’

‘With Freia, they guessed too early and now they guess too late… What worth have maesters when all they do is tell you lies?’

‘Their words are spoken truthfully, but words are wind, and one should simply prefer to listen to instincts sometimes.’

‘My instincts tell me I am about to burst.’

Catelyn smiles to herself and moves her hand through Sansa’s hair, ‘Perhaps a bath? It can help… I have so often heard stories of how food from Dorne helps… those spices they call... what do they call it?’

‘Dragon peppers.' Sansa says, 'Rhaenys forced me to eat it once, in Dornish snake sauce with venom and mustard seeds... did not like it much.’ Sansa covers her belly with a blanket, ‘Is there news of the front? Are they nearing Highgarden?’

‘I believe they were supposed to arrive tomorrow… But if the horses were strong they may have started the battle as early as yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’ Sansa cannot stop sighing, ‘Rhaenys told me so often how it takes longer to take a castle… cities have thousands of people who suffer from hunger or drought, whereas a castle can stand sieges for the turn of many moons…’

‘Better not dwell on the possibility.’ Catelyn decides but Sansa clearly disagrees.

‘He could be fighting right now, as I lay here, in this bed, complaining and whining… He could be killing foes or dragging dead friends, kinsman, blood of his blood across a field as I bear a child I _desperately_ wanted,  _only_ for selfish reasons…’

‘Sansa…’ It didn’t take Catelyn long to realize a pregnant Sansa is an enormously melodramatic Sansa, good at both self-pity and exaggerating. Most of all she worries, over Jon, of course, has nightmares of his death, but she fears childbed as much and Catelyn can understand. Bran was her worst labor, and it made her fear Rickon’s so greatly.

Sansa is a young woman, strong and determined, willful too and she wants this child, she’s healthy and she can do it, it is the only thing the maester keeps saying that Catelyn agrees with, ‘He might be dead.’ Sansa says, ‘And I will have a daughter and all those who died will have died for nothing…’

‘He shall not die, nor you, no one will, too many died already. This child will be welcome and loved.’

‘Of course, it will be!’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘At least she’ll be mine, as Freia is. No one cared when I carried Freia, son or daughter… Jon was a bastard and our child would be ours. If I ever have a son… he will be a king’s son first, only second it will be my child.’

'Sansa-'

'Rhaenys told me, and she was right.' 

'I dare say one should not always listen to the princess Rhaenys.' Catelyn tries to make it sound like a joke, but truly, it's not really.

Catelyn moves her hand to place it to Sansa’s belly, it really is big, as big as Catelyn’s was when she carried Bran, and Bran was nearly too big… she can still recall the pain, the look of fear in Luwin’s eyes, she read them and saw only death… But she lived. Ned burst through the doors then, pushing all those who tried to stop him aside, and he sank through his knees by the side of her bed, held her hands and in him she found the strength she desperately needed to survive, Jon won’t be able to do the same.

‘I find myself wondering… If I knew that would be the last time I’d see him I might’ve told him different things.’

‘It will not be the last time you’ll see him.’ Catelyn has said that same thing over and over again.

‘If I will have a second daughter and die, he’ll have to remarry.’ It’s not the first time that prospect brings Sansa to tears and she moves her hands up to wipe the big fat drops from her cheeks, ‘He’ll have to and the mere idea of him with-‘

‘Sansa!’ Catelyn has noticed that anger is truly the only thing that always shuts Sansa up, yet she tries to keep it as a last resort, ‘You won’t die, Jon will neither and this is only the second of many, now, _stop crying_ , because these tears bring you nothing but a headache.’

‘I couldn’t bear a headache…’ Sansa says and she wipes her nose and then she hides her face behind her hand and sobs some more, ‘I am an awful woman! I lie in bed all day, all night, neglecting my child and crying for my husband while all he does is fight for me… how can I not be grateful? How can I not stop the blabbering? I am a dreadful mother.’

‘You are a _wonderful_ mother.’ Catelyn insists and she means it with all she is, Sansa is a mother forced by nature, made to have children. Often, she imagines Ned, him seeing it too, how proud they could have been together if only things had been different. He would not have been able to solemnly watch the sight of Sansa and her little family, adorably loving and perfect, as if it is so meant to be.

‘How can I not-‘

‘I think we should get you in a bath, hmm? Would you like that? We might perfume it a little so you’ll-‘

‘ _No_! no perfume, please, the baby will protest.’

‘No perfume then, but some simple soap. I’ll wash your hair, like I used to do when you were little, and it will relax the baby.’

Sansa still hides her face behind her hand as she nods and Catelyn helps her get out. She wouldn’t be able to get out of this bed by herself, Catelyn thinks.

Catelyn re-braids the beautiful auburn curls, takes off the nightgown, the one that's hastily sewed by herself (all the other ones were too tight), and helps Sansa in the tub. She washes the red locks by herself, as she promised, as Sansa closes her eyes and hums, ‘She’s sleeping.’ Sansa says, ‘Finally.’

‘I said so, they like the warmth.’

Sansa only nods and gently caresses her bump as if it’s a baby already. Her breasts are big and her hips wide, she looks as fertile as a drawing of the mother in any Seven-Pointed Star ever, though tired too, and drained, anxious indeed.

The steam clouds the room and Catelyn has to wipe her brow, ‘Have you found a name?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘We’re terrible with girl names, but for a boy… We always agreed it would be Eddard, but for a girl it was a little different. Jon doesn’t want to call her Lyanna because it would be too much burden and Catelyn's not very Valyrian… though one dare say nor is Jon.’

‘Freia is.’

‘Yes.’ Sansa says, ‘Freia is. It is what Jon would have been called, had he been a girl.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Rhaegar told me, only a day before she was born.’ Sansa yawns, ‘Of course, I and Jon never found the opportunity to discuss it much. We originally planned on waiting until she was born but that too was not an option.’

‘Eddard is not very Valyrian either.’

‘No, but I understand why Jon would make an exception there.’

‘Rhaegar told your father to call his son Aemon.’

Sansa opens her eyes then, ‘Aemon? Truly?’

Catelyn nods, ‘He was supposed to be Aemon, but by the time the letter reached us Lyanna was already buried in the crypts and Jon was Jon… Rhaegar didn’t fight your father on it.’

‘He told me they did not have a boy’s name... do you suppose he lied?’

‘Mayhaps he’d forgotten.’ Catelyn doubts that, she knew Rhaegar well enough to not strike her as a man who would forget anything, never mind a son’s name.

‘Mayhaps.’ Sansa says though, she too, sounds as if she doesn’t believe that, ‘Why Aemon?’

‘I don’t believe he mentioned… it’s a Valyrian name of course, very common for Targaryen kings to name their son Aemon.’

‘Didn’t Lyanna mention it?’

‘I don’t believe she had enough power to do so.’

‘So I must find a name for her in case I will not live long enough.’

‘That’s not at all what I was trying to say.’

‘It’s true though.’ Sansa says and she takes the soap to try and fail at soaping her legs.

‘Is there any other name you like?’

‘We could name her after Jon’s grandmother, Rhaella.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It sounds so old.’

‘So does Freia.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Sansa seems genuinely offended and Catelyn forces a smile on her face.

‘No, not at all, it’s the loveliest name.’

‘I always liked Helaena.’

‘Then call her Helaena.’

‘Jon didn’t want it because it was too Valyrian.’ At that Catelyn frowns and wonders how Helaena can be too Valyrian and Catelyn not Valyrian enough. No wonder these two cannot come up with a name, the requirements are difficult to meet.

‘There are many Valyrian names. Alysanne?’

‘Naaah.’ Sansa drops the soap and gets irritated when she finds it difficult to pick it up from the bathtub floor, ‘Do you like Roslin?’

‘Not really, if I’m honest.’ Catelyn’s honesty is not much appreciated as Sansa groans, gives up and leaves the soap where it is.

‘I like names with Rose.’ Sansa decides, ‘But they’re never Valyrian.’

‘It will only be a princess, never a king, so perhaps it matters very little.’

‘We show the world our children are Targaryens by giving them Valyrian names.’

‘But if you call your son Eddard you’ll give a future king a northern name.’

‘As I said, I think Jon makes exceptions for father.’

‘Then why can’t he make exceptions for a daughter? It will only be a daughter.’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘You know what I mean, whether you’ll have a king Eddard or a Princess Roslin, the difference is real.’

Sansa groans loudly, ‘Oh, I hate this! This is the worst thing about having children, truly.’

Catelyn laughs a little, ‘Oh, you don’t mean that, wait until he’s here and he’ll keep you awake all night.’

Sansa starts crying again at that and Catelyn decides not to care why on earth she does and instead takes her daughter’s head between her hands and kisses the cheek, ‘I don’t want to talk about this with _you_!’

‘Oh, well-‘

‘That’s not what I mean! All I mean is… I wish I could argue with him about this.’ She cries, ‘It is just like last time when all I did was feel miserable because I had to do it all without him, I don’t want to do it without him. Freia was _my_ baby, I did it all on my own, _all_ by myself, it took the Gods _two_ years to bring Jon and his daughter together, _two_ , this time was supposed to be different! It was never going to happen again, we would never be apart, yet here I am, all on my own, thinking of names by myself, lying in bed all on my own, I’ll have this baby on my own and it will be my baby, not ours, _again_ and I can’t, mother, I don’t want to-‘

‘You are not alone.’ Catelyn says, ‘I am here, and Jon is here too, though not in presence he sends his strength. He fights for you as he's always done, all the babies you will ever have will belong to the both of you, and it’s not like last time, he’ll be here, not in two years but in two moonturns at most.’

‘Two moonturns is too long.’ Sansa decides, ‘I need him now.’

‘I’m sure he needs you too, but it’s not to be.’

Sansa sobs some more and wipes her cheeks aggressively, ‘I can’t stand myself! I’m so _fat_ and horrible!’ She winches when the baby kicks her, ‘Even my baby hates me!’

‘Don’t be silly! You’re exhausted.’

‘Of lying in a bed?’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘I’m _awful_.’

‘You’re not, I won’t hear you say that again.’ Catelyn feels the urge to add _or else I’ll send you to bed with no supper_ , but Sansa is not that little jolly and bright, girl anymore. She’s not eager to please and she’s not a lady either. A  _queen_ they call her, Jon’s queen perhaps, though it doesn’t seem to be a dream come true as much as it may have once been, now, Catelyn realizes, all it is to Sansa, is a burden. A duty laid on her shoulders, placed there by fate and accepted only for the greater good.

‘I miss Freia.’ Sansa says then, ‘Help me out of this tub, I must go to her.’

Catelyn helps her out, gets her dressed, combs and braids her hair and then is refused when she offers to hold her hand as she walks down the stairs.

‘I’m pregnant, not _old_.’ Sansa says.

Catelyn feels old as she watches Sansa with Freia in her lap, tell her the story of the prince of Dragonflies.

Freia gets better at talking every day, she walks stairs on her own, runs around with her blasts of never-ending energy and knows exactly what she does and doesn’t want. Freia’s eager to learn, always listens to what people around her say and Cat can see her soak in all the words and sentences, she’s such a clever thing and she won’t let anyone help her with eating or getting dressed, after which her cloak is wrapped around her shoulders inside-out.

She’s rather determined too, and still not so good at sharing, though it’s understandable for an only child, she’s not used to the company of other children much and Catelyn is glad she brought Rickon with her, he is always gentle and careful with her.

Freia reminded her much of Sansa at first, but lately Catelyn fails to see it. Freia has Sansa’s enthusiasm and dreams, but then, her shyness and stubbornness are all Jon. She’s as sweet as both her parents were, yet… her determination, her boldness when in the company of those she trusts, her spirit and her quick and curious mind are Lyanna Stark. Freia looks like Jon and in that she looks like her grandmother, the one she’ll never meet. Freia has a surpassing loveliness that would have reminded Ned of his sister… if only he got to see her grow up.

Freia is just the same as Arya in that you forbid her anything it becomes her heart's desire, yet she’s not as much half a boy as Arya, she enjoys dressing up and though she hates to let Sansa make an effort at taming her curls, she’s always very happy with herself once it’s braided and decorated with small ribbons wound through.

Freia loves her mother’s songs, she loves stories, especially when they’re told by her father, she loves her dolls, though not as much as she loves running around and building a snowcastle and if there’s anything that captures her imaginations and can keeps her fascination, it’s animals, especially horses, she loves horses. She’s still too little to ride it properly but Catelyn’s sure it won’t be long before she’s old and big enough to gallop into the distance, ready to greet the horizon.

She’s a bright, entertaining, fun-loving thing, always helpful, very creative, perhaps not so well-mannered for she has that typical Stark boldness Ned used to call the wolf’s blood. Freia brings a smile to the lips of all those around her. One little masterpiece, a lovely combination of her parents with a great chunk of her grandmother, the one they fought a war over.

Catelyn knows that Freia misses her father as much if not more than Sansa does. She’s always making drawings for him, much like when she was separated from Sansa, sings about him too, songs she makes up by herself, the sweetest songs, and it’s the most wonderful thing to know how loved she feels, for if anything, that is, and Catelyn knows it, the thing Jon wants most.

Catelyn brings Freia late to bed that night and sits with her by the window to stare at the stars that fascinate her so much as they sing her favorite song, _They shine so bright, shine all night…_ Freia sings with her high and soft voice, ‘ _Have no fright, you will be alright, I am your knight…'_ she looks at Catelyn and frowns when she asks, ‘Papa’s knight?’

‘No.’ Catelyn answers, and explains, ‘Papa is a king.’

‘King.’ Freia whispers and it doesn’t seem to shock her, ‘Papa’s king?’

‘And mama is a queen.’

‘Queen…’ Freia places her little hand to the glass of the window and Catelyn realizes Freia couldn’t care less if her parents were king and queen of the universe or peasants who farm land just wide enough to live off.

‘You’re a princess, Freia.’ She says.

Freia grins, ‘No! gran-mama…’ Freia moves her face closer to Catelyn’s and seems so terribly exited when she whispers in Catelyn’s ear, a hand by her mouth as if she wants to make sure no one else knows the secret, ‘I am a big sister!’

‘Yes! Of course… how stupid of me, you _are_ a big sister.’

Freia nods, ‘Little brother or sister! Coming soon, reeeaaal soon.’

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

Freia nods, ‘Hhhmhhm, mama’s tummy is soooooo big!’ Freia stretches her arms out, ‘Little baby is inside, growing and growing and growing.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I say, hello baby! I am Freia, I take care of you, because all sisters do, aunt Rhaen-lys and uncle Bobb!’ Freia is being too adorable for Cat to explain Robb is not a big sister but a big brother so instead she kisses Freia’s curly hair and nods.

‘You’re so clever! You’ll be the most amazing sister.’

Catelyn wraps the blankets carefully around Freia’s skinny and slim body, strokes her hair and whispers good night.

‘Love you, sweetling.’

Cat goes to check on Sansa afterwards, who’s asleep in her bed, finally finding peace as she doesn’t turn nor twist but lies still, motionless and comfortable on her side, one hand below her ear and the other resting on her belly as it moves with her breathing, her hair spread out over her pale, white pillow.

Catelyn lays in her bed that night and though she falls asleep quickly she feels she only wakes up mere minutes later. It’s not because someone comes to wake her, or because it’s the noise that forces her to open her eyes. She wakes because she just knows, and when she pushes herself from her bed and wraps a robe around her shaking old body, it’s still as dark as caves outside but she knows morning in nearing, some birds are up already and fill the air with their soft twittering.

The door to Catelyn’s chambers is opened and one of Sansa’s maids stands in the opening, ‘My lady, you must come, it is-‘

‘Time?’ The girl shuts up when she sees Catelyn is already awake and ready and as Catelyn puts on a pair of slippers she moves her hands to her hair to re-do her braid and make sure it’s tight enough at the back of her neck to not be of bother in her face.

In Sansa’s room it’s already crowded, with a maester, two septas and an army of midwives.

‘What is everyone doing here?’ Catelyn asks, she takes one look at her daughter and immediately realizes this is too much and too soon and with a wave, an angry glare and some commanding that wouldn’t be misplaced on a battlefield she makes sure all of them leave but a septa and the maester.

‘Fetch her some water, and some ice too, with a cloth.’ She tells the maid that came to get her and then she sits down by Sansa’s bedside, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Just lovely- I was finally sleeping, you know.’ Sansa says before she groans, she’s still lying on her side, her hand grabbing the fabric of her white nightgown which is too wide at the shoulders, where it keeps falling off.

‘How far?’ Catelyn asks the maester as she strokes hair from Sansa’s face and he finally seems to speak some truth when he says, ‘Only the beginning, but the babe is eager to come out.’

‘She’s been eager for moons.’ Sansa says scornfully and she groans again, ‘The water has already flowed.’

‘Well, that means that all we can do, is wait and hope the pains pass by rapidly.’

‘You must go to Freia when she wakes up.’ Sansa says but Catelyn shakes her head.

‘Have you lost your mind? I am not leaving you, not for one single moment, not even if you demand or beg me to.’

That brings a shaky smile to Sansa’s lips and her trembling fingers search for Catelyn’s hand, who takes them and moves it up to kiss her palm.

‘You can do it, you’ve done it already, as have many women before you, once the pain is over you can hold your child and sleep.’

‘Can't wait.’ Sansa says and she groans again.

The stinging pain follows the one before sooner and sooner with every minute passing by and it’s as if they not only bring Sansa pain but strength too, as if they force her to realize that weakness is indeed not an option.

When it gets worse she moves to sit up, digs her nails in Catelyn’s hand and with her face red and flushed, she screams.

‘You can do it.’ Catelyn keeps telling her and Sansa only nods. Catleyn expected her to doubt that, to regret it all like many young mothers do, beg the maester to just end it, to tell them all that she has changed her mind, she doesn’t want a child after all. perhaps it is because this is her second, and Sansa finds the willpower in having done it before, or perhaps there is little more she has left to fear after all she has been through already.

Catelyn has two extremely strong daughters, and this one doesn’t hush herself when she battles the pain and the throbbing of the muscles in her abdomen.

‘You can do it, I know you can.’ Catelyn says and Sansa seems almost angry, so deep does she frown, so loudly does she roar and everyone around her, trying to tell her what to do, only irritates her. She knows how this works, she has successfully managed in the past, she doesn’t need anyone to tell her what is happening, she knows better than these maids of hers and the septas who will never know the excruciating pains, never mind the maester who is a man and is by nature forever left in the unknown.

For one moment, Catelyn hates herself, for she wasn't there the first time, when it wasn't so easy, when there was blood. Arya told her. The first time is always so terrifying- and Catelyn should have been there, but she wasn't. She should have helped, during and after, for two years… but she couldn't. It’s something Catelyn will never forgive herself. It’s a result of something she did, something so foolish, that she’ll have to carry with her to the grave. She will not have Ned back, she won’t have these two years back, but she can be there _now_ , and she _is_.

“I have to do it now.’ Sansa says and she looks at her mother for confirmation, ‘Now, or else…’ Sansa doesn’t finish that sentence but groans instead, screams some more and the maester who peeks between her legs tells her she needs to push one more time which she does, and just like that, it appears all her moaning and complaining, the tears and worries and sleepless nights, were for nothing because it’s not nearly noon when Sansa brings her child into the world with little blood, loads of screaming and a specific , special kind of strength only mothers will ever experience.

It cries loudly, angrily, aggressively, as healthy as the day is long.

‘A daughter, your grace, my congratulations.’

Sansa drops her head back in her pillow, gasping for air in both relieve and exhaustion before a smile appears on her face, so wide and happy Catelyn shivers and feels her body covered in goosebumps.

‘Give her to me.’ Sansa demands.

‘Your grace, we must look at her first, tend to her and-‘

‘I said, _give_ her to me, damnit!’

Catelyn cannot recall hearing her daughter swear once before and she wonders whether it is the influence of Jon, Rhaenys, or simple carelessness. Whatever it is, it’s enough to raise the maester’s eyebrows before he turns around, wraps the screaming suckling in a blanket and moves her to the outstretched, awaiting arms of her mother.

‘Shhhhhh…’ Sansa hushes as she moves to comfort her baby, placing it on her chest, cradling the tiny head in her hand palm, tears rolling down her cheeks. The baby doesn’t scream as much as it screeches and Catelyn remembers how most babies sound that way when they are a mere few days old or less. What she had forgotten, however, was the smell, the best smell in the world, the fresh smell of the youngest life.

The baby has the same blue eyes and strawberry blond hair as Sansa had when she was born, her skin is red and flushed, she’s smaller than Catelyn expected with the seize of Sansa’s belly, her head is pointed and too big compared to the rest of her body, her legs and arms short, her fingers the absolute tiniest and her face is grimaced as she screams, ‘She’s beautiful.’ Catelyn sighs, as beautiful as a newborn can be.

‘She’s perfect.’ Sansa decides and she places the most loving kiss to her baby’s forehead and she stops screaming then as Sansa wipes the blood off the small limbs with a cloth and soothes and lulls softly, ‘Sssshhhh… It’s alright, sshhh, it’s alright now, don’t worry, I’m here.’

Catelyn can’t help but cry too as she moves her finger to the baby’s light red hair, much lighter than auburn, as bright as the sun, yet not the color of pumpkin, more of autumn leaves. An autumn baby with autumn hair.

The baby is all quiet now as it lies against her mother, in experienced, warm and loving arms, her little hands fists and her skin red, with that white greasy substance that babies born a slight bit premature are always covered in.

‘Freia was smaller.’ Sansa says.

‘That’s only normal, you were bigger than Robb too.’

They say very little for what feels like hours as Catelyn tries to hug her and give her space at the same time, while mother and child stare each other in the eye, the first meeting.

Sansa, wipes tears from her face, moves her finger over the baby’s chubby cheek and then breaks the silence, ‘What do you think she looks like? Roslin or a Rhaella?’

‘She looks like a Tully.’ Catelyn says.

‘She is a Targaryen.’ Sansa says, ‘A princess.’

The baby moves her legs as if she’s looking for the resistance she’s still used to, but all she finds is Sansa’s hand and she rubs her forefinger over a wrinkled footpad. Tiny fingers wrap around Sansa’s thumb and Catelyn wonders if after all that fighting and squeezing the baby feels either unsettled or freed, it must feel above everything so tired, as tired as her mother, who struggles to keep her eyes open.

‘Oh Sansa, I’m so proud of you.’ Catelyn sighs, ‘Look at that, she’s the prettiest baby I have ever seen.’

Sansa only nods, more tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, ‘She’s so soft…’ Sansa then turns the baby so she lays on her tummy, her head on her mother's chest, and in that position, with the soothing and recognizable sound of Sansa’s heartbeat below her ear, she finally fully relaxes.

‘You should… You should get freshened up, hhm?’ Catelyn asks, ‘Shall I take her? You can put on a clean nightgown and they can change the sheets and take proper care of you and after that you can nurse her, because I think she’s hungry.’

Sansa nods, but it takes her a long time to move, as she cradles the little head in her handpalm, and stares, just stares.

Once Sansa is washed, the sheets fresh, and the baby cleaned and looked after by a maester and brought back to have her first fill of milk she drinks eagerly, her eyes closed, the tiniest golden eyelashes lay resting on her cheeks as Sansa holds her small hand between her forefinger and thumb. Right after she's done the baby falls asleep, content, with her tiny head on her mother’s chest again, wrapped up warmly in swaddling clothes.

‘She's a good baby.’ Sansa whispers.

‘It went well.’ Catelyn decides.

‘The nursing or the birthing?’

‘Both.’ Catelyn says though she meant the nursing.

‘I have done both before.’

‘I have never seen you do either, makes me feel both proud and old.’

Sansa grins though she refuses to take her eyes of her child, ‘You have two granddaughters now, does that please you?’

‘Sansa…’ Catelyn moves over the bed to kiss Sansa’s temple, ‘I couldn’t possibly be more pleased.’

Sansa still refuses to look up and she moves the top of her forefinger gently over her baby’s hair with the outmost care and then presses her nose to the small head, to take in the scent, no doubt, ‘I think she’s definitely a Helaena or a… What about Elaena?’

‘Elaena is lovely.’

‘Or Mylaena… Mylaena?’

‘It will be hard for Freia to pronounce that.’

Sansa rubs the little fingers that are wrapped around her forefinger with her thumb, ‘She's a Mylaena though.’

‘I like Mylaena.’ Catelyn decides then, as she hears Sansa whisper it to the baby. It's a name that grows on you, the more you hear it, once you let it sink it, say it aloud yourself.

‘You're Mylaena.’ Sansa tells her baby.

Catelyn nods,’ Mylaena Targaryen is… that is a name fit for a princess.’

Sansa nods, ‘If Jon doesn’t like it he can lump it, he can name the next one, when he finally manages to be there.’

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

When Freia was born, Sansa was so utterly mesmerized by her beauty that she never believed any baby ever could be just as pretty.

She was so much in awe, of the baby and of the feeling. That all-consuming love, the breathtaking desire to protect her, the mother instinct that she felt in every fiber of her being. She was so scared then, for everything that was new, afraid of doing something the wrong way, holding her, waking her, dressing her... it was much harder than it initially seemed. She was even afraid of feeding her too often or too little.

Every time Freia cried Sansa's heart stopped beating and the insecurity ate her alive. Could she do it? Be a mother? It was, at times, almost as if she regretted it, changed her mind. Though of course, the thought of losing her… it nearly kept her awake during the night, was it not that her world had crushed down; she was all alone but the company of her sister and her baby. There was no one she trusted who could tell her what to do, who helped her, comforted her. She did it all on her own, found strength in that natural power all mothers feels.

When Freia was born, Sansa was completely and totally unprepared for the overwhelming experience of motherhood. Her fundamental identity changed overnight, she went from thinking of herself as primarily an individual to thinking of herself, first and foremost, as a mother. Sansa’s entire world changed and there was no one there to hold her hand, to tell her all would be well. She did it all on her own.

She was locked away in a cloud of darkness and isolation, with a newborn baby in her arms. A baby who needed her, relied entirely and solely on her mother's protection to survive.

With Mylaena, it's all different. Sansa is not alone, she's not afraid, she feels secure, confident and so so blessed. Not a shred of regret, no fear. She has done this before, and the self-confidence she finds in being a mother for the second time makes the experience less exhausting, though still just as all-consuming.

Mylaena is just as beautiful and breathtaking as Freia was, and Sansa again, cannot stop staring, but her hair is lighter, as are her eyes, and though she's bigger she has a softer complexion.

Sansa needs yet to find out how she will sleep during the nights, but, as the sun is high up at the sky, the baby is sleeping so sweetly, lying in the crook of her mother's arm, exhausted of the experience of being born.

Sansa does not need to pinch her own arm all the time to convince herself this is real, she does not need to get used to the incredulous idea that she is a mother, she knows this is real, as real as the snow outside, as real as the sky, the sun and the rivers, as real as Jon and Freia.

Yet Sansa can still gaze at her brand-new baby just the same and just as long as she did last time.

It might feel more real, she feels no less blessed, if not more. This baby is the baby she longed for and dreamed of in a different way than she did before Freia.

Mylaena is the baby she once thought she'd never have. But she's here, she's as healthy as a horse, as loud as a war horn, as pretty as the loveliest flower and as real as life itself. Sansa feels so proud, ridiculously proud, there has never been such a healthy baby, she is the prettiest, the most perfect little thing.

Sansa didn’t believe she'd have another baby, The mere idea of this makes her feel so utterly and all-consumingly blessed.

She feels undeserving and wants to drop down on her knees in the Godswood or the sept, both, at the same time, and thank all the Gods, _Thank you for my baby, thank you for making her healthy, please let her stay with me until I die, thank you, thank you_.

It’s not what she does. She can’t get out of bed, refuses to. In that, this is different from the first time too.

Her birth went so fast, once it started she felt a strength and a confidence she did not recognize in herself. When it was over it was as if she’d forgotten about all of it, once she heard the screams. Sansa has no headache, no fever and there's not as much blood.

The maester of Riverrun tells her she must stay in bed for two days after birthing, that she can get out of bed after that if she’d like, but she doubts she will. Sansa just wants to lay in bed and gaze, nurse, sleep, write letters to Jon and Robb and Rhaenys, Bran and Arya, eat berries, read a book perhaps, and gaze some more.

Jon may not be here, but Sansa is not alone, not like last time. She has her mother, and her mother does everything Sansa should but doesn’t feel like.

Catelyn comes to check on her every hour or so, because she offers help and because she just can't stay away, ‘Sansa… she's so pretty, look at her.’ She sighs and Sansa grins.

Freia holds Catelyn’s hand tight when she’s escorted into Sansa’s bedchamber and she hides a little behind her grandmother’s skirts when she stands in front of her mother’s bed.

Sansa leans with her back against the headboard, with her baby in her right arm she stretches her left out for Freia, ‘Freia, come here, meet you sister.’

Freia looks up at her grandmother for reassurance and Catelyn gives her warmest smiles, pecks the top of the curly head and then lifts her up the bed so she can move closer.

Freia crawls over to Sansa’s outstretched arm, her eyes never leaving her little sister, whom she eyes almost with distrust, though mostly confusion.

‘Her name’s Mylaena.’ Sansa says, ‘She’s your little sister, it’s a girl.’

Freia doesn’t respond, only stares at the baby’s sleeping head and Sansa scoops her closer to her side.

‘She’s very tiny, isn’t she Freia?’ Catelyn asks and Freia nods.

Sansa snuggles her nose in Freia hair as she leans her small head to Sansa’s upper-arm, ‘You can say hello to her, if you want?’ Sansa whispers, ‘She would very much like to meet you.’

‘She was… in the tummy?’ Freia asks.

Sansa looks at Catelyn then nods, ‘Yes, she was born this morning, she’s very, very new.’

‘She is growing?’

‘Of course, she’ll be growing, before you know it she’ll be as big as you are.’

Freia can’t keep her widened eyes from her new sister, then slowly, carefully, moves her small forefinger to the baby’s head and rubs her strawberry blonde hair, ‘The hair is orange!’

‘It’s not really.’ Sansa says.

‘Short.’ Freia decides, ‘Girls have long hair?’

‘It'll be long, if we don't cut it.’

‘It’s your little sister Freia,’ Catelyn says again, ‘Look how small she is!’

Freia looks up at her grandmother, then down at the baby and leans a little forward, ‘Mer-mayla?’

‘Mylaena.’ Sansa says.

‘Myr-laena…’ Freia whispers and she moves her face closer to the baby’s, ‘Myr-maena… I call her Maena?’

‘If you want… why not?’

‘I call her Neana.’ Freia whispers, ‘I call her… she is sister.’

Sansa kisses Freia’s cheek and feels more proud than ever before.

‘You made a drawing for her, didn’t you Freia?’

Freia doesn’t look up when she nods and Catelyn lays a small drawing of a flower and a horse down on the blankets.

Sansa feels her eyes burn, ‘That’s so nice of you.’ She whispers, ‘I’m sure she loves it.’

‘Mama, she is wearing the blanket, look!’

‘Yes, she is, you helped me make it, remember?’

‘I pick out the colors.’ Freia tells Catelyn.

‘Oh really? It’s very pretty, I’m sure the baby is grateful now.’

‘Does Naena want a doll?’

‘We got her a stuffed horse, remember?’

‘Yes! Horsey for baby brother or sister!’ Freia looks from Catelyn, to Sansa back to Mylaena, ‘She is sleeping?’

Sansa nods, ‘Yes, she needs to sleep so she can grow.’

‘Small hands…’ Freia says and she points at Mylaena’s little fists, ‘Reeeally small.’

‘I know.’ Sansa nods and she kisses Freia’s cheek again and then Freia smiles, at first, it’s small, then it broadens and it’s as wide as ever.

She doesn’t seem uneasy then, nor scared, only a little confused though terribly interested and delighted, ‘Hello My-phaena…’ She whispers, ‘I am Freia! I am your big sister!’

A tear rolls down Sansa’s face that she cannot wipe away, both her arms are full and she has no free hand left. Just the way she likes it.

‘Happy tears?’ Freia asks and Sansa nods, ‘I am happy too.’ Freia decides. Then Mylaena coos and Freia’s eyes widen when the baby’s eyelids flutter, ‘She is looking at me!’ She says and she leans even closer, ‘Hello… Hello baby… You are not sleeping!’ Mylaena only coos some more and her big baby eyes stare up at her older sister, who makes a face at her and then giggles, ‘She sees me! _Look_! She is looking at me!’

‘Yes she does!’

‘Can I kiss?’

‘Of course.’

Freia sloppily kisses the top of the baby’s head, ‘My-phaela, when you are old, we dance and eat berries!’

‘She's still sleepy, I think.’ Catelyn notices.

Sansa nods and moves the baby up a little, so Freia doesn’t have to lean over her so much to look her in the eye, ‘Maybe you can hold her, would you like that?’

Freia nods eagerly and after Catelyn pushes pillows to both her sides she stretches her arms out.

‘Careful, she’s very small, you see? You always have to be so very careful.’

‘Veeeery care-dull…’ Freia repeats and Sansa places Mylaena in her sister’s arms.

‘Has she fallen back to sleep?’ Catelyn asks and Sansa shakes her head.

‘No, but she’s still very milk drunk.’

‘You nursed her?’

‘Just before you came in, yes.’ Sansa says and she holds Mylaena’s head in her hand to support it, ‘She’s not heavy, is she?’

Freia grins down at the baby in her arms, ‘No!’ Freia moves her forefinger to trace the line of the baby’s nose, ‘Orange hair…’ She whispers, ‘I cuddle the baby!’

Sansa looks up and grins at Catelyn with her tear-stained eyes.

‘You are her mama?’ Freia asks then, her grin gone.

Sansa nods as she pulls her hand through Freia’s curls, ‘Yes, and yours, that is why she is your sister, remember?’

‘Hhmhhm.’ Freia nods, ‘And papa too?’

‘Papa is Mylaena’s papa, yes.’

Freia nods again, ‘She is my sister?’

‘Only yours, no one else’s.’

‘Not Rickon’s sister?’

‘No, just yours.’

That brings the grin back to Freia’s face, ‘My sister.’ She repeats and it’s almost as if she’s being possessive- in the most adorable way.

Mylaena coos some more and opens her little hands, wraps her fingers around Freia’s thumb who squeals and keeps kissing her sister’s head as she holds her in her skinny arms. The pillows keep the baby upright and she lays with her head on Freia’s chest, ‘She’s sweet, isn’t she?’ Sansa asks.

‘Hhhmmhh.’ Freia says and she moves her fingers to Mylaena’s belly, ‘I tickle you!’ she says but all Mylaena does is coo some more as she moves her head.

‘Do you think she’s hungry again?’ Catelyn asks.

‘No.’ Sansa shakes her head. The baby notices the new arms around her, the new smell, the lack of her mother.

Sansa moves her hand to take a tiny foot between her forefinger and thumb.

‘She can't walk? Too small feet.’ Freia says, looking at the foot in Sansa’s hand.

‘We will have to teach her, like I taught you once, with aunt Arya.’

‘Learning walking?’

‘Yes, you were a baby once, remember?’

Freia nods, ‘I was growing in the tummy!’

‘Yes, and then you came out looking just like this.’ Sansa says, with a head gesture to Mylaena.

‘Neana…’ Freia whispers again, ‘You have very small ears.’

‘And nose, and fingers… look at the fingers.’

Freia looks at the tiny fingers wrapped around her thumb, ‘Really small fingers, so, so small.’

‘What do you say, big sister,’ Sansa starts, ‘Maybe grandmama can put Mylaena in her crib, over there, and I tell you a story?’

‘The crib?’

‘It's over there, look.’ Sansa points, ‘In the corner of the room, we can see her from the bed.’ Strategically placed, of course.

Catelyn moves closer, ‘I'll lay her in her little bed, so she can sleep, and mama will tell you a story.’

Freia looks down at the baby, ‘Night night, Neana, you sleep and grow.’

‘Give her a good night kiss?’ Sansa asks.

Freia kisses Mylaena on her forehead and cheek before Catelyn takes her from her.

‘Have you written to Jon?’ Sansa asks as she pulls Freia in her lap, wrapping her arms around her eldest, holding her close in both her relieve and excitement at how well that first meeting went. Freia is the sweetest and the kindest and she was so excited about this meeting that Sansa had high hopes, but you never know, of course. She would not have been able to bear it if Freia had been jealous, scared, mean or uninterested.

‘I have sent a letter to Rhaenys, but it was very formal, I thought you wanted to write Jon by yourself?’

‘I do.’ Sansa nods.

Catelyn skillfully lays the baby on her back in the crib, ‘I’ll get you some paper then.’ She says and after carefully draping the blanket around the baby she leaves the room.

Sansa lifts Freia up a little in her arms, for as far as she still can, and Freia wraps her skinny arms around her mother’s neck.

‘Story?’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’

‘About what?’

‘Mammoths!’

‘Mammoths? I don't know much about mammoths.’

‘Papa saw all the mammoths.’

‘I know! Did he tell you?’

‘Hhhmhhm.’ Freia nods and moves away to stand up on the bed, ‘Really big, _this_ big!’ She says, spreading her arms all wide.’

‘ _That_ big? No, I do not believe it!’

Freia nods some more, ‘And they are riding… giants! Giants sit on all the mammoths!’

‘Papa has been telling you crazy stories again.’ Sansa decides.

‘Papa has to come, he can see My-pheala! I make draw-ling for papa of baby now!’

‘Yes, you should! I'm sure he'd love it.’

‘Papa is coming now?’

‘Of course, he is.’

‘Because of the baby?’

‘Because he misses us. You and me. And he wants to see the baby. Because he belongs with us.’

‘Yes.’ Freia says, nodding.

‘We are a family.’ Sansa says, taking Freia's little hands in hers.

Freia nods some more and sits down again, her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, ‘Ser Mal-flom says dragons spit-ter fire, like so…’ she holds her hands next to her mouth, as if she means to yell, but she doesn't, she just blows, ‘Aaaaall the fire, and the dragons are _super_ big and they fly!’

‘Dragons are very far away.’ Sansa says, ‘You don't have to worry about dragons.’

‘I want to see dragons! I sit and they _fly_!’

‘Dragons are dangerous, you said it yourself, they spit fire, that hurts, you know that, don't you?’

‘Ow.’ Freia simple says, ‘People ow?’

‘Because of the dragons? I'm afraid so, yes.’

'They burn people?'

'People... big men, small men, good and bad men... mama's and little children too.' 

'Babies?'

'Maybe, yes.'

Freia seems to think about that revelation for a while before she says, ‘Dragons are stupid.’

Sansa nods, ‘They really are.’

‘I make draw-ling for My-phaela.’ Freia says and she picks up the piece of paper from the bed, ‘It is Ever-low!’

‘Oh yes, I see it now, you did a fine job.’

Freia grins proudly at her masterpiece, ‘And flowers.’ She says and she hands the drawing to her mother, ‘Mama you have still a big, big tummy?’

‘I know… it's empty now, before you know it, it's gone.’

‘Tummy is gone?’

‘Yes, because the baby is here now, you see?’

Freia nods and points at Mylaena, ‘Baby sleeping, so _shhhh_!’ She says and she adds in whispers, ‘We have to be all _shhh_ … baby is sleeping, if we scream she is waking up.’

‘Yes, that's true…’ Sansa whispers too, ‘So, shall I tell you the story about Petyr and the giant?’

‘Freia and the Giant!’ Freia loudly decides, her plan of soft whispers long forgotten.

Sansa nods, ‘Freia looked at the giant, the giant looked at Freia…’

‘Giant, giant, How are you, Ser Giant?’ Freia says.

‘Is the giant a knight?’ Sansa asks.

Freia nods, ‘Giant is… big, _sooo_ big, and really, really nice.’

Sansa nods too, ‘Freia asked the giant politely, even while her knees were shaking in fear… I’m fine, little princess,- the Giant says, And how are you?’

‘I miss papa.’ Freia says, ‘I have a sister and I miss papa.’

Sansa nods, ‘The giant misses papa too.’ She says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Jon, he'll be back next chapter.   
> I would also like to share the good news of me actually finishing this story. It's done, finished, over. I've no more chapters to write. I do, however, have loads of chapters to alter and make presentable, so not THAT done, but the story is written, and I think/hope the ending will please you all.   
> I am now, unfortunately, 100% sure I won't be able to have it all wrapped up by the time season 7 starts, which makes me feel like an utter failure, cause I always believed I'd make that, but alas, too many chapters (68 :S), too many storylines that deserve a proper ending. So yeah, we'll see how it goes.   
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, don't you dare be rude about the name (for obvious reasons, hopefully), I hope you guys have/had a wonderful weekend and will have a great week and I'll see you all soon!Xxxxx


	55. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s not blind, she sees his eyes, and she’s not numb either. Rhaenys feels everything.

**Rhaneys**

* * *

 

Rhaenys watches Jon and Robb kneel, side-by-side, in front of the Three Singers. They look like brothers, with their curly hair, the same simplicity in their clothing, their eyes closed in prayer. The red leaves of the weirwood trees are a stark contrast to all the greens and browns that surround them.

Robb's face is calm, as if the prayer relaxes him, comforts him. Jon, on the other hand, frowns deep.

Not one death had it cost them to win Highgarden and as Rhaenys stands between lord Florent and Lord Tyrell she feels almost angry, though it should be relief.

‘The Sept of Highgarden is only matched by the Starry Sept and the Sept of Baelor.’ Lord Mance tells her, ‘I could escort you there?’

‘I shall wait for my lord husband.’ Rhaenys says, not taking her eyes off Robb’s back.

She has so much to pray for, she wants to sink down in her knees and ask for guidance, but not without Robb.

When they neared Highgarden she wondered if Lord Mance had stripped all the linen of every bed in his castle to decorate every corner of every wall, every tower, ever gate, with the white color of surrender.

No battle, only bending knees.

As comforting as that is, so confusing and difficult is it too.

They offered their daughter Margaery’s hand in marriage to Robb’s little brother Bran, and Rhaenys wonders if they ever believed it would be accepted. It wasn't. It was instantly refused and Rhaenys can't help but feel that might've been a mistake. The Targaryens have married brother to sister for centuries, and it never brought them friends. Marriage brings you friends, friends bring you allies. Her father understood that, and she wonders if they have failed to make use of Robb’s large scale of siblings. Rickon is too young, but it's high time they find a proper lord husband for his sister Arya.

Jon offered the Florents Highgarden, and in return, the Florents chose to support them, along with eight other loyal houses in the Reach, when they took The Westerlands and saved the Wall.

‘I shall reward loyalty and accept surrender, grand forgiveness and mercy.’ Jon said, he did that little trick again, when he opens his mouth but their father speaks.

No marriage between a Stark and a Tyrell, ‘Joffrey's widow? None of us shall marry Joffrey's widow.’ Robb said.

Rhaenys suggested her cousin Trystane, ‘The girl ought to be married, in a year time perhaps? To end feuds between the Reach and Dorne.’

Jon nodded and Rhaenys send a letter to Doran to suggest it, feeling desperate while doing so.

Highgarden will go to the Florents, as promised, to reward their loyalty. Lord Mance keeps his head and as red as it is with anger, humiliation and fury, he smiles.

His smile is ugly and toad-like, it's the unhappiest of smiles. But Highgarden is not in ruins, not destroyed by flames and high numbers of human life losses as Lannisport is.

Lord Mance Tyrell is the king who knelt come again.

Rhaenys is just glad the Queen of Thorns has not dared show her displeased face. That woman always hurt her eyes.

What an _utter_ idiot, to think that white flags could ever make up for their grotesque betrayal, to marry of that snoopy, sanctimonious, mealy-mouthed daughter of theirs to Joffrey the mad bastard.

Margaery Tyrell sank through her knees, ‘Your grace, our fealty is yours…’ she batted her eyelids at Jon as if she tried to impose him with her unimposing, un-impressing beauty.

Rhaenys has noticed such behavior before. To be the king’s mistress… The nine mistresses of Aegon the Unworthy had proven the world that being queen in all but name can oft give more might than sitting beside a loathing king husband at dinner.

Jon does not loath Sansa, he writes her two letters each and every day, speaks of her constantly, wonders aloud what she might do, what she might say, and he misses her terribly. Jon hardly all but blinked at Margaery, turned his gaze away from her after only the most proper of polite nods.

Rhaenys couldn't help herself but glare, ‘You are dressed in blues, lady Margaery… how? Your lord husband has passed. Do you not wish to mourn him?’

Not even a student of the hands of Olenna Tyrell could hide her blushing cheeks, ‘We were not properly married.’

‘Oh yes, how could I for a moment forget, someone killed Cersei Lannister’s bastard before he could climb up the steps to bed his bride… One could call it daft… I prefer hilarious.’

Jon glared at her then, but Rhaenys felt very satisfied and entertained with the distress and humiliation on the Tyrell girl’s face.

‘We reward those who chose to fight for their rightful king, for Rhaegar's son, but we are no cruel madmen, lord Tyrell, as you know, we are always eager for truces. Those who have betrayed us will be spared if they swear their fealty, it would seem a mild punishment.’ Rhaenys tells lord Mance, she doesn’t wait for him to answer, for she cannot stand to hear his endless attempts at obsequiousness.

In Highgarden’s supposed impressing sept, in a castle that now belongs to the Florents, those with a tighter line to the Gardener kings, lord Tyrell and his four sons sink through their knees and beg for forgiveness and swear fealty to their one true king.

‘Jon, first of his name.’ Hearing it still not fails to cover Rhaenys’ arms in goosebumps.

She prays in the sept herself when she is all alone but Robb, standing behind her, his head bowed to respect Gods that may not be his own, these Gods that his lady wife prays too.

Rhaenys prays to the mother to give Jon a son, to the warrior to keep their troops strong, to give her strength and her husband and brother courage in the battles to come, to the father to thank him for his justice, to the maiden to protect her little blithe niece, safe in Riverrun, the smith to give power to their swords, to dry up the blood on steel and lastly to the Crone, to give her wisdom, to guide her in duty.

Rhaenys looks at the lamp in the Crone’s hands, the stone of her face is carved with wrinkles, ‘Guide me, wise lady. Show me the path I must walk, and do not let me stumble in the dark places that lie ahead.’ Rhaenys prays, her hands tightly folded.

Robb leaves her to meet with his bannermen from the North and though Rhaenys finds the need to follow him, she knows this is something he must do without her.

Men of the North prefer to hear their lord's reassuring words without his mistrusted, purple-eyed Targaryen lady wife standing in the corner.

It is so odd to Rhaenys sometimes, how she, as Robb’s wife, their lady of Winterfell, is treated as much more of a stranger than Jon is, whom they love. Jon is a Targaryen, though his mother was from the North, he is a southron king, with a banner of a a three-headed dragon.

Northerners are an odd kind, they distrust all who are not one of their own, and Jon, raised at Winterfell by their beloved late Eddard, a follower of their old Gods, praying in front of their trees, married to a daughter of house Stark, speaking words with their accent, with a doublet adorned with a white direwolf… he is their king as much as a king of the rest of Westeros.

Her father planned it that way, Rhaenys knows it, sometimes she has such a moment where she realizes her father planned it all out, thought it all through, and she feels almost inferior then, as much as she feels impressed.

Her knees shake with exhaustion under the heavy weight of the past two days when she opens the door to her new bedchamber and processes the environment with her eyes.

She takes a coffer with letters from a table in her hands, drops down on her bed and spots one with Catelyn’s handwriting that she picks first.

When Rhaenys sees the letter, she knows instantly what it is and her heart stops beating for a moment.

_  
Rhaenys,_

_Joyful birth of a healthy princess, born a little early but healthy and strong nonetheless. The delivery was safe and expeditiously. Sansa named her Mylaena. Both mother and daughter are in good health, more letters will follow._  
_Give Robb and Jon my love.  
_  
_Lady Catelyn of house Stark_

 

Rhaenys assumes the second one is written by Catelyn too, so she never cares to look who it's addressed to, for it’s placed there among her letters, but when she unfolds it she recognizes Sansa’s handwriting and it’s so obviously hurriedly written that it would be touching was it not, to Rhaenys, so terribly confronting.

_  
Dearest, dearest Jon,_

_We have another daughter! It is a girl, a perfect one, with ten fingers, ten toes, one head of strawberry blond hair and two beautiful eyes. There are no words in any language wherever in this world that could possibly describe my happiness, for she is everything I dreamed of that she might be. I know you don’t like the name Helaena, so I’ve given her the name Mylaena, I could honestly not come up with anything else. Though, Freia cannot pronounce it properly so we shall call her Leana, I thought you’d perhaps like that a little better? If you don’t it’s too late now._   
_Though it won’t matter, I promise you, when you see her, you’ll forget what her name is. I need you to see her so badly, I constantly try to imagine what you will look like as you hold her, it is all I dream of seeing._   
_We have two babies now, the most perfect ones, the Gods bless us, I do not understand what we possibly ever have done to deserve it._   
_It all went well, before I knew it she was here, and she screamed so loudly, so angrily, that I instantly knew how healthy she must be. Mother was with me all the time. It started late in the evening when I was sleeping and she was born before sunrise. I know you know little of this so I’ll tell you that is a quick labor. I felt it coming, I knew three days prior that it was going to happen as soon as any day. She was so restless, she kept punching her fists to my insides, almost as if she was angry with me. I wondered if maybe she needed to stretch badly because she was quite clearly so done with being locked up in my womb. Already a free bird!_   
_She was born early, the maester said, but I and the baby both disagree, I would have rather seen her sooner! I still don’t understand why she waited till the moment she chose. When she decided she wanted out I was so relieved, I was anxious to have it all over with._   
_And now she’s here!_   
_Freia kissed her forehead, she did, this afternoon, she’s sleeping beside me at this very instance, in my bed, with Mylaena in the crib in the same room. Freia is not at all jealous, not at all scared, only a little surprised because I believe we may have failed at preparing her about how vulnerable newborns are!_   
_But she’s ever so sweet and I told her she can always sing to her and she didn’t seem to believe me when I said the baby can hear her, but of course she can, so Freia sang a song for her and then she cooed… Jon, she makes the most adorable sounds, and she smells so nice._   
_She’s a little bigger than Freia was, I think, but everyone tells me that is only normal. Father once told me I had strawberry blonde hair when I was born, so I think she’ll maybe have auburn hair when she grows older. I told mother and she laughed and told me not to get ahead of myself._   
_Nursing goes well, she drinks good and much and she sleeps tight, tonight I will find out how tight exactly!_   
_Freia made you a drawing again, I put it in the letter, she has not found the time to draw her sister of course, she really wanted to but I cannot wait to send you this so I promised her I’ll send one of these to you in my next letter._   
_I love you so much, and I miss you, so terribly, now more than ever. It feels incredulous to be so happy without you, every time I remember you’re not here it is like a damper._   
_I cannot wait for you to meet her, honestly, truly, I absolutely cannot, and I am sure she wants to meet you too._   
_In the meantime, I’ll tell her about you, and I tell you about her, and perhaps that will make time go by a little faster._   
_I love you, always and forever, and so does Freia, you have to come home so we can be a family,_   
_I and Freia send you all the kisses and cuddles in the world,_

_Always yours,_   
_Sansa_

 

Rhaenys doesn’t mean to read the full letter, she knows she should’ve stopped after the first sentence, definitely after the second, but she couldn’t. She should not have opened it at all.

Rhaenys has never felt so jealous in her entire life. Is it rage she feels? Is it detest? Something close to contempt? It’s almost as if she’s angry with Sansa. Is she that weak? She is angry with Sansa’s happiness, because it’s a happiness she shall never feel. This letter is a letter she will never write, and for that sole reason she wants to rip it apart and burn it.

She cannot burn it, she’ll have to give it to Jon, and he’ll read it and she can only begin to imagine what his face will do when he does. Robb’s face will never do that, and it’s her fault.

Heavy teardrops fall on a drawing of what looks to be a sun and a river with fish. The fish all smile as they jump from the water, so high it is as if they fly. Two dolls stand by what could be a riverbank, though it looks as if they float through the sky. Rhaenys cannot possibly make out who these two dolls must represent but the difference in their height and the brown color of their hair is all she needs to guess.

_From Freia, to Papa,_ , is says at the top left of the piece of paper, all in Sansa’s handwriting but Freia's name, written in big, disfigured though readable letters.

Rhaenys quickly refolds the drawing to protect it from her ruining tears and she wipes her cheeks dry with her sleeve. She gathers all the other letters that somehow ended up scattered on the floor and just when she means to put them back in the box she hears Robb’s voice.

‘Rhaenys?’

She stiffens and doesn’t dare look up. He’ll instantly know, he’ll see it in her eyes and if she speaks he’ll hear.

‘What are you doing down there on the floor?’

‘Picking up the letters.’

‘Did you drop them?’

She hears his footsteps when he walks over to her and she turns her face away from him when he stops in front of her, to hide her face, hide her sadness.

‘Rhaenys? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing is wrong.’ She says, nothing should be, but everything is and it’s her own fault, all her fault.

He kneels down and pushes her loose hair over her shoulder, ‘What happened?’

‘Sansa has…’ More tears fall down and though her pretending never stood a chance it now fails entirely, she cannot even deny it anymore as he moves his hand to rub her wet cheek, ‘Sansa and Jon have one more daughter.’

He doesn’t seem too happy about that and she assumes that must be because her sadness worries him, but then he asks, ‘Did something happen? Is Sansa alright? She still lives does she?’ He grabs her hand then and she sees a fear in his eyes that stabs her, ‘Tell me she lives.’

‘Sansa lives.’ Rhaenys whispers.

‘And the child?’

‘Both live.’ Rhaenys holds the letter up, ‘Sansa wrote the letter herself, they’re both perfectly well, everything went… it all… they’re g-good.’

‘Then why are you… Why are you upset?’

‘I’m not upset.’ She says, upset is not the right word.

‘You’re crying.’

She doesn’t know what to say. Once she may have told him that is a stupid thing to say because, yes, she is crying, she can feel the tears on her own cheeks, there’s no need for him to point it out.

‘What is it? Please tell me.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I can’t.’ She says.

‘Of course you can.’

“it’s a girl.’ Rhaenys says instead, she knows it won’t help, but when has that ever before stopped her from trying?

‘You said so, yes.’

‘Her name’s Mylaena.’

‘That is-‘

‘The birth went well, they’re both in utter health.’

‘Then why are you crying?’

Rhaenys wipes her nose then sighs and closes her eyes for a moment, ‘Because I am a stupid woman.’ She says.

‘Stop it, I can’t have you say such things about yourself without explaining to me.’

‘It is true. I am stupid and weak and I have tried to fight it but I fear I no longer can. Never could, really.’

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘I’m so tired, Robb.’ More tears escape then and she feels the urge to hide her face behind her hands, so that is what she does.

Robb wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls so he can look at her face again, ‘Tell me what it is I can do, to make it better?’

Rhaenys bites her lower lip, then finally finds some strength to look him in the eye, ‘If you could be less good to me… It all might’ve been a bit easier.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

She can’t find any answer, there are no words that come up in her head that might talk her out of this.

Rhaenys jumps up when she hears a voice, ‘My lord-‘

‘Get out!’

Robb’s squire nearly triples over his own feet when his lord bellows at him, ‘Forgive me, I have not-‘

‘Leave us!’

The boy nearly falls flat on his face in his hurry to leave and the moment the door closes once again Robb grabs her face in his hands.

‘Tell me why you’re sad? I’ll make it better.’

‘You cannot.’

‘I will try.’

‘I believe I am… jealous, I think. I know I am.’

‘What are you- oh.’ His face softens then and he drops his hands from her cheeks to her neck, ‘Rhaenys…’ He sighs and it’s almost as if he’s relieved.

Rhaenys turns her gaze down, at her hands lying in her lap, her cold and empty lap.

Rhaenys will never hold a child of her own, she’ll never give any man a son nor a daughter, she’ll never feel a baby kick inside of her, bring them forth with blood and pain, heirs or spares or pretty boys and girls that might look like him. Motherhood was never in the stars, she knew that from the start, when she spoke her vows to him, yet somehow, at a certain point, knowing that started to hurt, suddenly, for the first time. And once it started hurting… the pain grew more all-consuming, more exhausting and excruciating every day.

With the pain, came fear. Fear of accepting, that she may not have accepted her fate all these years ago. Fear of wanting to have a child even though she never will. Fear of losing him.

She never thought she’d be married, least of all did she ever believe she’d desire a child. She was at peace with that, she embraced her duty, to live a fulfilled life with no children, to prove a woman’s worth beyond bearing sons to succeed and daughters to sell.

She can prove her worth, she will do just that, no one will stop her, no woman and certainly no man. But is it enough? Once it was. She believed it would be, there was simply no other future for her. There still is none.

But he wants it so badly, and she wants it so much for him. He’d look so handsome with a baby in the crook of his arm. She wants to make him happy and proud. She’d have a child for him, if she could, a child for the North. A Stark heir, to continue the male line and go on to rule the North as the Starks have done for 8,000 years. So many women could've done that, but not Rhaenys. Not even if she wanted nothing more. Perhaps she wants nothing more, she wonders sometimes but not too long, for she doesn’t want to realize, wondering alone terrifies her.

‘I did not know you worry about that!’ Robb says, ‘You should not worry about such things, it doesn’t help, I know it takes a little longer sometimes but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, pushes his hands away and tries to stand up, ‘I must find Jon, give him Sansa’s-’

‘No, I need you to stay.’

‘I need to give him Sansa’s letter!’

Robb shakes his head and grabs both her shoulders, ‘You’re not going anywhere, you’re upset, we must talk about this.’

‘There’s nothing to say.’

‘I think there is.’ His hand in hers is strong and he tucks on her arm to pull her down. She’s still too broken from the crying to resist. She drops down, in his lap this time, and he moves his shoulder in such a way that she cannot avoid the crook of his neck with her face as she buries it there.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? You can tell me anything, you know that, don’t you?’

At these words, she feels like breaking. Her bones, her heart, her skull, her entire being, it all shatters down, crushes to the floor and turns and turns until she wishes she were blind and numb.

She’s not blind, she sees his eyes, and she’s not numb either. Rhaenys feels everything.

‘I cannot.’

‘Of course, you can.’ There is some anger in his voice then.

‘Not this.’

‘Rheanys…’

‘Please don’t.’ she says, ‘If you say more I’ll… Please don’t say more.’

She can feel his confusion in the way he pulls his hand through her hair, ‘Do you want me to give the letter to Jon?’

‘Why would I want that?’

Robb only shrugs, though they both know Jon will not be blind to her blood-stained eyes. Rhaenys doesn’t want to ruin his happiness, she already is by keeping the letter from him for the time she has. She should have run out of this chamber to bring it to him as soon as she could. Instead she sits here, crying like a child, hating his wife for doing what she cannot ever do herself.

Dear Sansa… Rhaenys hates herself for hating Sansa in that moment. Weak, weak, _weak_ … Aegon hated Jon too, for being what he could never be. Is this what that felt like? Was Aegon jealous because… Jon could make Rhaegar happy? Jon did just what Rhaegar wanted, he was exactly what Rhaegar needed him to be, he gave Rhaegar what Aegon could and would never give him. Did Aegon want to make Rhaegar happy? Was it a little like this? Rhaenys can't help but wonder.

It seems so understandable suddenly. How unfair it is, to be a disappointment for reasons one cannot control.

Aegon despised Jon for being what he could never be, for being what he should be, and he allowed himself to drown in that feeling of anger, feebleness, jealousy and rage.

Rhaenys cannot be like that, she is a woman, weakness is not affordable, no matter how sweet it is. Rhaenys loves Sansa, she does, truly, and she wants to be happy for her, should be, will be, she’s sure of that, because she _is_ stronger than Aegon. Did Aegon ever love Jon? Or did he speak truly, all these times he told Rhaenys he’d prefer to see Jon fall down some wall and break his neck?

It doesn't matter anymore, she decides, because Aegon is dead. He left her, but Jon is still here, Jon lives, and Sansa lives and Robb too. Robb is alive, and with his Tully blue eyes he looks at her, she can feel his heartbeat steady against her, his warmth keeps her from getting cold and when she moves her face from his neck his beard scratches her forehead.

‘I will never give you a child.’ She whispers.

His face shows her pity, which she utterly hates, ‘Don’t say that, we have so much time.’

‘Time is not what we need.’

‘Of course it is.’ She hates how convinced he sounds.

‘No Robb,’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘No, you do not understand.’

‘What are you saying?’

Rhaenys feels a sudden urge to drink. She wants wine, loads of it, drown in a barrel, like Aegon always used to do. She misses Aegon, despite everything, she wishes she could see him, hold him, she did not do that enough when she still could. She wishes she told him the things he needed to hear. Why did he leave her? He left her all alone and he did not even say good-bye.

What would he say if he were here now? Would he wrap his arms around her, kiss her hair and tell her, _Tears are not worth the effort, Rhaenys_.

She can hear him speak in her head if she listens carefully, she knew him so well she can always imagine what he would say, _Fuck the world,_ he’d say, _Why would we care? You and I are all that matters. They chain us up like dragons in a pit, but we’re no dragons, we’re human, and I never agreed to be a jame, a mummer in their pitiful play_.

Aegon… He always called her Gael, sometimes Lady No, and she called him Egg. No one has called her that in so long.

‘I am damaged goods.’

‘Shut up.’ Robb says, his voice loud, angry too, so angry her shock makes her look up, ‘Don’t you dare ever call yourself goods again, you are _not_ , you are a _woman_.’

She’s not. Not really. Women bring forth children but Rhaenys… she is an empty person with breasts. She can fuck as many men as she’d like, as often as she’d like, and it wouldn’t help. She’d still not be a woman.

‘What these men did to you… Do you believe I care?’

‘You don’t know what they did to me.’

‘Yes, I do.’

Rhaenys can't help but blink. She doesn't want anyone to know. Once it took her all the strength she had to tell Jon, to tell Sansa. She wanted Jon to know, because she wanted him to be her brother, and she told Sansa, because she needed to tell someone, who could perhaps understand a little better. A _woman_. Rhaenys had never before told a woman. She had, before Jon, told no one ever about what happened to her. She can't talk about it, because it will be like a hand grabbing her throat, squeezing it, forcing her to choke. The way they choked her mother.

‘ _How_? Did Jon tell you?’

Robb shakes his head, ‘Of course not, he’d never.’

‘Then how?’ She feels angry suddenly, he cannot claim to know everything, Robb is like Jon, he knows nothing.

He licks his lips to give himself time to choose the correct words and then he sighs and says, ‘Everyone knows.’

‘What do you mean _everyone knows_? Nobody knows!’

‘Rhaenys you… Of course they do. Twelve men were sentenced to death for it, they burned in King’s Landing.’

‘ _Twelve_ men.’ She feels the urge to laugh then and again she shakes her head, ‘Nobody knows.’

‘Rhaenys…’ He moves his hand to stroke through her hair and against her expectations he hugs her close, lays his hand in her neck and rubs her jawline with his thumb, ‘I wish we could speak of what happened to you, that you might trust me enough to tell me.’

‘You would not want to know.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I promise you.’

‘I might prefer to make that judgement by myself.’ He says and he could say it angrily, but he chooses not to.

He presses his nose to her cheekbone and Rhaenys closes her eyes again. He’ll hate her. Can she handle that? She doesn’t believe she could, but that changes nothing. She must. For him most of all. She must give him the freedom he deserves.

She has thought it through so many times over these past moons. Robb has two younger brothers, one is crippled and will never father children, no matter how fertile his wife, but the youngest… He’s nearly eight, healthy and strong… He could give Robb heirs, not even that many years from now.

She even thought of marrying the boy off to Freia, an uncle and his niece could work, Freia would be lady of Winterfell one day… but then she realized Jon will never agree, he detests incest far too much for a man with his type of family tree. It’s always easy to make Jon see sense, except when it comes to his favorite women.

The Stark line would not die out, not in any way, they could not blame her for that and maybe… Maybe Robb loves her enough.

Can she do that to him? Can she steal a future from him where he’ll have sons and daughters both? Can she take fatherhood from him for the selfish reason of not being able to live without him? Will she sacrifice his happiness for her own? Will she be like Aegon?

No.

‘Robb, I have to tell you something.’

He looks at her with almost relieve and she hates it.

‘We must- When we married... Jon promised me an annulment once the war was over.’

He doesn’t seem too offended by that new information, only frowns at little, but he says nothing.

‘I did not want to marry you-‘

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘Let me speak!’ She needs to take a deep breath to give herself the strength to continue, ‘But the annulment was for you as much as for me.’

‘What are you saying? Do you want an annulment? Is that-‘

‘Of course not!’ Rhaenys cannot deny, however, she thought of telling him just that. She considered saying just that, that she does not love him, and wants to part ways. She considering telling him it all meant nothing to her, he doesn’t. She thought she could perhaps tell him that she does not want to be his wife, no man’s wife, that’s is simply not what she desires. He would never believe her and he’d look at her and say words that would make her knees weak and she’d sink down in front of him, to beg him never to leave her.

None of these options are options. She thought of them all and she could never say any of that, all she can say is the truth, and the truth is nearly always what no one wants to hear.

‘Robb listen to me I… It is important to me that… I need you to understand that I n-never meant to- I never meant to betray you.’

‘Betray me? _How_?’

‘I never meant to lie or use you or… It seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Marry you.’

‘That _was_ right.’ He says, his eyes wide, scared too, terrified for what he does not understand, ‘Rhaenys, I love you.’

Rhaenys feels her bottom lip tremble and she pulls it in to stop it when tears escape once again, ‘I love you too.’ She whispers, ‘I do Robb, truly, you mustn’t forget it.’

‘Why would I ever-‘

‘We should never have wedded.’

‘Stop saying that, the Gods brought us together.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘The Gods would never.’

‘I don’t understand.’ He says then, of course he doesn’t, nobody would understand.

‘I will never bear a living child.’ Rhaenys says, her back straightens because still, after all these years, she refuses to show the shame she feels.

‘How can you possibly know?’

‘Because the maester told me. More than one, and they all agreed.’

‘Agreed to what? Are you-‘ Then his eyes widen and his frustration is replaced by a certain understanding that she has only before seen in nightmares. Reality is worse.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She says, she doesn’t know what else to say and she pulls herself up from his lap. She cannot imagine he wants to be anywhere near her, not after this.

He doesn’t stand up, but neither does he shy away from her eyes, ‘They told you?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘They all agreed.’

‘ _Agreed_? When? How long have you known?’

Rhaenys sees almost hope then, and she understands he thinks that she might’ve found out only recently, but that is not true, and she decided lying was not ever an option, so she answers truthfully, ‘When I was in Dorne. When I was ten and seven years of age, and betrothed to my cousin the prince Quintyn.’

He nods once and then she sees it. Not anger, not even fury, it’s something close to disgust. Rhaenys would be disgusted too.

‘The betrothal was abruptly ended when they… ordered me to lie on my back and looked between my legs and discovered that… when twelve men raped me at the age of three they destroyed what little there was to destroy and ruined my worth forever.’

‘ _Your worth_ …’ he mutters and he still looks disgusted. Does she do that to him? Does she disgust him now? She wonders for a second if he feels the urge to hit her, but she knows that even if he does, he would never do it.

‘I cannot give birth to a living child. I am barren.’ Because he says so little she feels the urge to repeat it, because she needs him to speak, to yell and scream and maybe even throw something at her, show her what he thinks, what he feels, ‘I knew it when we married and I married you anyway. I never wanted… I never should have been _together_ with you, I didn’t want to ever because- this is why. I did, and I should not have. Jon always promised me an annulment because he knew. He knows, he’s always known.’

Robb still says nothing and the disgust has made place for pity. _Pity_. How dare he look at her like that? It is not pity she deserves.

‘Stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’ his voice is high, hoarse and cold, almost.

‘Like you feel sorry for me.’

‘What do you want me to feel? A three-year-old raped by twelve men… That is disgusting.’

Realizing it is not she that disgusts him so does not do much to ease her self-loathing, it almost annoys her. Why does he not scream? Where is his anger?

‘You lied to me.’ He says then, and she wonders if the stab she feels in her chest resembles dying.

‘I did.’

‘To help me? Or to help yourself? Your own cause?’

‘Jon wanted to help you. Jon wanted to save the North and… I failed Sansa, I owed this to him.’

Robb nods, ‘You married me for Jon?’

Rhaenys cannot deny it. She doesn’t see why this is what would bother him most, ‘Our marriage was not a union of love.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ He asks, his voice even higher now, ‘I suppose it wasn’t.’

‘I understand it, if you shall never forgive me.’

_Forgive you_ …’

‘I understand, truly. Y-you need…’ She takes a deep breath and feels her head turn, ‘We can still have an annulment. We can tell… I will tell them we never-‘

‘You’ll lie?’

‘If you will.’ Rhaenys breathes a miserable smile, ‘One more lie won’t cast me to hell, all the others have caused a long time ago.’

‘You are no liar.’ Robb says, he does not say it to compliment her.

‘I am if I must.’

‘If you must?’

Rhaenys wonders why he keeps repeating her words, ‘So you can remarry.’ She says and for some reason she plasters a smile to her face, ‘So you can h-have a son.’

She’ll never forget the look in his eyes then, when he scans her face. She sees anger, sadness and his disgust has returned.

She wonders, for some small horrible moment, if he’ll let her drown in her own river of tears then, if he hates her that much. Will he turn around and walk away? To never come back? Maybe he should.

‘You need a son. All lords do.’

Robb shakes his head but he doesn’t tell her no, he says nothing.

‘You need a lady wife who can g-give that to you.’ Rhaenys has to blink, her eyelashes brimmed with tears, they nearly blind her as they fall down, yet she does not sob.

He gets up then and moves towards her, a few strides only and he’s so close she can see his freckles.

‘Rhaenys…’ He says, and it’s almost as if he’s begging. She’s not sure what for.

‘I’ll make it better.’ She promises then, ‘All my mistakes. I will. I promise.’

He presses her forehead to his and it catches her breath the way it used to do in the beginning, when she was not used to the intimacy, when merely the feeling of his breath in her neck made her knees weak.

‘What are you doing?’ her whispers shake.

‘I will put a baby in you.’ He says it so softly, as if he’s trying to reassure her, comfort her.

‘No.’ She says, she shakes her head and when she closes her eyes more tears roll down, ‘You cannot, I will-‘

He kisses her then and she loses all control. As always. This is the only surrender she will even know.

Robb pushes her towards the bed and she tries to resist, ‘People might come in.’

‘I don’t bloody care.’

‘No, please, this is madness, you’ll regret it.’

Robb only shakes his head and when he starts pulling the clothes of her body the battle is over and she lost.

The lack of anger in his words is made up by his touch, though he’s as sensitive and careful as he is rough. Rougher than usual though, he hurts her in a way she likes, though it still makes her cry, but it matters little for he kisses the salt of her cheeks.

He pines her down in the bed, holds her so tight she would never be able to escape, no matter how hard she’d fight. Rhaenys doesn’t fight, not with him. All she fights is an inner battle, one of regret and self-contempt.

_I am an awful woman_ , she said and truer words have never been spoken.

She tries to remember what Jon said, about their father, how they are both just like him, just as weak. Just as craven. Weak men, weak women, they all lose themselves over this. Over how good this feels.

Torture it is, _sin _.__

‘You lied to me.’ He says at one point, his face hidden from her view in her own neck.

‘I’m sorry.’ Is all she can say, for what else is there to say? What words are there in the entire world that might express to him how she feels? That may have the ability to make it better. No words, there is nothing.

‘I love you.’ She tells him and he doesn’t say it back, he only frowns, as if he’s angry, as if he’s focused, as if he desperately wants to break something, kill someone.

Rhaenys shudders in his arms and when he kisses her he’s soft again, carefully slow, attentive, amorous and gentle.

She digs her fingers in his back and when he pushes in for the last time he does it too deep and she whimpers at the ache. Then, he drops down, buries his face in her neck, snuggles his nose there, to press a kiss to the skin below her ear.

They lay in that strange bed in this strange castle, entangled like that for so long, hours it seems, but she knows it’s not that long. Perhaps it’s only minutes, perhaps it’s her desire to hold time that makes it go by so slowly.

Then, he rolls off her, grabs his tunic, pulls it over his head and looks down at her, at the way she lays there. Rhaenys pulls her arms around herself to cover her nakedness and hide her breasts from his view.

He stretches his hand out, pushes a blonde curl behind her ear and then skates it down to pull her hands away, ‘You’re so beautiful.’ He says, ‘If only you could know how beautiful you are.’

He looks away, gulps and closes his eyes, then he gets up and grabs a blanket from the ground that he wraps around her shoulders. Rhaenys watches him as he pulls the rest of his clothes on and moves to grab Sansa’s letter.

Robb unfolds it but only moves his eyes over the paper, he doesn’t read it, not like Rhaenys did. She wonders if he doesn’t because it’s private or because it would hurt him too. He looks at Freia’s drawing for a moment, then closes it again as if the sight is painful and he nods.

‘Jon will want to go to Riverrun.’

‘He will.’

‘He must go.’ Robb says, ‘There is enough time, we need to... We do not have a proper plan set up for our attack on the capital.’

Rhaenys nods.

‘You should go with him.’ He says then and if Rhaenys believed her heart could not break some more she was wrong, ‘You can be with Sansa and… And Freia and my mother.’

Rhaenys wants to ask him if he no longer believes she should be by her husband’s side, but of course he doesn’t.

‘I’ll stay here, with the army, as we wait for the troops in Lannisport to march west.’

Rhaenys nods again.

‘And when we see each other again…’ He stops and when he seems to struggle to find the right word she finishes it for him.

‘We can wait for the annulment until after the war.’

‘After the war.’ He repeats.

‘Yes, it won’t be long now.’

‘An annulment.’ He says, only the word, as if he needs to let the meaning of it sink in.

‘If that is what you want.’ She says, and she cannot believe it when she does. She should not ask him, she knows his honor might get the better of him and she cannot let him do that to himself.

‘If that is what _you_ want.’ He says.

Rhaenys bites her lips to stop herself from crying, and then, once more, she nods.

Robb looks at the letter in his hands and back at her, ‘I’ll bring this to Jon.’ He says.

‘You must.’ Rhaenys agrees and she pulls the blankets tighter around her shoulders.

He looks at her then, and it’s impossible for her to read his thoughts, his face, his eyes… they’re all so empty, they’re indifferent and she never knew that could hurt so much.

‘I’ll see you, then.’ Robb says and it’s in that moment, that she understands she won’t see him again.

There is no reason for them to stay in the Reach or near Highgarden, they can ride out in the early morrow if they must and they will, Jon will want to and Rhaenys understands. If someone send her a letter like that she would lose her mind too to get to him or her as fast as she could.

Rhaenys will go with Jon, and Robb won’t, he’ll stay, and they’ll be parted, the way they should be. She’ll go with Jon and be with Sansa and yet… she’ll be so lonely.

‘Do you hate me now?’ she asks.

There was no hate in his eyes before, nor is there now and yet, he doesn’t say a thing, only looks at her, with that indifferent look Rhaenys loves to put on herself. Never before did she realize how, at times, nothing can be worse than indifference.

He doesn’t shake his head, he doesn’t nod, he doesn’t say or do a thing but turns to leave her there, all alone.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

When Robb pushes Sansa’s letter in his hand he instantly knows, though the look on Robb’s face makes him fear his greatest fear, ‘No… Tell me-‘

‘They’re both well.’ Robb reassures, ‘Perfectly healthy.’

‘ _Seven hells_ …’ Jon breathes. He opens the letters, scans it and finds four words, all the four words he needs to feel like fainting, _I named her Mylaena_.

‘My best wishes, your grace.’ Lord Glover says and he bows his head.

‘May the princess grow to be fruitful for as many years.’

Jon just nods as all the men around him give him their congratulations, but he hears very little of it. His hands can do nothing properly but tremble and he’s desperate to read this letter, to know, absorb all these words.

Lord Tyrell insists on hosting a grand feast, and Jon doesn’t find himself in a position to refuse. It all doesn’t end up being as grand as lord Tyrell would’ve liked, thank the Gods, but it’s worse enough, especially because Rhaenys is nowhere to be found and he curses her for her absence.

It takes all these people far too long to leave him alone, they don’t really, he has to lock himself up in a garderobe, sits down, reads all the words, scans Freia’s drawing, and then cries like a baby. Or maybe not so much a baby, but he feels like one.

Robb, who seems to awkwardly lack in his happiness, drags Jon with him to sit down and get ‘mortally drunk’, or so he calls it, ‘We must celebrate the birth of your child, of course.’

‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’

‘ _Yes_!’ Robb just pushes the liquid down his throat until Jon starts worrying so much that the utter happiness and disbelieve he feels, that should be taking the upper hand now at all times, fades so much he can’t help but ask.

‘Robb, what the hell is going on?’

‘Why did you allow me to marry a barren woman?’

‘W-what?’

‘That’s a stupid question.’ Robb decides and he gulps down some more of his wine.

‘I mean I… she told you?’

Robb ignores that question, probably because it's stupid again.

‘Robb, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, apparently, it was all because I needed to be saved from my own foolishness.’

Jon bats his eyelashes, looks down at the cup in his hand and realizes he can’t actually deny that without plain lying, so he does not, and instead choses to swallow down some wine.

‘Why did you let Rhaenys do that to herself?’

‘She wanted to I- I tried to stop her.’ Jon did not expect to have this conversation now, not today, perhaps not ever, which seems a stupid thing to hope now.

‘You did not try hard enough.’

‘I… perhaps not.’

‘Because you wanted Sansa back?’

‘Yes.’ Jon says, and he knows that's true, he really, really wanted Sansa back. Rhaenys’ pride… it was a heavy price, but eventually, Jon felt it was worth the sacrifice. Perhaps he not only sacrificed her pride alone, perhaps more of her died in the years that came after, since the Red Wedding. Mayhaps Jon has been the worst brother ever, and for some reason, that thought brings a flash in the shape of Aegon’s face to his eyes. Gone before Jon can contemplate.

‘You've got her back now.’ Robb says, ‘And another baby too. I'm very _happy_ for you.’

‘T-thank you.’ Jon wishes Robb would look at him, but he doesn't, purposely, and that doesn't shock Jon as much as it discomforts him, it makes him feel guilty, more than he has in a very, very long time, ‘Robb, I'm-‘

‘Please don't.’ Robb only says, ‘It is all my own fault.’

‘What is?’

‘I didn't want to trade the Kingslayer.’ Robb recalls, ‘You were angry with me, I deserved it but... you wanted to help me anyway.’ He doesn't at all sound grateful, not the way he has been.

‘That doesn't-‘

‘If I had just traded the Kingslayer, if I had not started the war altogether, if I had not made these mistakes, if I had listened to you, had not been such a fool… Rhaenys would never have had to marry me in the first place, am I right?’

Jon had never looked at it that way, he doesn't want to start, so he ends up watching Robb, speechless and a little stunned. Robb ignores the lack of answer to his question, shakes his head, gulps down some more wine, and stands up.

‘You should go to Riverrun, in the morrow, as soon as you can.’

‘I… I should.’

‘And you can… do me a favor?’

‘Of course.’

‘Take Rhaenys with you, even if she doesn’t want to or refuses to or… you know- _take her_.’

‘If that is… aye, okay.’

‘Thank you.’ Robb presses the cup down on the table with far too much force, many people turn their heads to look, ‘My congratulations, your grace, we must toast, I suppose.’

Jon remembers when Freia was born, Robb toasted to her birth too, back then, Jon was the one feeling angry, now it’s the other way around.

‘ _Mylaena Targaryen_.’

The name still seems surreal to Jon, and he realizes he hasn’t yet fully comprehended she’s here, and real, and his daughter.

The whole room, bannermen from the North, the south and somewhere in-between, raise their cups and toast to a newborn princess. The promise of peace, they call her, a promise of the future that is to come. Rhaegar’s second granddaughter… no man has dared speak his disappointment aloud at the sex and Jon has not found room is his heart to feel anything of the sort.

Yet, when Jon drags himself to bed that night, reads the letter again, he cannot help but worry. Sansa said it so often, she spoke again and again of how they’ll burry her in the demand, how the only task they’ll pretend she has will choke her. It better not, he prays.

He can't find sleep, turns and stares at the ceiling as the emptiness of this far too big bed annoys and exasperates him, until he decides that it's not sleep that he should find. He gets out of bed and makes his way through the castle as if it's his own. The walls are cold, too cold for a place like this, and the tapestries of fields of fruits and flowers, hunting parties and beautiful ladies and their squires do little to brighten it. One is uglier than the other.

The last time Jon was in Highgarden, his father got angry with Aegon. Jon can still hear him not raise his voice. Rhaegar never raised his voice but at his queen. When Rhaegar was angry, he did not need to raise his voice, it was in his eyes, the indigo ones, they'd glare and stare at the person who'd instantly feel like the most useless of the Gods’ creations.

‘You have been listening to my brother, have you not?’ The king asked his eldest son and heir, ‘What have I told you of listening to my prince brother?’

It was about Valyria. Jon can still remember vividly. _The blood of old Valyria_. Viserys was always happy to remind others where the Targaryens come from, what blood runs through their veins. But Rhaegar had never been as proud, he always chose to never mention it at all, and he expected the same of his children.

Targaryens are of the blood of Old Valryria, we have the blood of the _dragon_ , our ancestors built the greatest-’

Jon can’t recall exactly what if was Aegon said, or why he said it, or to whom, but it angered Rhaegar enough to lecture not only him, but Rhaenys, Jon, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen all, about his own specific impression of what Old Valryia was.

‘The Valyrians conquered land of the Ghiscari, who were the first but not the last to be enslaved by the dragon lords.’

  
Rhaenys was always the storyteller, and she could memorize books the way others memorize their own life, she could tell the stories of the past as if she was there when it happened, ‘None can say how many perished, toiling in the Valyrian mines, but the number was so large as to surely defy comprehension. And those who would not be slaves but were unable to withstand the might of Valyria fled.’ Rhaenys always gave their father her pleased and proud smile, hoping for a pat on her head or at best, a compliment. She was always so eager to please their father, and her brain was her strongest and best asset, so naturally, she took full advantage.

‘That’s right.’ Rhaegar said, ‘So next time I hear one of you proudly proclaim yourself the blood of Old Valyrian I shall burn your tongue with dragonfire because my children are no hypocrites.’

Viserys was the biggest hypocrite Jon has ever met. Rhaegar hated little as much as hypocracy, aside from slavery, perhaps, and that is probably why he hated Viserys so much. Viserys often went on about the riches of the free cities, and memorized all the benefits of slavery. Viserys represented all Rhaegar hated, their father too, and Aerys’ madness, the madness of the Targaryens, among all these many other disturbing things Rhaegar did not wish to see himself associated with.

That was not the only situation that ruined Aegon’s only visit to Highgarden ever (though their trip to the Stormlands after made all his suffering worth it, in the end).  
Rhaegar slightly insulted lord Tyrell by going fishing, instead of joining court and all other important men, even some ladies, on a lavish boar hunt the man must've spend arranging for moons. Jon couldn't join the hunt because he was both too young and too much of a bastard, though the first reason was the only one they gave him when they looked him in the face. So, as he found himself wandering around the grounds, he eventually caught his father by the river bank, in a small chair, ser Barristan at proper distance to give Rhaegar the illusion of being alone.

Rhaegar always wrote his music and his poetry as he waited for a fish to bite, but that day the king ended up teaching his bastard about the most important thing in the complicated practice of fishing.

‘Patience,’ Rhaegar said, ‘Patience is all you need. That and to k now exactly where to put the bate. Much like kinging, really.’

‘Is that why you like it so much?’ Jon stupidly asked and when his father raised his eyebrows and the sides of his mouth irked Jon wanted to hit himself for asking such a dumb question.

‘No.’ Rhaegar said, he didn't tell Jon his question was stupid, he'd never say that, instead he explained, ‘I like the silence.’

It didn't seem at all so silent to Jon. The clattering water, dogs barking in the background, twittering birds and playing children not so far away, screaming and yelling and laughing, sometimes crying.

Rhaegar was good at fishing. That or he was just simply very good at finding the right spot, for he always caught one fish after another. He'd cut the head off by himself, after studying their fighting and struggling bodies up close, as if the colors of their scales fascinated him. Jon didn't dare say a thing as he watched. Too afraid to ruin the silence Rhaegar loved so much.

Once the hunting party returned and Aegon appeared, all the court and handsome men and beautiful women behind him, ready to present Rhaegar with a boar, they found the king in that small chair, his bastard behind him, surrounded by a row of about twenty dead, beheaded fish.

‘Only _one_ boar?’ Rhaegar asked, his eyebrows raised to give his favorite sarcasm some extra strength, ‘My hunt was more fruitful than yours.’ Jon know Rhaegar wasn't at all pleased with what he caught, as did Aegon, and that left the prince of Dragonstone tongue-tied. Jon remembers his father frowning at him, asking him, ‘Jon, what do you think?’

‘A good catch, your grace.’ Jon said.

'Me or your brother?'

'Both!' Jon felt his face redden and Rhaegar shook his head in disbelieve.

‘You know nothing of fishing.’ the king declared.

‘I will not insult you by denying the truth, your grace.’ Jon said, ‘I can't keep the trout and the carp apart.’

‘None of these are trouts nor carps, there are none of these in the Reach, boy.’ Rhaegar said, and everyone laughed at Jon but Rhaegar.

‘Sometimes, when you don't understand, you look a little like a trout yourself, bastard.’ Aegon said.

‘This one was a bastard to catch.’ Rhaegar pointed at a greyish fish and Jon wondered if he really looked like that when he didn't understand, ‘I want to catch some seabass before we return to the capital.’ Rhaegar decided.

‘You'll have some more waiting to do.’ Aegon said, and Jon just absolutely could not help but tell him,

‘Seabass don't swim in a river, they're called seabass for a reason.’

It took Aegon their full stay at Highgarden to even attempt at forgiving Jon for humiliating him in front of the entire court, but Jon could only enjoy the peace, and by the time the King’s party left Highgarden, Jon knew exactly what a trout and a carp look like.

Jon wonders now if his father may have ended up teaching Freia how to fish, if he had lived long enough to know her well. For some reason, he's sure Rhaegar would have tried, and failed. No fool would ever think of bringing Freia along when fishing. The girl can't keep her mouth shut for so long as it takes a person to blink. Her singing and screaming would've scared away all the fish.

'Papa,  _look_!' She'd scream every other second, pointing at an animal, or a flower, trees, the sky, pebbles, a rock or mud. Everything fascinates Freia. 

Jon meets no one as he finds his way to Rhaenys’ bedchamber. If he wasn't so tired he might be surprised at his own skill at memorizing the way, especially in the dark, with such a lack of torches. A castle such as Highgarden, with so much light during daytime, does not find a need for torches as much as Winterfell, with the heavy clouds of snow low in the sky.

Ever since Rhaenys and Robb were suddenly happily married, Jon and his sister’s late-night discussions, conversations and debates ended, and with it getting drunk together till dawn. He never really cared too much, because the moment they became happily married, happened around the same time as Sansa's return, and suddenly not Jon nor Rhaenys were lonely at night.

He opens the door of the room they gave her and finds it dark, though there's no part of him that doubts she's awake. Jon doesn't whisper her name, he says nothing, as he moves over towards the bed, a big canopy bed, far too big for her skinny body only.

‘Jon?’ She whispers.

‘Were you sleeping?’ He asks, though he knows she wasn't.

She turns to her back, ‘Forgive me for not coming to you.’ She tells him, ‘I ought to have congratulated you on the joyous news.’

He ignores that and lays down next to her, grabbing her hand in his, ‘ _I'm sorry_.’ He says and the moment he wraps his arm around her, she starts sobbing, soundlessly yet uncontrollably, ‘I'm so, so sorry.’

Rhaenys says nothing, only allows him to comfort her in a way he never hoped to have to comfort her again. Jon remembers how he held her like this, after Aegon died. He'll never forget what it is she told him then, It’s just you and me now, Jon, she said and he remembers thinking that wasn't true, because he had Sansa too, and his Stark family… but as they're laying here like this, the two of them, he can't help but wonder if she was right after all.

‘I'm so proud of you.’ He says then, even though he knows saying it will be like nipples on a breastplate to her, he says it anyway, because he is, ‘That you told him.’

‘I should have told him when we married.’ She hiccups once, ‘I should've, but I was too self-absorbed and proud.’

‘No…’ Jon says, and he says it firmly, pulling her closer, ‘No, I'm so proud of you.’ Jon wants to add how proud Rhaegar must've been too, but he knows how little the appreciation of a dead man, even if it's their father, would mean to her.

‘You were right,’ Rhaenys says, ‘I am a hypocrite.’

‘No,’ Jon says, and he hopes he says it firmly, ‘You are everything but that, you are… you’re the strongest person I know.’


	56. The Wolf's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn says Freia will be hard ‘to tame’, but Jon disagrees, all Freia needs is freedom and love. The first he’ll fake for her and the second she'll never ever lack.

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon and Rhaenys never mention Robb’s name, not for the next full moonturn as they travel the Roseroad and the Riverroad after that. They do not discuss it, she does not seem to want it, and he realizes he’s grateful for it. Rhaenys was always excellent at hiding her emotions and she’s good at it now too, but he can see.

Her emotions, anger and frustration all bottle up and Jon can only watch it in disbelieve, as she loses her self-control. For Rhaenys, that means she gets angry with her maid, angry with Jon’s squire, angry with the owner of an inn, with her own horse, with the laces of her shoes, with the weather, the speed of their travel party… Jon keeps expecting her to turn her fury his way, but she never does.

_Sansa will know what to say_ , he tells himself, _to me and to Rhaenys_. Sansa always knows what to say.

When they arrive at Riverrun, it is not Sansa who greets them. It’s not even Catelyn, or a steward of the guard. First it's two direwolves, a really big white one, and another, black and much smaller, both happily jumps around.

Jon jumps off his horse and he does it too quickly for his squire has not followed his example yet and he must hold the steers of Everglow as he pats Ghost on his head, ‘Hey boy… good to see you. Did you look after the girls?’

Behind him Rhaenys slowly glides off her horse and takes her gloves off as she turns around to take her environment in.

Ghost makes no sound, he hardly ever does, but he nudges Jon's leg with his nose and as Jon moves his hand through the white coat he feels the warm feeling of home take over.

That feeling, however, is nothing compared to what he feels when two little children, one of eight years, and one of three, squeal, cheer and run his way in a straight line from the small staircase that leads to the entrance. Both have bouncy curls, though one is auburn where the other is chestnut brown. They yelp when they reach him and Jon makes a few quick strides towards them, he runs almost as if he were still a fresh and excited squire- if he ever was one.

‘Papa, papa, papa, papa!’ Jon lifts Freia up in his arms, _Freia_ , and she still smells the same and her voice sounds the same and when she wraps her skinny arms around his neck he can't wipe the grin off his face, ‘It is my papa!’

‘You’re so big! How can you be so big? Look at you!’

‘Papa you are here!’

‘Of course I am, I promised.’

‘You pro-wis!’

Jon nods and can’t help himself but shower her face with kisses which makes her giggle and she wipes her cheek with her sleeve, ‘I missed you, pumpkin.’

‘I miss you too, papa.’ It’s such a perfectly pronounced sentence, with her sweet and high little voice, that he can’t help but feel the urge to cry of pride.

Jon looks down and muffles Rickon’s air as the boy wraps his arms around Jon’s leg and Jon crouches down, ‘How are you, son?’

‘We knew you would be here!’ Rickon says, ‘Today, mother said we could expect you, but you can never know.’

‘Well, I am here.’ Jon says and he turns his head to press a kiss to Freia’s hair, who hides her face in the crook of his neck, ‘Where’s mama?’ he asks.

Freia looks up and points at Catelyn, who comes down the steps into the courtyard, dressed in dark green with fox fur, ‘Grandmama is there… mama is sleeping.’

‘Is mama sleeping?’ Jon rises, Freia still in his arms, as Catelyn greets Rhaenys, not at all too friendly. The two women kiss each other on the cheek, because they have to, because people are watching and then Catelyn moves over to take Jon’s face between her hands and pecks him on his right and left cheek both.

‘My boy! So good you are here, and so soon!’ she tickles Freia, who giggles, ‘You missed papa, didn’t you?’

Freia looks up at Jon and beams, ‘Hmm-hmm!’

‘You must come inside… are you hungry? Do you want to change clothes?’

Jon bites his lip and then shakes his head, ‘Could you take her?’

Catelyn nods and he hands Freia over to her, who seems not at all pleased with that sudden change of arms.

‘I’m going to say hello to mama, okay? I’ll see you really soon, I’m not going anywhere.’ He says before he rubs Freia’s chubby cheek.

Freia looks disappointed, though still nods in agreement, and Jon can’t help but feel the eyes of Rhaenys glare at his back as he marches towards the steps to the entrance, and nearly runs through the door.

The first time, Jon ever entered Sansa’s bedchamber he was nineteen, clean-shaven, more nervous than he'd ever been before and as innocent as bastards can be.

This door creaks in a different way, the wardrobe along the wall is bigger, the fire in the heard crackles not in that way fires can only crackle in the north… but the windows are again covered with snow and this bedchamber too, has a mirror that faces the bed to show him the sleeping body of his wife.

Five years ago exactly Jon's hands trembled as he shoveled into Sansa's room, overthinking what to do with the sofa and the blankets.

Jon doesn't need to overthink now, he doesn't need to climb over the footbed and he doesn't have to pull the furs over her thin clad body.

Jon closes the door softly, so she doesn't wake up, even though he knows she's wouldn't stir even if he shut it with force.

Then, as he feels a warmth take over his body just at the mere sight of her, the way she lays there, sleeping peacefully, covered under many layers of blankets, curled up, with her auburn braid next to her face on the pillow, he feels like the luckiest bastard in the whole wide world. He was the day they married, and he still is.

Jon takes his doublet and his boots off as he walks over to the bed, then bowes over to kiss her to her cheek, which doesn't wake her up, so he climbs over her and lays down on the inside of the bed, on top of the furs, and drags her against his chest.

At that she stirs, and Jon nuzzles his face in her neck and when he presses his lips to her shoulder she stirs again and her eyelashes flutter.

‘Sans…’ he whispers in her ear and he tightens his arm around her, ‘Sans, it's me.’

The smile on her face appears even before she opens her eyes and she turns to her back, her smile growing into a beam, and when she opens her eyes finally they stare right into his, all sleep drunk yet wide awake instantly.

‘You’re here, I-‘

‘It's your nameday,’ he says, moving his hand to lay it in her neck, ‘I didn't want to miss that.’ He's missed too many of these already.

She moves her hand to grab the wrist of the hand in her neck, ‘I’m sorry but we have no spectacular feast planned.’

‘That’s alright.’ Jon presses his forehead to hers and she closes her eyes again, ‘How are you?’

‘Good.’ She says and her smile widens.

‘Truly?’

She nods and her nose bumps to his, ‘Just exhausted really… and happy.’ Then she turns around in his arms and moves her hands down his chest and back up again, to cup his face, ‘How many new scars? Did they nearly kill you?’ She takes one of his hands in hers as if she means to check if he still carries all his fingers and she kisses them, ‘All your vital parts still intact?’

Jon grins, ‘Not a scratch.’

‘Liar.’

‘I'd never lie to you.’

‘You're lying again.’ She says, though her smile is wide.

He shakes his head, kisses her cheeks, nose, jaw and her mouth. Multiple kisses to her lips make her smirk and hold his face in her hands, ‘Not even a bruise.’ He says, ‘I have… I was being a careful coward.’

‘How could you ever be a coward?’

‘Because I was careful… more than ever before.’

‘You must always be careful.’ Sansa whispers, pushing hair behind his ear.

‘And the Tyrell's kneeled down in surrender without any defense line. We could march through their gates without a single drop of blood spilled.’

‘They are the cowards then.’

‘Clever cowards, _cunning_ , as their ancestors taught them.’

Sansa only shakes her head, ‘How are you still dressed in these clothes.’ She says, pulling on the boiled leather of his doublet, ‘How long was your travel?’

‘Just over a moon’s turn, I did not want to take as many men as we eventually did, they slowed us down.’

‘Those bastards.’ Sansa grins some more as she opens the laces at the sleeve of his right arm, ‘You never take good care of yourself.’ She decides.

‘That's why I'm here now, so you can take care of me again.’

Sansa pushes him off her a little and sits up to pull his doublet off, ‘ _That_ is why you're here?’

‘Among other reasons.’ Jon says as he pulls his hand through his own hair to calm it down before Sansa messes it all up again, just to tease him.

She takes his face between her hands and presses her nose to his, kisses him and grins some more before she says, ‘We have one more baby.’

‘I know, I got your letter.’

‘You're happy?’

Seeing her hopeful eyes, her exhausted yet blindingly beautiful smile, makes him wonder how she ever needs to ask, ‘What do you think?’

‘You're not disappointed?’

‘Sansa, _never_.’

She nods, ‘Okay.’

‘The Gods wish to see me surrounded by beautiful women.’ He adds and that makes her blush. Jon takes great pride in still being able to make her blush. He's glad to realize she believes him as she just pulls on his tunic some more.

‘You look like you've been on the road for years.’

‘You don't have to undress me.’ Jon pushes her hands away, ‘ _I’m_ not a baby.’

‘Don't touch them.’ Sansa pushes his hands away when he accidentally gives in to the desperate urge to cup her breasts, ‘Milk will come out.’

That reminds him to apologize, ‘I’m so sorry I wasn't there.’

‘You're here now.’ Sansa says and she sweetly smiles at him, ‘So long as you'll always come back to me.’

‘I already promised.’ Jon says, ‘You want me to promise it again?’

Sansa’s nose bumps his when she shakes her head before she kisses him. He suddenly feels how exhausted he is, but there's no way he'll ever fall asleep. Jon grabs her hand to entangle their fingers as her red hair tickles his face like summer rain.

‘You have chubby cheeks.’ He says, and when he attempts to squeeze them she hits his hand, ‘You're a little dumpling.’

Sansa kicks him, only just a little too hard, and he groans, then accepts the wrestle he easily wins because she willingly gives up on a battle she was never planning on fighting anyway, after which he kisses her, for a long while, because he's missed kissing her so much.

‘Kissed you for the first time five years ago today.’ He says, and it's an odd realization.

‘Yes,’ Sansa grins, ‘You got much better.’

Jon punishes her for saying that by tugging on her hair and Sansa hides her face in her pillow.

‘How does it… how's Freia?’ he as he lays on his stomach, his arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her tight against him.

‘A little jealous.’ Sansa admits as she scratches his lowerarm with her nails, ‘She's in conflict with herself.’

‘With herself?’ Jon asks, he snuggles his nose in her neck and presses kisses to her shoulder.

‘She's not used to sharing attention, but I think the baby fascinates her, she may have been a little disappointed when she found out babies really cannot do anything at all, but still, I’d say she's beyond excited… only a little jealous.’

‘She needs to get used to it, I suppose.’

‘Oh yes, it's good you're here. I haven't been able to get out of bed much and mama is getting older.’

Jon swallows away a feeling of guilt, ‘She's been lonely?’

‘No, she has Rickon… she's only bored.’

‘But you are only tired? Nothing else is-‘

‘Everything went exactly as it should've.’ She looks up and bites her lower lip before she admits, ‘I was scared- beforehand I mean, I was, afraid that I might die.’

‘That’s-‘

‘But it was over the moment it started, there was hardly any blood and I was back to my feet so quickly.’

‘That's a relieve.’

‘It was. I expected her to be so big, but she wasn't really. I mean, bigger than Freia, but still, not as big as she should've been, considering I looked as if I'd carried her for a hundred moonturns. The end was the worst with Freia, whereas the end was easier this time.’

Jon isn't sure what she's trying to say then, but he just nods as she rambles on. He's too tired to talk back, but he's missed listening to her more than he realized.

‘She calls her all different names… sometimes it's Laena, Leana, or Naena, lately it's Myllie, though, and she tries to say Mylaena but it sounds like Myphaela.’

‘She'll learn how to pronounce it.’

‘I'm not really trying to teach, honestly, it's very adorable. And mama warned me it would be unpronounceable for her.’

‘That didn't stop you, though?’

‘It's as you said, she'll learn how to say it.’

‘Why Mylaena?’

‘Because you didn't like Helaena.’

‘Didn't I?’

‘No.’ Sansa looks at him as if she can't believe he forgot he disliked that, ‘I wanted Helaena… but then I thought maybe you don't mind Mylaena.’

‘Where does it come from?’

‘Nowhere. I mean, I sort of made it up myself. Do you like it?’

Jon can only grin at her and she raises her eyebrows as if she doesn't understand why her words amuse him, ‘Sure.’

‘Sure is not what I was hoping for.’

Jon rubs his dry eyes with his hand and still can't wash the smile of his face, ‘It's perfect Sans, I love it very much.’

She gives him her suspicious look but then decides to drop it and goes on to talk about all sorts of other things.

‘You look good.’ He decides at one point, because she really does. She beams and glows and her eyes are wide and shiny. Her skin is soft and rosy, freckles cover her face and though she seems a little tired, she makes up for it in enthusiasm when she chatters on and on about everything he's missed. Simple and lovely things, like Freia being able to tie her own shoe laces now.

‘I missed you- so much.’ He blurts out at one point and she shuts up for a moment to nudge his nose with her own.

‘Did you really?’ She raises her eyebrows as she smirks.

Jon nods and he lays his hand in her long neck, there was the skin is warm and soft, his thumb caresses the sharp line of jawline, ‘Rhaenys would call that a stupid question.’

‘Rhaenys is not here.’

‘She _is_ here, at Riverrun.’

Sansa widens her eyes in her excitement, ‘Robb too?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Just me and Rhaenys.’

‘There is no such thing as ‘just you and Rhaenys’, dear lord husband.’

Jon grins, ‘That is hopefully true.’

‘I must really… greet her.’ Sansa looks as if she wants to hit herself, ‘I should greet all of these people… look presentable and-‘

‘You really don't have to do any of that.’ Jon says.

‘It is expected of me.’

Jon feels like shrugging and asking her whoever cares, but he quickly reminds himself that she's probably right, ‘Everyone is tired of all the travels.’ He says instead.

‘Oh yes.’ Sansa drops her head back down in the pillow, ‘That must be true. I'll see Rhaenys tonight.’

‘Rhaenys’ll understand.’ Jon knows that's not entirely true, but he also knows Rhaenys is too occupied with her own misery to lecture anyone, ‘Your belly is all gone.’

‘Yes, thank the Gods. I was as big as a castle, Mylaena is going to be a wonderful dancer when she grows up, that I know for sure, it kept me up night after night. It might have been better for my sanity to have it sooner.’

‘You seem sane enough to me.’

‘Sane enough for a Targaryen or sane enough as in… _sane enough_?’

‘Don't ask such complicated questions, I spend a moon’s turn on horseback with Rhaenys by my side, I’m mentally exhausted.’

Sansa grins, then asks, ‘So Robb was left behind?’

‘A little.’

'With the prince Oberyn and all?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Oberyn and Arianne and all are still in the Westerlands, he’ll enjoy the imp’s company though, and Bryden Tully, and all these lovely Reach lords.’

‘Ah… he won’t grow lonely then?’ Jon doesn’t really respond and she doesn’t force him to when she asks, ‘And you have… you’ve only seen me?’

‘There's no such thing as _only_ you.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I saw Freia. And your mother.’

‘Come with me, then.’ Sansa whispers.

‘Where?’

‘Where do you think? I must introduce you to someone.’ as she gets up he feels reluctance, because lying there felt far too nice and he's so tired, his back hurts because of all the riding and he has a slight headache for staring into the low sun all day as he sat on his horse… but as she climbs out of the bed, puts a robe on and gives him her excited and happiest smile he feels all warm and fuzzy.

Sansa grabs his hand and escorts him through the door and across the hall, barefooted, in a lacy white nightdress, her hair loose, with curls falling over her shoulders that dance around her face as she turns her head to grin at him.

Sansa makes a head gesture towards the crib. It's such a northern crib, he thinks, not richly decorated, no see-through silks are draped around it, the wood is not engraved with three-headed dragons… nothing like that crib that was a gift from Rhaegar when Freia was on her way. He never saw Freia lay in that crib, though she must've slept in it for hundreds of nights.

The crib may be simple, what lays in it is not.

‘She's so small.’

Sansa can't help herself but look amused, ‘She's over two turns old, you know, she is already twice as big.’

Jon really doesn't care, to him, she's the smallest human being he's ever seen, and she's the prettiest baby too, perfectly perfect, with some light reddish hair, her hands in fists, one lying beside her little head, her tiny head, though far too big for the rest of her body. She’s wearing a white cotton hat that matches her baby clothes and she appears as fast asleep as Sansa after three cups of wine.

‘Do you want to hold her?’

‘Shouldn't we let her sleep?’ Jon asks, not taking his eyes off the baby.

No words in the world can describe how badly he wants to hold her, if he feels her she may become a bit more real, but waking her up seems a crime that should be punishable by death.

‘Maybe.’ Sansa moves to wrap her arms around his torso, with her cheek to his chest, ‘She must be tired now, she was awake and screaming all night.’

‘Is that why you were sleeping?’

Sansa nods and looks up to study the expression on his face, he's sure, and she seems almost a little worried when she says, ‘We’ll have a boy, next time.’

Jon moves his hand to cup her face, ‘I might be a bit disappointed then, I’m only specialized in daughters.’

Sansa stands on her toes as she moves to press her smiling lips to his.

Jon thinks of Rhaenys and her tears, of the look of betrayal in Robb’s eyes, before he sighs, ‘We do not have children because I need an heir, we have children because we are blessed.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then promise to never ask me if I am disappointed again, because it's frustratingly annoying.’

Sansa smiles, ‘I promise.’

‘Shouldn't she be in your room?’

‘Yes, but we expected you'd be here today, so we moved her because I thought you might be tired and I didn't want you to be woken up by her constantly during the night.’

‘Don't be silly, you must move her back.’

‘I was going to.’ Sansa says, ‘I thought just for one night, the Septa was going to wake me when she needs to be fed.’

That makes Jon frown for a moment, then he realizes Sansa really is the only one who can feed this baby and that feels a little surreal as well as odd. She has done this all before, she had a baby, this small, perhaps even smaller, and it must've been just as beautiful.

Freia was a baby once, and Sansa nursed her by herself, woke up at night because she screamed, held her and rocked her, taught her how to walk and talk and all these other things all the while Jon was… not there.

When Jon saw Freia for the first time, she could say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’, she could run and hop as well as climb on things, she knew her own name and asked for his, she could eat by herself, or tried to, she could grab things and wave and she listened to all he said to her.

But Freia was like this once too, he knew that of course, but he never quite realized it. He was always so angry because he feared they'd taken that relationship from him, that they stole fatherhood, and never planned to give it back. Then Freia came to him and he loved her so much, insanely much, more than he ever believed he could experience love, and he felt that was all that mattered.

It is, of course it is, Freia can't even recall him not being there for her, in her world, he has always been her papa, and he will always be her papa, but it's not true. He became her father two years too late.

Now he's two turns too late and this baby can't even lift her head on her own.

He knew this was going to be a second chance, but somehow, as it hits him in this moment, it doesn't make him feel overjoyed, in truth, he feels sad.

‘Jon…’ Sansa whispers and he knows she knows, he doesn't need to explain.

These memories hurt her as much as they hurt him. He couldn't be there for them and she had to do it all on her own, but it won't be like that again this time.

‘It's alright.’ She ensures him, ‘You're here now.’

The baby stirs and coos and though she doesn't open her eyes her little fingers move and one fist opens to show Jon the tiniest fingernails he's ever seen.

Sansa immediately let’s go of him and moves over the crib to move one hand beneath the head and another under the baby's bum, then raises her like that in a skilled way Jon won’t ever be able to copy.

Sansa doesn't hold her daughter in the crook of her arm, the way he always imagined her doing, but places it to her shoulder, so she can lay her cheek to the baby’s head, close to her chest, still carefully cupping the head in her hand palm.

Jon supposes that is the way to hold a baby, he wouldn't know, he can't recall ever holding one, not since Bran was born, and that’s over sixteen years ago.

Sansa smiles to him as if she means to reassure him and the baby coos some more though the sounds she makes do not turn into screeching cries.

‘Did we wake her?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I don't believe so.’ She rocks the baby a little and raises her eyebrows at Jon, ‘You don't want to hold her?’

‘I don't know.’ He says, because he truly doesn't. He'll feel he'll drop the tiny being to the ground by accident or worse.

Somehow, the fear he feels now, reminds him of the first time he held Freia.

_Give her to me_ , he told Rhaenys and Freia rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and stared up at him the way she would have at any stranger. The door creaks and the Freia of the present pulls him out of that memory when she appears in the opening.

With one glance at her, pulling on her own skirts, Jon instantly understands what Sansa means with ‘slightly jealous’, Jon prefers to call it insecure, uncertain and perhaps a little weary.

Jon feels insecure around the baby too, and in that moment, Jon feels an urge to apologize to her, for being away so much, always, now and before.

‘Papa is meeting Myleana.’ Sansa tells Freia, who doesn’t respond, though she walks in and takes Sansa’s offered hand.

Jon always swore to never be like his father, but if truth must be told, it wasn't the person his father was that Jon didn't want to be compared to. Jon knows now that he is more like his father than he ever dared wonder, and he has accepted that is not a bad thing, not always, for his father was smart, wise, cunning, brave, bold and a good king.

But Rhaegar was a terrible father, to Jon, Rhaenys and Aegon, he failed all of them, no matter how much he loved them and spend half his life protecting them from his enemies.

Jon is not a terrible father, if anything because he knows what not to do, that is what Rhaegar taught him too, for the worst thing a father can possibly ever do, is give his children the impression that he doesn't love them.

Freia hugs his legs as she keeps her eyes on the baby and Sansa then mocks him with her smile, ‘I you can be king, you can hold a baby.’ She ensures and Jon reluctantly stretches his arms out as she moves forward and places his daughter in his arms.

‘Careful with the head!’ Freia says.

Jon feels he does it all wrong, but then deep dark blue eyes find his and he feels the tightness in his muscles relax and he figures that holding a baby shouldn't be terrifying, especially not when it's _his_ baby.

People always tell him Freia looks so much like him, he has often trouble seeing it himself, for aside from the hair, she's so much her own person. This baby definitely doesn't look like him, she doesn't even have his hair, but, as much as he did when he held Freia for the first time, he realizes how unmistakably _his_ this baby is.

Jon moves his finger to rub her cheek and the baby wraps her fist around it. She's really soft and Jon remembers Catelyn always said Freia still smelled of baby, but he figures she doesn't very much anymore, for this baby has some special smell he didn't know of yet.

Without thinking about it, Jon carefully sits down in a big chair below the window and Freia follows him, places her finger to the baby’s tiny nose, though she doesn't press it.

Freia always seemed like the tiniest, but compared to her little sister, she's a giant. ‘Baby…’ Freia whispers, or tries to, and she kisses one of the chubby cheeks.

‘She’s very small, isn’t she?’ Jon asks.

Freia nods, ‘babies are _small_.’

Jon looks up at Sansa, who wipes a tear away and he smirks at her. The proudest of grins, as if he wants to tell her with no words that they, very obviously, have the absolute cutest babies in Westeros and beyond.

Mylaena coos and it makes Freia giggle, ‘You are cough-fing? You drink and grow and we play!’

‘You can teach her how to talk, remember?’ Sansa asks.

Freia nods and finally looks up at Jon, ‘She can say _my_ name.’

‘Maybe, yes, eventually.’

‘Myllie…’ Freia whispers and she moves her own small hand to place it to the baby’s belly, ‘Your name is Myl-pheala.’ Freia's face is so close to Myleana's that the baby can look nowhere but in her sister’s face, she coos some more and Freia rubs her sister's belly, ‘Is Myllie too small to sit on Harry?’

‘Far too small.’ Jon says.

‘Maybe in ten years.’ Sansa says and there is only a little bit of scorn in her voice.

‘Mama saying Myllie can't like cake and Myllie is not going to walk soon, but I can kiss her and tell her all stories!’

‘You definitely have to tell her stories.’

‘I hold her! With all the pill-ows, on top and on top and on top, like this!’ Freia stretches her arms out to show Jon and he can't wait to see that with his own eyes, ‘And then… she sleeps! Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, Myllie always sleepy! Myllie goes to far land, of great wide some-there and do all the dreamy-ing.’

‘Baby’s grow when they’re sleeping.’ Jon says. Mylaena has already fallen back to sleep, right there in Jon’s arms, and she seems perfectly content the way she is, wrapped up in her swaddling clothes, hearing very little of all Freia is telling her.

‘Orange hairs,’ Freia points at Mylaena’s cotton hat, ‘Pretty hairs, Myllie!’ She whispers, rubbing the baby’s head with her own tiny finger and Jon wonders why she just can't seem to stop saying the name, it's ridiculously adorable.

‘It's not orange, it's red.’ Sansa says.

Jon has to disagree, it’s definitely not red nor auburn, it's strawberry blonde, the same color Jon can remember Rickon’s hair had when he was born, and his ended up being as auburn as Sansa's and Robb’s; a shade lighter than Cat’s.

‘Your hair was black when you were a baby.’ Sansa says and she moves her hand to smoothen the escaped curls from Freia’s braid.

‘Black?’ Freia doesn't seem to believe her, ‘My are curling.’

‘Like papa’s.’

Jon sheepishly smiles at Freia when she notices his hair for what seems to be the first time.

‘Papa is sooo short.’ Freia says and she pulls on her braid, ‘Myl-phaela too.’

‘It'll grow.’

‘Grow too?’

‘Yes, she has so much growing to do.’

‘Papa’s is never growing!’

‘Papa cuts his hair.’ Sansa says and she pulls gently on Freia's braid, which makes her giggle again.

‘Myl-pheala cutting hairs too?’

‘No, not anytime soon.’ Sansa says.

Freia moves closer to the baby's head again, ‘Myllie you can have long hairs! Brush it and _ow_.’

Freia continues to tell her baby sister long and detailed stories she doesn’t hear because she's long sleeping but it's fine because Jon enjoys himself with listening to it.

‘And _then_ the cats… the cat is a kitty, and they _eat_ mouses! But… others too. And milk! They drink milk, I put it on the floor and then you can brush the faces. But they jump and you _run_ , because mouses are running too, that is true, but _not too fast_ because you fall and then it is ow to you flees.’

‘Flees?’ Jon asks.

‘ _Knees_ ,’ Sansa says, ‘Your _knees_ , Freia.’

‘My flees are red! When I fall, and there is blood.’ Freia grimaces, ‘Is… sticky. Bloods and pain.’

‘Your legs can't keep up with you.’ Sansa says and she adds to Jon, ‘She goes full flat on her face at least once a day, her knees will end up covered in scars.’

The door opens and Freia squeals and hides behind the curtains when a Septa whom he's never seen before enters, ‘Your grace.’ She says, curtsying to them.

‘Jon,’ Sansa says, ‘This is Septa Aurestyne, she's Freia’s new Septa. Freia handpicked her out.’

Jon presses some fake though friendly smile to his flushed face, ‘I’m sure she's capable of choosing the best.’

The Septa is relatively old, older than Jon remembers Septa Mordane to be, but less stern, which seems only natural, since Freia picked her. She's dressed like all Septas are dressed and has a wrinkled, kind face, with big dark eyes and the warmest smile.

‘Is the princess hungry?’

Sansa nods, ‘She must be.’

‘D-do you want her back?’ Jon asks and Sansa grins.

‘If you can manage to let her go.’

Jon figures he’ll be just fine, and after he has given Sansa her daughter back, he realizes the Septa is the right Septa because she chooses to ask Jon ‘Where is the princess?’ and when he shrugs she loudly adds, ‘Oh well, I'll look for her in the kitchens!’ and leaves.

When Jon peeks behind the curtains, Freia’s pressing herself to the wall, hiding her face behind her hands as if that makes her any more invisible. When he tickles her she screams and giggles and allows him to lift her up.

‘Shall we leave mama and your sister alone?’

Freia eagerly nods, ‘ _Wait_! First kiss.’ Freia stretches her arms out to Sansa, ‘Nite nite!’ Freia gives Sansa a sloppy kiss and waves at her over his shoulder when Jon drags her out of the room.

It takes them ages to reach the end of the hall because she balances on his feet with her own and as they hold hands they walk together, face to face, her legs so much shorter than his that he can do little more than shuffle.

But when they finally reach the nursery Freia shows him all her new dolls first, and her books, before he sits down on the floor, his back against the side of a sofa in front of a child-friendly version of a chess board as Freia lays on her belly at the other side, her knees bend so her legs are up in the air as she smashes her boots together, in one hand she leans her chin and with the other she makes some impressively clever moves for a three-year-old.

As they play the game, Jon realizes Freia has the tendency to cheat. Even though she's so obviously aware of her own wrongdoing, he can't help but grin when she hides a piece in her palm and moves it in her sleeve.

‘You’re cheating.’ He says.

‘Where?’

‘There! In your sleeve...’

‘In my peeve is what?’

‘The chess piece.’

‘I have no thingies in the peeve!’

‘Yes you do, I saw you do it, put it back on the board.’

Freia grins, not one slight notion of shame in her big, blue eyes and she pulls the piece from her sleeve, ‘Your piece?’

‘I don't know, do you? It's not supposed to be in your sleeve. Cheating is not nice, Freia.’

‘Rickon aaalways boo-ting pieces in his arms!’

‘Does he? That's wrong, you can't let him.’

Freia giggles, sits straight up, and moves her arms around so two more pieces fall out, ‘All the pieces! _Look_!’

Jon can't help but laugh, though he knows he should explain to her that cheating is wrong. The look on her face is far too adorable, ‘You're so much like your mother.’

‘Who is me?’

‘ _You_ , you're exactly like mama.’

‘Mama is having orange hair! My hair is curling… look!’ She pulls on her braids as if he must've never noticed.

‘Aye… and it’s brown.’

‘Brown hairs! And because it is curling… you brush it and I… I don’t like it.’

‘I know you don't.’ Jon grins, points at the game and tells her, ‘Mama always cheats too, though, that's why. I can never play chess with mama either.’

‘Mama and you are play-ding chess?’

‘We used to all the time, before you were here, when it was just me and mama.’

‘Only you and mama…’ Freia giggles some more, ‘Not me? Not Freia?’

‘That's a long, long time ago.’

‘Papa! It is the queen!’ Freia says and she points at a piece.

‘That's not a queen, it's a horse.’ He’s fairly certain Freia recognizes the difference.

‘Horse?’ She holds it up and cheekily grins her toothy grin, ‘Horsey on the board!’ She says and she places it back on the wrong spot.

‘It wasn't there, it was over there.’

Freia giggles as if he's ridiculously stupid, ‘Noooo… papa, no, it is _here_! Look!’

‘It is _now_!’ He says and he moves his hand to tickle her and she laughs and throws another chess piece to his head.

‘Horsey piece was on the black spot!’

‘I'll put you on the black spot!’

Freia bursts out laughing in her adorable and high-pitched way when he grabs her and tickles her some more.

‘Papa,’ she says when he stops and she leans her head on his chest, ‘the little brother or sister is _here_.’

‘I know.’ Jon says, ‘I just met her, she's not doing much all day, is she?’

Freia nods, ‘She is sleeping… only aaalways sleeping.’

‘She needs to grow.’

‘She grows in mama’s tummy!’

‘I know that, but have you seen how tiny she still is?’

‘She sleeps.’ Freia just says, ‘Aaaaalways sleepy, mama too.’

‘I know, you shouldn't wake her.’ Jon says and he adds in whispers, ‘Mama deserves her rest, don't you think?’

Freia nods again, ‘You like little brother or sister?’

‘Doesn't she have a name?’

‘Leana!’ Freia says, ‘It is her name, she has this name and mama says, she is my little sister and her name is Myl-pheala and I must be proud and be the… I be the big sister.’

‘Of course, you will be, you promised me, I know you can do it.’

‘She is a baby?’

‘Yes, like you were a baby once.’

‘Hhhm-hmm! I was the baby too! And you… I was a baby?’

‘Yes, small and sleepy.’ Jon nods, ‘But I wasn’t there with you and mama, because I was fighting and kinging. So I… I missed you so much, I really wanted to see you, but I couldn't. You don't remember that, do you?’

Freia has a deep, confused frown on her face and shakes her head, ‘You were mis-ing _me_?’

Jon moves over to pull her in his lap, ‘Of course, I always miss you, you're my favorite lady.’ He pushes some hair from her face, ‘But Ghost was with you and mama, he's always with you, because I tell him to protect you for me, so I can be sure you're safe, because I would _never_ leave you, unless I’m sure you're safe.’

‘Ghost is my _best_ friend!’ Freia ensures him.

Jon nods, ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’

Freia gasps, ‘I do not tell!’

‘Absolutely no one.’ Jon says, ‘It's our secret.’

Freia grins, having a secret excites her mayhaps a bit too much.

‘You'll always be my baby.’ Jon says, ‘Okay? You're my baby girl always Freia, I promised remember? When you are as big as a giant, you'll still be my baby.’

‘But Myl-pheala is baby.’

‘I don't care.’ Jon says and his ignorance makes Freia giggle, ‘You know what's even far more important?’

Freia shakes her head.

‘That I'll always be your papa, okay? Aaaalways, forever and ever, nothing and no one is ever going to change that, don't you ever forget that… promise to remember?’

‘I pro-wis!’

Jon kisses her forehead and ruffles her hair, ‘Good.’

‘Papa?’

‘Yes?’

‘My tummy is hungry.’

Jon grins, ‘Do you want… what do you want?’

‘Eggs!’

Jon nods and drags his still soar body off the floor, ‘Eggs it is.’

_One egg for me_   
_One egg for you_   
_My egg is yen-now,_   
_My egg is green,_   
_Oooooh… all so many color,_   
_Do you see the blue?_   
_Co-lored eggs, co-lored eggs,_   
_Red and pur-fle, too._   
_Oh we eat all the eggs,_   
_Eggs for me and you._

Freia sits in his lap at the large wooden table as the maids cook eggs for them and as he takes the skin of her egg she sings a song of her own imagination, as always.

Jon doesn't believe there has ever been a person who finds him so utterly hilarious as Freia does and he's convinced it'll wear out when she grows older so he means to enjoy it while it lasts.

The kitchen maids giggle at Freia’s cuteness who finds their presence equally annoying as well as necessary, for she's clever enough to understand that she must keep them in her favor as her friends so they'll stuff her with sugary sweets every time she escapes her grandmother or her Septa.

‘Strally-berries are my favorite!’ Freia gasps when they hand her one.

‘For the little princess.’ One maid says as she pads the top of Freia's head.

‘Papa, can I sit?’

‘You want to sit on Harry?’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’

‘There is no Harry here.’

‘No Harry?’ Freia's pouts and he messes her hair.

‘Perhaps we can find another pony, one that looks a bit like him?’

‘Other ponies?’

Jon nods, ‘You can sit on another one.’

‘Is okay! Yes, I can sit!’

Jon nods, cleans her face with a napkin and brings her to the stables on piggyback.

Obviously, she needs to pad every single horse there and greet them first before they can even attempt to bring one old and friendly shetlander to the field.

‘You hold the steers, and grab some of his hair, remember? And you sit straight, like _this_ , and don't let go, you don't let go, but if you do and you fall… remember what happens when you fall?’

‘You catch!’

‘That's right.’ Freia grabs a fist of grass from the ground and tries to feed it to the pony, ‘Flat hand, if you wrap you fingers around it he can't eat it.’

She giggles, ‘Harry, ew!’ When the pony eats the grass from her hand and spends another ten minutes patting and singing to him before she allows Jon to lift her up to place her down on his back.

‘Grab his hair!’

Freia grabs both the steers and the manes and widens her eyes for a moment when he lets her go and Jon is ready to pull her off again, but then a smile appears on her face that reminds him of the one she gave him this morning when she first saw him and ran into his arms.

‘Papa I sit!’

‘Yes, you do!’

As Freia manages to keep herself upright and sits straight in the saddle, the steers in her tight fists, he feels so ridiculously proud.

Jon missed her first wave, first word, her first step, first bite of fruit and her first smile, but right now he's teaching her how to ride a pony and as he grabs the rope and gently tucks to let the pony know it's time to move he can almost feel his eyes water when Freia gasps, squeals, beams and laughs in astonishment at her own ability to sit still in the saddle as she makes her first steps on horseback.

‘Papa I sit! Papa look!’

‘Don't let go!’

When the pony has enough of it and moves his head down to eat some grass she squeals again and Jon fears she'll lose her balance but she only drops her upper body forward to hug the pony’s neck, ‘Sweet Harry! Eat all the grasses!’

Jon remembers then how Ned always used to tell him Lyanna was half a centaur, that she rode like Northmen.

All his life Jon wondered what it might have been like, if it all could have been different perhaps, if only she had lived.

_She was no delicate beauty_ , uncle Benjen once said, _Beautiful and willful and dead before her time_.

They always called her beautiful, but Jon never quite believed it. Everyone always commented on how much he looked like her and he could never imagine his features to be flattering on a woman.

But, as Freia looks so much like him, Jon now believes he can imagine how much beauty can be found in a Stark face.

Freia has the Stark look and perhaps she has what Lyanna had once, what everyone called ‘a wild beauty.’ Ned always said Jon's mother had the ‘wolf’s blood’, he said Arya had it too, and his brother Brandon as well.

_Everyone always saw your mother's beauty, but they didn't see the iron underneath._ , Ned said and all Jon could think of was how much he would have wanted to know her, more than that Jon wondered how someone like his father could possibly have ever loved someone ‘wild’. It made him doubt whether or not he ever loved her at all. Now Jon does not need to wonder, he does not need to wonder what they meant when they spoke of ‘iron underneath’ and he does not need to wonder how a man like his father could love a woman like his father.

Jon pats the pony’s neck and looks at Freia, wondering if she has the ‘wolf’s blood’, wondering how much trouble that will cause them when she grows up. She's already the most stubborn little thing he's ever come across in his entire life.

Catelyn says Freia will be hard ‘to tame’, but Jon disagrees, all Freia needs is freedom and love. The first he’ll fake for her and the second she'll never ever lack.

If only Lyanna could have taught Freia how to ride her pony, Jon's sure they both would have loved that.

 

* * *

 

Jon spends the next couple of days sleeping, staring at a sleeping baby, staring at a sleeping Sansa, holding a sleeping Sansa after carefully making to love to her as if she is a very valuable doll (which starts to annoy her), playing chess with Freia, reading to Freia, teaching Rickon how to hold his crossbow and teaching Freia how to sit on her pony. He tries to teach her how to steer and he’s shocked to realize she seems actually capable of that. Shocked, stunned and proud, though not as proud as Sansa, who has a tendency for crying whenever the girls do anything other than blink.

It feels odd to now not only think of Freia when he thinks of his own children, for he has two now, two _girls_ , and everyone constantly calls them that, _the girls_. With the exception of Rhaenys, who prefers _your brood_. Jon is far too proud of the fact that he _has_ a brood, to actually tell her to stop.

‘I see you're quite smitten.’ She says, closing the door behind her before she leans against it with her back, ‘Can you only begin to imagine how content you'll feel when it'll be a boy next time?’

Jon’s eye roll visibly annoys her, ‘Don't you dare say such things with Sansa near.’

Jon doesn't see reason to look up from the tiny creature who’s sleeping on his chest. He’s leaning down in the sofa, dressed in breaches and a tunic, not much more, and the child lies on her front, her eyes closed, deep in her sleep.

‘All men always say so, how a son is happier than daughters.’

‘I cannot imagine.’ Jon lays his cheek to the top of the baby's head.

'You do know you are here because you need a son.’

‘What?’

Rhaenys drops down on the sofa beside him and gives him a cold look, ‘Your bannermen allow you to disappear from the front for a couple of days because you need an heir.’

‘Don’t…’ Jon sighs and realizes it’s not worth the effort to tell her to shut up.

‘It’s your duty. To have a son. You are here to do your duty.’ Jon decides to ignore that entirely which annoys her so much she rudely asks, ‘So… do you think you’ve impregnated her already?’

‘ _Rhaenys_!’

‘Because if you have, that means we can leave.’

‘We’ll leave when we’ll leave.’

‘Where even is Sansa?’ Rhaenys asks.

‘Already gone upstairs.’

‘And you're all alone with the babe? Is that not dangerous?’

Jon finally looks up and frowns at her, ‘No?’

Rhaenys grins, ‘Have you ever even cleaned her?’

‘Have you?’

‘She's not my child.’

‘Yesterday, I put her in this odd tub and she completely relaxed, I held her head between my hands. Cat says she likes it so much because it reminds her of being inside of the womb.’

‘Yes, being inside of a womb must certainly be the most relaxing thing.’

‘Are you bored, Rhaenys?’ Jon doesn't want to feel annoyed but lately all Rhaenys does is annoy him, she tries her very best to. right now, he doesn't fancy the idea of conversing with her, he was having some peaceful moment, he doesn't want her to ruin it with her own displease, ‘I was spending quality time with the newest addition to my family, having some catching up to do, I and my daughter are trying to get to know each other, so please don't interrupt it with politics or complaints.’

‘I _am_ bored.’ She admits.

Jon ignores her and his gaze falls upon his daughter again as the tiniest fingers wrap around his thumb.

‘When are we leaving?’

‘Soon.’

‘Soon is a worthless answer. I would like an indication?’

‘Do you miss Robb?’

He's not sure why he asks that. Her face, however, gives him the indication that she truly believes Robb is groundbreakingly angry with her.

Jon assumes she has great reason to believe that, Jon has some great reason to assume Robb’s furious with him as well, but he can't deny the shame has faded ever since he's been back with Sansa, even since he voluntarily joined his lady wife in this beautiful bubble of bliss and happiness.

Jon knows it won't last, he knows he's being delusional and ignorant, but he simply chooses not to care. He'll go back to being Rhaegar’s son and true heir soon enough, he needs time away from that to regain strength and sanity.

Jon knows Riverrun doesn't feel like a place of bliss to Rhaenys, far from it, and as much as he wishes he could help her, he knows she won't let him, and he knows he'll never find a way to force her. That is simply how Rhaenys is, she has always had trouble with allowing others to help her, comfort her, and pushing it never helped. With Rhaenys, the harder you push, the harder she runs away. So, Jon doesn't push, and he ignores her unnecessary complains, endless rants, mocking comments, her brooding, her nagging and whining and never-stopping eye rolls and sighs.

‘When are we going back to the front?’ she asks again, her voice soft and cold.

‘I told you, I said soon.’

‘That's not a satisfying reply!’

‘I don't care.’

‘Are you trying to-‘

‘I'm trying to have a moment of peace, surely you could indulge your frustrations on someone else? You can come back to me when you have something to say.’

‘What's that supposed to mean?’

Jon sighs, loudly, though not loud enough to wake the child.

‘You want me to speak of meaningful thing? Very well, we ought to discuss your cousin’s marriage.’

‘I really don’t wish to interfere.’

‘I’m not talking about Robb! I mean his little sister.’

‘I don’t want _you_ to interfere.’

‘Arya! I mean Arya Stark! Don’t be stupid.’

Jon frowns, ‘Arya? She’s only-‘

‘Nineteen. Quite some few years older than Sansa was when she married you, if I remember correctly.’

‘You know you remember correctly.’

Rhaenys ignores that, ‘She ought to be married.’

‘I don’t think that is your place to decide.’

‘I am her sister-in-law, Robb won’t do it and someone must before she’ll end up a maiden of forty. She is a valuable pin.’

‘Don’t call her that.’

‘I will because she is. We could use some tighter ties.’

‘What do you propose?’

‘The Lord of Storm’s End is ancient and with no trueborn sons, he has asked me to legitimate Robert’s Baratheon’s bastard son.’

‘Robert Bara- The usurper?’ Jon has heard loads amount of crap from his sister and this is one fine example, ‘He rebelled against our father, have you lost your mind?’

‘No.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Not yet, I haven’t, I feel I am about to, however, in this dreadful castle, locked up with your brood and _Catelyn_.’

‘We can’t marry Arya off to a traitor’s bastard! That is no option, it is-‘

‘A very clever strategic move, if I may say so. I'm an exceedingly proud of my own superior geniality, which has, once again, proven to be of extreme value to your life and limbs.’

‘ _How_?’

‘We ensure the support of the Stormlands.’

‘Do we really need to marry Arya off to a bastard for the sake of-‘

‘Yes, especially a bastard.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Since you are one yourself.’

‘What does that have to do with-‘

‘There are some people who might have a problem with all that, it is the last Lannister card. The Starks and Tullys support you unconditionally because of Sansa, Robin Arryn is a child and your aunt’s ward, the Dornish don’t shy away from bastardy, the Reach is divided and owes you, but the Stormlands… I don’t want to risk losing their support. Marriage is a peaceful way of gaining some extra insurance.’

‘Rhaenys that is-‘

‘He’s only a couple of years older, if you legitimate the boy he will be lord of the Stormlands, Arya will be lady Baratheon, you show Westeros that any bastard can inherit whenever necessary, not just you, and we can create a strong line for Storm’s End.’

‘No.’ Jon simply says.

‘Why not?’

‘I cannot marry Arya off.’

‘You will have to.’ Rhaenys says, she looks down at the baby in his arms, ‘One day you’ll have to marry that one off as well.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Jon splutters.

‘It’s true. Arya is the sister of the lord of Winterfell, it is her duty to marry for her house, the way you once did, the way I have. He initially asked for Freia, you know? He wanted you to marry Freia off to a Baratheon bastard.’

‘W-well, you better-‘

‘I said no, of course I did, but Freia and Mylaena are princesses of house Targaryen, Targaryens do not marry for love, we marry for duty.’

‘I’m not marrying my children off to each other, if that is what you mean.’

‘No… I suppose the incest may be a bit outdated. You’ll need a son first, anyway.’

Jon feels his face heat up with anger, ‘Stop mentioning sons all the time.’

‘Why? Because you don’t want to hear it? You’re not a worthless bastard lord of some small castle in the corner of a kingdom. Jon, you are the _king_ , you have a duty to your people, your children will have a duty to your people. Sansa needs to have a son.’

‘She will.’

‘Let’s pray to the Gods she will.’

‘Shut up Rhaenys, I mean it, Sansa is paranoid enough as it is.’ Jon cradles Mylaena a little closer to his chest, ‘Don’t listen to aunt Rhaenys, you don’t have to marry anyone.’

Rhaenys rolls her eyes again, ‘You better prepare yourself for the inevitable prospect, the sooner you begin to look around, the better the match will be… for their own interests too.’

Jon ignores her and presses his nose to Mylaena’s cheek, ‘Aunt Rhaenys is talking shit.’

Rhaenys gives him a furious glare, ‘Don’t be a fool!’

‘Rhaenys, I mean it, fuck off.’ Jon then says, ‘Freia is not even four years old, Mylaena is not even half a year old, one does not built castles until pronounced lord. I need them to be happy, I need them to marry lords who will be good for them, and they will have a say. I don’t care if you think that’s stupid.’

‘Depends on how many daughters you shall have.’ Rhaenys says and she shrugs, ‘Marrying off seven is different from marrying of two, less will depend on one match.’

‘I thought you wanted me to have sons?’

‘Not too many! Two is enough, you don’t want them to rip each other’s heads off over the inheritance when you’re gone.’

‘I’ll raise them to always support each other.’

‘You’ll raise your great-great-grandsons to always support each other too? An heir and a spare is enough. Once the heir has a son you put the spare in the King’s Guard.’

‘King’s Guard? For a moment there I wondered if you were about to propose the wall.’

‘I could, but you are too much like father, he refused to send you to that place too, you’ve been there yourself, rather gloomy, I hear. The King’s Guard is where a spare belongs.’

‘Rhaenys…’ Jon purses his lips, ‘Either shut up or die.’

‘So… You will legitimate Robert Baratheon’s bastard?’

‘Why should I? What do we know about this boy? Who is he? Who raised him? How much is he like his father? Will he-‘

‘If he marries Arya he will never rebel, his children will be cousins to the king’s, his wife the sister of the queen. Baratheon and Targaryen have strong family lines, there is no reason for us to assume that-‘

‘He remains the son of a traitor.’

‘A traitor…’ Rhaenys sighs, ‘He was a babe when his father died. His father rebelled because his betrothed was kidnapped by our father, a ridiculously dumb thing to do. Robert Baratheon died fighting for no one other than your mother, this is uncomfortable for everyone. It is time to leave the past in the past and look at the future.’

‘His rebels killed your mother.’

‘Robert Baratheon’s rebels killed my mother… when they were still supported by Lannister gold. This boy is his bastard, raised by lord Jon Arryn in the Eyrie with his half-sister Mya Storm. He was fathered during the wedding of Lord Stannis  and Lady Selyse Florent, Robert carried one of Selyse's bedmaids upstairs and broke in the wedding bed. His mother was a Florent, he’s not baseborn, which is why he was acknowledged.’

‘What is the boy’s name?’

‘Edric. Edric Storm.’

‘How many bastards did the man have exactly?’

‘Apparently, he whored his way through the war, fighting for your mother’s honor too… he either had a good sense of humor or was terribly delusional.’

‘Rhaegar killed him.’

‘At the Trident, yes, but not soon enough to stop the Kingslayer from drawing his sword through grandfather Aerys’ back.’

‘Father forgave Jaime, Aerys wanted to blow up the city.’

‘Doesn’t make him less of a Kingslayer.’

‘He freed Sansa.’

‘He killed the king still and impregnated our father’s queen with incest bastards. He knew Cersei poisoned Sansa when she carried your first child.’

‘I promised him to forgive him all his sins if he gave me Sansa and Freia, and so he has.’

‘He pushed Brandon Stark from a window.’

‘What is your point?’

Rhaenys doesn’t make it when she says, ‘Bran must marry Myrcella.’

At that Jon is done, he moves Mylaena over to his other arm and grabs his doublet from the small table in front of him, ‘This conversation is over.’

‘You were the one who didn't want to chop her blonde head off, so I had to find other solutions to the problem of her existence!’ Rhaenys tells him, ignoring his nearing leave, ‘Myrcella is the heir to the Rock, it's a perfect match.’

‘Careful!’ He warns when she pulls the doublet from his hands.

‘Joffrey is dead, Jaime is a member of the guard, Cersei will never have another child and once we have taken King’s Landing we send Tommen to the wall- if he is still alive when we do.’

‘ _If_ he’s still alive when we do? He’s a boy, I will not allow any man to kill him… And you’re forgetting Tyrion, with Jaime in the guard Casterly Rock belongs to him.’

‘I don’t trust the imp.’ She simply says, ‘Nor did father. He came to us when he had nowhere else to go… He’s too supportive of Daenerys and he will stick his hand in flames for Jaime… a Lannister to the bone. I want Myrcella to inherit the Rock from her father.’

‘Myrcella is a bastard and a woman.’

‘We make her a Lannister, marry her off to Bran and he will be lord of the Rock, your own cousin, Sansa’s brother.’

‘We cannot just make her a Lannister.’

‘Of course we can, she is Jaime’s bastard daughter, legitimate her and she will be a Lannister, not a Targaryen, it emphasizes her birth to make her a legitimate Lannister, an extra nod to her parentage. Myrcella is a frightened little thing, if we send her north to Winterfell she and Bran can get to know each other and-‘

‘Cersei will set aflame when she finds out.’ Jon decides and at that Rhaenys smiles, all pleased with herself.

‘I know.’

‘Bran is crippled, he will never father children, they cannot have-‘

‘Heirs? No, better not. With Tommen bound to the black and Myrcella married to a cripple, Cersei will never have offspring, no one who will claim in a hundred years that they are the legitimate heirs of Rhaegar after all, we must avoid a Blackfyre rebellion number three. We don’t want your offspring to be threatened by Cersei’s, do we? It’s the perfect solution.’

‘Then who will be lord of the Rock after Bran?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘Haven’t decided yet, there are so many Lannisters, one does wonder if there might be something decent among them… Or Tyrion could marry and have a son, he will die before Bran does, if nature has its way, and thus will never be warden of the West.’

‘And then… have Tyrion’s possible future son fostered at Winterfell? By you?’ He means to be skeptical but Rhaenys doesn’t take it that way.

‘I will never live at Winterfell, I belong in King’s Landing.’

Jon decides to shake that comment off, that is a battle he’ll leave for Robb to wager, ‘Marrying Arya and Bran off… you must discuss this with Robb. They are his siblings, with Ned dead their hands in marriage are his responsibility, I’m not the one to give you permission.’

‘I need you to legitimate two bastards with a dark family past, of course I must discuss it with you, you’re the only one who can legitimate them, I need a royal degree.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Discuss it with Robb first.’

‘I prefer to discuss it with you.’ She says and she is back to being her annoyed self, the self she has been ever since they left the front.

‘ _Why_? I won’t marry them off without Robb’s permission.’

‘Robb won’t give his permission without you agreeing to legitimate. He won’t let me marry off his siblings to bastards without-‘

‘And Arya and Bran, they are nineteen and nearly seventeen, I want them to agree too.’

‘Arya should have been long married.’

‘You were twenty-six when you married.’ Jon says, his eyebrows raised.

‘That was an exception, it’s not custom for a woman to remain unwedded until her mid-twenties or beyond, we better have her wedded and bedded before the age of twenty, she’ll be less  
after that.’

‘Stop talking about her as if she’s cattle.’

‘So, you agree?’

‘No, I want you to discuss it with Robb.’

‘I don’t need to!’

‘Yes, you do, you know you do.’

She sighs loudly in all her frustrations, ‘But you think it’s a good idea? If I discuss it with Robb and he agrees I have your word? They must both be married soon, Bran and Myrcella before we attack the capital and Arya before she’s twenty.’

‘Was this all your own idea?’ Jon asks.

‘Of course.’ Rhaenys shrugs.

‘You really are bored.’

‘Oh yes.’ She sighs and takes a strand of her own hair between her fingers and studies it.

‘why don’t you just go back to the front? Sit in on bannermen meetings in my name, as Hand of the king, tell them what you think, make them listen to you, work on strategic-‘

‘You and I will go back to the front, soon, as soon as we can. You’re their king, Jon, you have no time to play the nursemaid, you have a duty to perform.’

Jon looks down at Mylaena sleeping in the crook of his arm, warm wrapped up in her swaddling clothes, ‘I know that.’

‘I know you do, which is why I do not understand why we are still here?’

Slowly and carefully he gets off the sofa, moves Mylaena up higher on his chest so the little head rests on his shoulder and he walks over towards the door to either run from her or avoid her or both, ‘You shouldn't ask stupid questions, they're a waste of breath.’

‘Shut up Jon.’ She says as she drops herself down on the sofa.

Jon rubs his cheek to the top of Mylaena’s head, ‘Say night night to aunt Rhaenys?’

‘She's asleep and it'll be moons before she'll mutter a single word.’

‘You don't know that; my children are all geniuses.’

Rhaenys rolls her eyes and he can do little but laugh as he leaves the room.


	57. Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'A woman’s body is like her heart, an undiscovered cave with many secret passages.’
> 
> Comparing a body to a cave seems a little disgusting to Rhaenys, but then, most things about caves are disgusting, as are most things about bodies, so perhaps it makes some sense, it makes more sense than this conversation, ‘I cannot be.’ Rhaenys says again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... other than, I'm so glad not everyone is madly in love with Rhaenys anymore! I also kinda still want to add that, please remember she's Hand of the King, she really doesn't have to fix her marriage first before she gets to interfere with matters of state/war/kinging. But yeah, I never intended for people to 'like' Rhaenys, I wanted her to be complicated and layered, an actual character with traits and flaws, insecurities. You hate Rhaenys? I can see why. You love her? Great! so do I. but at the end of the day, interpret her the way you want, fanfiction is still fiction and as George RR said... fiction is no democracy.  
> Here's Jon playing the nursemaid and Rhaenys being complicated part 2.

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

When Rhaenys opens the door to Sansa’s bathingroom with trembling hands she's greeted by the sight of her sister-in-law wrapping a blanket around Freia’s shoulders, ‘Arms up!’ She demands and Freia obediently lifts both her arms up.

‘Aaargh! Aunt Rhae-lys!’ Freia squeals and she pulls on the blanket in her mother's hands to cover herself. Embarrassment is something that begins as early as the age of three, or so it seems.

‘Don't be silly!’ Sansa says, ‘Aunt Rhaenys is a girl too.’ She moves the blanket up to massage Freia's curly head of hair dry and gives Rhaenys a smile, ‘Something amiss?’

‘Why would something be amiss?’ Rhaenys curses herself for responding in such a way, but thankfully Sansa is more forgiving than Jon for she only smiles.

‘You're the one who looks distressed.’

Sansa is certainly not looking distressed, just flushed because of the damp air and the amount of energy it must cost to get Freia to stand still.

‘Do you need to talk?’ Sansa asks but before Rhaenys can answer Freia opens her mouth.

‘Aunt Rhae-lys, do you know the bath-time song?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I'm not familiar with it, no.’

‘Which one, Freia?’ Sansa asks and Freia giggles when she moves her hands to rub Freia's red and chubby face with the blanket.

 _Look I have a big big boat;_  
_I sit and watch it sink and float_  
_It keeps me com-pany in the tub,_  
_‘Til mama makes me soap and scrub_  
_I love to take a bath each night,_  
_And go to bed all clean and bright!_

Sansa gasps, ‘Do you really?’

Freia cheekily grins and presses her forefinger to her lips, ‘Sssshh mama! Aunt Rhae-lys cannot know! It is a _secret_!’

Rhaenys has no idea what secret that might be and she's confident it can't possibly be knowledge of great value. Sansa tickles Freia who squeals and dances around bare naked, her embarrassment gone.

‘Come here, sweetling.’ Sansa says and she puts a nightgown down over Freia’s still red and damp face, ‘Can you lace up by yourself?’

‘Yeeeees, aaaaaall by myself…’ Freia's tiny fingers fight and struggle with the laces at the high neckline of her pearly white nightgown, ‘Look!’ She shows Rhaenys.

‘It's your favorite nightgown, isn't it?’

‘Hmm-hhm…’ Freia nods and grins at the nightgown as she grabs the cotton in her fists, ‘Horseys!’ She says, pointing at the grey horses embroidered along the rim of her skirt, ‘Gran-mama making it for me!’

Then Sansa turns to looks at Rhaenys and her smile fades away. She presses a kiss to Freia's cheek, ‘Freia, is it alright if Septa Aurestyne puts you in your bed? I and aunt Rhaenys need to talk, but I'll come to you to tell you a story and sing you a song, promise.’

Freia seems resistant and she doesn't hide her blaming Rhaenys for it as she glares at her aunt, but when she sees her mother's pleading eyes she nods once and runs towards her Septa’s outstretched hand, which she takes, and allows herself to be escorted outside.

Sansa shakes her head at her daughter’s silliness, ‘She's really getting comfortable on a horse now, it’s all she wants to do all day, she absolutely loves it and I can scrub and scrub all I want but the smell of horses just won't get off her.’

‘She looks skinny, does she eat enough?’

‘All she wants to eat all day is sweets.’

‘Shouldn't she be fat, then?’

‘She would be, if I allowed her!’ Sansa grins, ‘She's perfectly healthy. She runs around all day, too, she's so energetic, she can't sit still for a moment, she's always fidgeting and squirming.’

Rhaenys nods once and then fails to find a proper response.

‘You told Robb have you not?’ Sansa asks, just when Rhaenys planned on clearing her throat.

Rhaenys doesn’t even need to nod to confirm and Sansa bites her lower-lip and looks away.

‘Does Jon know?’

‘Of course.’

Sansa allows Rhaenys to give her a short glare before she asks, ‘Is he angry with you? Robb, I mean?’

Rhaenys decides to ignore that questions for the answer is too complicated.

Sansa takes her answer as a yes. ‘With Jon too?’

‘One can presume.’ Rhaenys says, and then Sansa moves over to the tub and takes a wooden, floating toy boat from the cold water.

‘Rickon made it for her, he told her he's in love with her.’

Rhaenys smiles to her hands, ‘Freia is a Targaryen, they do love their kin… or they absolutely detest them. Either or, mostly.’

Sansa raises her eyebrows and then looks down at the boat, ‘You believe Rickon will be lord of Winterfell one day, do you not?’

‘He won't be.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I mean, I won't let that happen, I told Robb we’ll have an annulment.’ At the last word, _annulment_ , she feels an unexpected tear drop down her cheek.

Sansa sighs, ‘Is that what you want?’

‘What I want does not matter.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Sansa pushes the boat on a table, walks over to her and grabs her hands.

‘This is not about us. Life hurts, this will hurt, but we must do what we must do.’

‘You want my brother to wed some empty-headed daughter of a meaningless lord who’ll tell him what she believes he wants to hear, who’ll giggle at what he says and sit beside him at the high table, looking pretty, simple, easy and dull… that is what you want? Do you think you can bear to look at it?’

Rhaenys can feel her lower-lip tremble but she manages to somewhat convincingly say, ‘I have seen worse.’

‘That's not what I'm asking, I'm asking if you want to do that to yourself, to him?’

‘If he wants it.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He does, he told me.’

‘Is that so?’

Rhaenys cannot bring herself to answer, ‘He hates me now.’ She says, her voice high and she fears then that she'll cry more.

‘I know what hate is, I've seen and felt it both. Robb could never hate you.’

‘He does. I told him I shall never make him a father, how I lied about it, and now… he-‘

‘Hates you because you cannot give him children or he hates you for not telling him?’

‘Which one is worse?’

‘Everyone knows the answer to that question.’ Sansa turns her head away and leans over to grab a blanket from the stone floor, she holds the blanket in her hands and then turns her gaze to Rhaenys before she sighs and walks over to her, opening her arms for Rhaenys to drop against her chest.

‘I'm sorry.’ Rhaenys says and she can't help but to cry some more.

‘Oh Rhaenys…’ Sansa tries to pull a hand through her hair, but the hairnet Rhaenys wears is in the way.

‘I'm a horrible person.’

‘Sometimes you are.’ Sansa admits, ‘But not in here.’ She adds, placing a hand to her heart, ‘And Robb knows that.’

Rhaenys allows Sansa to cup her face between her hands, ‘I’ve been horrible to you too.’

Sansa can only shrug, ‘Someone here must speak the truth every now and then.’

‘I don't always want to be that person.’ Rhaenys decides and though she can't believe her own words they make Sansa laugh.

‘Why didn't you come to me sooner? Hmm? I would've helped you.’

‘No one can help me.’

Sansa rolls her eyes, ‘You and Jon are both so terribly melodramatic.’

‘I'm not Sansa.’ Rhaenys shakes her head and tears drop down her cheek, ‘I lost him, I have, and it's my own stupid fault.’

‘Oh Rhaenys.’ Sansa says again.

‘I feel like I'm dying.’

‘You're not.’ Sansa promises, then she moves her hands from Rhaenys’ face down to her shoulders and her upper arms, ‘You look good.’

Rhaenys always knew Sansa was too charming for her own good, but this is an outright lie, ‘Don't be silly, I look like a drab.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘You look healthy, and glowing. Did you put on weight?’

‘I don't know, I don't _care_.’

Sansa then gives her a suspicious look and places her hands back to her cheeks, almost as if she wants to squeeze them, ‘You look far too good.’ Sansa says.

‘I assume it is the incest in my blood.’

Sansa takes a step back and is silent for a moment during which Rhaenys grabs all her fear, her anger, stress and terror in her arms and drops it all down on the floor.

‘Sansa, you have to help me.’

Sansa seems scared then, With… What happened? Rhaenys I… Some things I cannot do for you.’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘You d-don’t understand.’ As it happens Rhaenys does not even understand herself. She is completely and totally lost. What she feels, are new feelings entirely and her body… Her body does not seem to belong to her anymore, it’s all somehow the body of someone else now and every time she looks in a mirror, she feels she’s locked up in a nightmare and a daydream all at the same time and it makes her feel sick. Everything makes her feel sick lately.

Sansa frowns deep in her confusion and shakes her head, ‘I don’t… _How_ … Expain it to me?’

‘I fear I am… I _believe_ I am- I do not dare hope it but I think perhaps I may have… that I might… I might be carrying a child?’

‘Oh.’

Out of all the things Rhaenys may have expected to hear, _oh_ was not among them and she suddenly feels so hot it is as if she’s about to faint. She regrets saying it instantly, then shakes her head, fidgets with her hands the way Freia always does, bites her lower-lip and makes her way towards the door.

‘Never mind.’ For some reason Rhaenys smiles as she grabs the door and opens it, ‘I’m just being silly.’

‘Stop it,’ Sansa grabs her arm and pulls her back in the room, ‘You’re not going anywhere, _sit down_.’ She pushes Rhaenys down on the wooden stool and them places her hands on her hips, ‘ _Why_?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you think you are with child?’

Rhaenys feels like sputtering but she keeps it all in and is silence instead as she begs Sansa with her eyes.

‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’ Sansa seems almost a little insulted then and as Rhaenys again chooses not to respond she moves her hands to Rhaenys’ flushed face and takes it in between, ‘When was your last bleed?’

‘I've been traveling a lot and there's plenty of stress in my life, I could-’

‘Seriously, Rhaenys, when was your last bleed?’

‘Sansa, that's not-‘

‘ _When_?’

‘I don't remember! It matters not-‘

‘You must always look after your bleeding, make sure you write down when your last was, how long it's been. Did your Septa not teach you that? It’s a woman's duty to look after her own body, men cannot do it for us.’

‘There's no need for me.’

Sansa bites her lower lip, places her hand to the tightly corseted body of Rhaenys’ black dress and nods as if she agrees with someone, in all likelihood herself, ‘You won't go back to the front anytime soon.’ Sansa says and she smiles then, her prettiest smile and Rhaenys can't help but find it terribly ugly.

‘Not if _Jon_ gets his way.’

‘Jon will leave, but you shan't join him, for the Gods have decided to make you a mother soon.’

Rhaenys feels more tears well up and they blank her sight so much she can barely make out Sansa’s face, ‘Don’t say it, please.’ She hears herself beg then, ‘I cannot allow myself to believe it.’

Sansa sighs and Rhaenys feels her rub her cheek with her thumbs, ‘You must see a maester.’

Rhaenys shakes her head and the movement causes her tears to drop, ‘I cannot.’

‘Of course, you can.’

‘No! I won’t be… I cannot stand the idea alone.’

‘ _How_?’

‘Because I…’ Rhaenys pushes Sansa’s hands away, ‘If it will not be true… I’ll die.’

Sansa visibly keeps a sigh in and she bites on her bottom lip before she shakes her head in disbelieve, ‘You won’t.’ She says then, her voice soft and warm.

‘Sansa…’ Rhaenys feels like she’s begging some more and it makes her hate herself, ‘You have to help me. I can’t do this.’

Sansa kneels down by her side then and grabs the hands Rhaenys laid down in her lap, ‘You can do anything you want.’

‘I…’ Rhaenys can only shake her head some more.

‘Have you been sick in the morrows?’

‘I cannot be.’ is all Rhaenys can say.

‘ _Have you_?’

‘There’s so much going on, and I cannot stand the cold.’

‘I thought you could not stand heat?’

‘I hate both.’

‘The morrows can be terrible. My first baby was the worst. I and Jon were only just married and I was afraid he’d see me like that because I just… It shall pass.’

‘The maesters all told me.’ Rhaenys says, ‘They all agreed and I… they were convinced. They said my womb never grew, it was broken beyond repair ever since my third year.’

Sansa smiles again and, for some reason, it infuriates Rhaenys, ‘Maesters are all men, a woman’s body is like her heart, an undiscovered cave with many secret passages.’

Comparing a body to a cave seems a little disgusting to Rhaenys, but then, most things about caves are disgusting, as are most things about bodies, so perhaps it makes some sense, it makes more sense than what this conversation, ‘I cannot be.’ Rhaenys says again.

‘You believe it yourself, you came to me.’ Sansa says and that infuriates Rhaenys even more.

‘I am wrong and I…’ Rhaenys pulls her hands back, ‘I should not have said it to you, I don’t want you to mention it again.’

‘I won't if you tell me when your last bleed was?’

Rhaenys raises her eyebrows at that, for she truly has no idea.

Sansa grins, ‘Might actually be ten weeks.’

‘No.’

‘Just… _speak_ to the maester.’

Rhaenys only shakes her head.

‘Why ever not? He can tell you.’

‘Do you think I could bear such a disappointment?’

Sansa seems a little pained at that question because they both know the answer, which is why she chooses not to give it, ‘You won't be.’ She says, her voice as soft as it was when Rhaenys first met her.

‘Sansa I-‘

Sansa stands up again and wraps her arms around her own body, ‘I understand- I think I do.’ She says, ‘But you have to. If you _are_ , a maester must look at you, it’s very important.’

‘Sansa…’ Rhaenys looks down, and though she cannot possibly describe what it is she's feeling, her hands tremble more than they've ever done before.

Sansa loosens her arms to look Rhaenys in the face and she beams, ‘Freia and Mylaena will have a cousin then.’

Rhaenys shakes her head and pushes Sansa's arms away, ‘You’ve lost your wits and if you speak more of this I might lose mine.’

‘That is what motherhood is, you'll lose your wits, promise.’

‘This is not funny!’ Rhaenys says and she raises her voice the moment she finds it.

‘I am not trying to be.’ Sansa says, she looks at Rhaenys and shakes her head, ‘I cannot believe my mother has not noticed.’

‘You're being ridiculous.’ Rhaenys sputters.

‘We better not discuss it, if you want I can be there when the maester looks at you?’

‘I won’t let him look at me.’

‘Yes you will, you won't bear it if you don't.’

‘There is nothing he’ll find.’

Sansa takes her apron off and smiles mischievously, ‘You are just getting fat, then?’

‘I am not.’ Rhaenys says, her jaw clenched, ‘I want you to… Forget we ever even discussed this.’

Sansa shrugs, opens the door and decides, ‘Whatever you want. I must go to Freia, she's waiting for me, but if you want we can speak of it when I return?’

Rhaenys shakes her head for what feels like the tenth time.

'Rhaenys I…’ Sansa can’t seem to find the words, then shakes her head too, moves over to kiss her sister-in-law to the top of her head, carefully and gently, before she smiles at Rhaenys, almost as if she feels sorry for her, and then leaves the room.

Rhaenys hides her face behind her hands, feels her whole body shake and tremble as the black world behind her eyes shows her all the different colors of the world. More tears stream down her face until she shakily breathes in and out, gathers her self-control, grabs all her misery off the floor again, then stands up and drags herself out of the room, down to the kitchens.

There’s no one there but a kitchen cat who rushes away to some dark corner the moment Rhaenys pulls on a wooden chair and drops herself down in it. She fills a full cup with raspberry wine, swallows it down and groans. She _hates_ raspberry wine. She _hates_ Riverrun. 

Outside she hears the damn wolves howl. Probably Shaggydog, because Ghost never makes a sound. Rhaenys can’t help but miss Greywind in that moment. She learned to love that beast eventually, she liked the way he curled up at her feet when she sat in a chair, reading her books as the fire crackled in the hearth. He was always keeping an eye on her, that wolf, his eyes followed her wherever she went and as gruesome as it killed during battles, so gentle was he when he licked her hand and pressed his wet nose in her face when he woke her in the morrow.

‘Rhaenys dear, can you not sleep again?’

Rhaenys has learned to accept that Catelyn insists on calling her _dear_ , even though she doubts Catelyn has any dear feelings for her at all. Rhaenys understands that, she understands far more than she would let anyone know.

‘Again?’

‘You were here last night as well.’

‘Are you spying on me?’ Rhaenys regrets it the moment she says it, but she’s not in the mood for conversing. She’s had her amount of exhausting conversations for the day, she’ll pass out if she’s forced to have another.

Catelyn ignores her question as she drops down next to Rhaenys without an invite, ‘You seem tired.’

‘I have great reason to be.’ Rhaenys wants to tell her everyone and everything exhausts her lately, but it would take her too much effort.

Catelyn nods and eyes the cup in Rhaenys’ hand, ‘If there is…’ she sighs then, closes her eyes and seems to gather strength before she says, ‘I know you don’t like me, but if there’s anything I can do, you must know I’m happy to always help you.’

‘You can’t help me.’ _No one can help me_.

‘I wanted to say it still.’

‘That’s terribly kind of you.’ Rhaenys take another gulp of her wine and feels the woman’s eyes burn.

‘Do you and my son have trouble?’

‘Of course we do.’ Rhaenys plasters a fake smile on her face, ‘All the poor souls who happen to be married have _trouble_.’

Catelyn raises her eyebrows, ‘Are you angry with him?’

‘ _No_.’

‘If you do not wish to speak of it we won’t, but you can tell me.’

Rhaenys takes another gulp of her wine, ‘I hate this wine.’

‘Then don’t drink it.’

Rhaenys swallows down some more, ‘Jon hates me too.’ She confesses, and she’s not sure why, ‘I can’t get him to understand that he’s no longer the bastard of Winterfell.’

‘I think Jon knows that.’

‘Knowing is not the same as understanding.’

‘He needed to have some time away from the war.’ Catelyn decides, ‘To regain his sanity.’

‘There are more important things than his sanity.’ Rhaenys looks up from her cup and points at herself, ‘Do _I_ look sane to you? I have no time to waste on trying to be _sane_ , we have a war going on, people are _dying_ , they’re dying for _Jon_. A man cannot ask his people to die for him when he’s in a castle playing the nurse maid.’

‘He is…’ Catelyn sighs, ‘I believe Jon is very aware of his duty.’

‘I _know_ he is, which is so frustrating to me, because when one is _aware_ of his duties and willingly decides to neglect them he is not only being a fool but negligent as well. A king cannot be negligent, not  _ever_.’

‘Are you saying he disappoints you?’

Rhaenys can only huff, ‘ _Of course not_.’ She says then, ‘I’m only frustrated, but I’m very used to that, so please don’t worry.’

‘I do worry.’ Catelyn says, ‘About you and… I think you have something to tell me.’

Rhaenys looks up and can’t help but glare, ‘What?’

Catelyn clearly refuses to spill whatever it is Rhaenys must tell her and only smiles.

‘Catelyn I… I _know_ you are not happy with me as your… as your son’s wife but-‘

‘I _was_ not happy with you as my son’s wife. I recall you standing in the sept of this very castle, looking at him as if he was the embodiment of all you detested in life.’

‘That’s because he _was_.’ Rhaenys takes a small sit before she confesses, ‘Not anymore. One cannot help but admit he has some very… _charming_ traits.’

Catelyn still smiles, ‘I’m glad you love him, it is all a man’s mother could want.’

‘Don’t lie to yourself.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I suppose you want him to be happy too.’

‘And you do not make him happy?’

Rhaenys breathes a laugh, ‘ _Nope_.’ She says before she grabs the wine to fill her cup again.

‘Rhaenys dear…’ Catelyn sighs, ‘You’re so very accomplished it giving yourself a very hard time.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Oh, you know full well. You’re awfully talented in making simple things extremely complicated.’

‘I’m sure.’ Rhaenys can feel the wine in her fingertips when she closes her eyes, ‘Sometimes simple thinks make it all complicated, you know?’

‘What is so complicated, hmm?’

‘I want to marry your son and daughter off to bastards, has Jon told you?’

Catelyn blinks then nods, ‘Yes.’ She says, ‘Jon wants Arya and Bran to have a say.’

‘Don’t _you_ want to have a say?’

‘Do you think I had a say in Sansa’s marriage to Rhaegar’s bastard? Did _Sansa_ have a say? Is she complaining about it _now_?’

Rhaenys looks down at her cup again, ‘What is your point?’

‘Do you know the words of my house, Rhaenys?’

‘Family, Duty, Honor.’

‘Exactly.’ Catelyn wraps her fingers around Rhaenys’ hand that hold the cup tight, ‘You seem to believe you are the only one who realizes we are at war, but you’re wrong. Sometimes, you are wrong.’

‘Sometimes I want to be wrong.’ Rhaenys says, and she watches Catelyn pull the cup from her hand.

Catelyn sighs, ‘We cannot afford to lose this war.’ She says, ‘If we lose, we all die. We must do what we must do.’

Rhaenys looks up, ‘I… I’m… I know I never… I’m sorry.’ She’s not sure what it is she apologizes for, but Catelyn seems to know, for she smiles and nods.

‘It’s quite alright.’

Rhaenys wishes she could take a sip of her wine when she sighs and admits, ‘Catelyn… I cannot bear children.’

Catelyn watches her for a long while and the news does not seem to shock her when she blinks and nods before her voice is as soft as ever when she whispers, ‘That explains some things.’

‘Now you can understand why I shall never make Robb happy.’ Rhaenys says and tries to grab for her cup but Catelyn moves it away, ‘I am a horrible woman.’

‘Sometimes, yes.’ Catelyn says and she still smiles, ‘But mostly that is because you choose to be. I think you’d save yourself so many headaches if you didn’t so desperately try to be better than the rest of us all the time.’

‘That is not…’ Rhaenys closes her eyes and feels anger well up, ‘I have to be, when no one else is doing what must be done. I always end up being that spiteful bitch who reminds everyone of all the things they don’t want to think about. I must always go on and on about duty and responsibility, and the burden of power because _someone_ must say it. I speak of arranged marriages and Jon looks at me as if I am the female Stranger, I tell him his cousin is a valuable pin we’ve been allowing to waste away and he tells me not to speak of her as if she’s cattle, well… she _is_ cattle. I was cattle when I married your son in this castle and so were you when you married your lord husband in that same sept twenty years before that. It does not _help_ to use pretty words sometimes. We must win this war, if we want to do what it takes to win it, we _need_ to marry people to other people.’

‘It is the words you choose, Rhaenys.’ Catelyn says, ‘Sometimes you are so terrible direct.’

‘Being direct saves me time.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I cannot afford to lose precious time because my brother is too sensitive for the truth.’

Catelyn smiles a little, ‘I think… Do you want to know what I think?’

‘ _Of course_.’ Rhaenys doesn’t mean to sound as sarcastic as she does, but she can’t help it. Catelyn pretends she doesn’t hear.

‘I think your brother’s sensitivity reminds you of your father.’

‘What do _you_ know about my father?’ Rhaenys rudely pulls her cup back from Catelyn’s hand.

‘One cannot be strong when he knows nothing of weakness.’ Is all Catelyn says, ‘Jon fights for his family.’

Rhaenys cannot help but agree, yet she’d never say it aloud, ‘I don’t want him to make my father’s mistakes.’ She admits then, and she never expected to ever admit that to anyone.

‘Perhaps you must trust him.’

‘I _trust_ him.’ Rhaenys says and she feels strong saying it.

‘Good.’ Is all Catelyn says, ‘Then perhaps you might consider getting off his back a little, and have faith in him knowing what is right? If your opinions have sense he’ll hear it. He might not instantly agree, but you have your words, they are your greatest talent, you can make him see what he must see without losing your self-control. He’ll always listen to you, you are his Hand _and_ his sister. A wise king listens to his council and there’s no man ever who shall dare to deny the value of your knowledge.’

Rhaenys sighs, ‘I have been trying to… I want to suggest he might convert to the faith of the Seven. It is the Faith of nearly all our people, and I believe we need the support of the Faith, of the High Septon, so he can be crowned as Aegon the Conqueror was.’

‘You want him to give up the faith of his mother?’

Rhaenys points at Catelyn’s face, ‘Here… you see? Your face? They’ll look at me just like that when I’ll say it. They’ll get angry with me for being cold and demanding and… _all of that_.’

‘Then stop being cold and demanding.’

‘I’m _not_. I simply… I say what others don’t want to hear.’

‘Telling Sansa she must have a son won’t make her have a son sooner. She is aware, you do not need to tell her.’

‘But she-‘

‘We can let our hearts be weak and love those we care about without losing the sight of duty.’

‘I _know_ that, but… I am Jon’s Hand, he lets me take care of all these letters and you have no idea how many proposals I receive _weekly_ for Freia’s hand… I do not even dare show them to him. Sometimes there’s sense in them, you know? Sometimes I think… Gods, yes, if Freia marries the heir to the Vale, we could be rid of the Arryn boy and I shall no longer have to worry about a knights of the Vale boobytrap, or, you know… marry her off to the Hightowers, if we lose their support we might… I cannot even _begin_ to think about losing the support of Oldtown… but then… Jon cannot _see_ that Freia is not the daughter of a bastard. She’s a princess, she was a pin on the board game the moment she was born.’

‘And you think Jon doesn’t know that?’

‘He has a hard time behaving as if he knows!’

‘Sometimes people choose not to mention things or speak of it because saying it aloud simply serves no purpose.’

‘But-‘

‘I think Jon lies awake at night, knowing his children are pins on the boardgame.’

Rhaenys feels her hand tighten around her cup and realizes she has little words to respond to that, for she knows he does. She knows Jon knows, and partly that’s why his ignorance annoys her so.

‘He loves them, he wishes to protect them more than anything, don’t shame him for that.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Sometimes you do.’

‘I-‘

‘You must stop mocking him for being a father.’

‘I don’t _mock_ him, I-‘

‘You are his sister, you mock him whenever you see a chance, and he mocks you back. You two are quite remarkable.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

Catelyn sighs then and thinks before she carefully says, ‘You are Hand of the king, so _be_ Hand. Serve him with your logic and accept that Sansa gives him things he needs too. Things that seem to serve no purpose at first sight but… as I said, a senseless king will be no use to you and your war either.’

‘I don’t want to be the spiteful angry woman anymore.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘I’m tired.’

‘I would be too.’ Catelyn smiles and Rhaenys feels herself smile back, ‘You are winning this war for him with your anger, spite, logic, cruel honesty and cold reasoning.’ She says, ‘Don’t think I do not know that. Jon knows it too, and Robb and Sansa.’

‘Jon may fight the battles with his sword, but I can fight battles too. I fight battles with my quill, paper and a raven.’

Catelyn nods, ‘And Jon _knows_ that.’ She repeats before she tries to pull the cup back from Rhaenys’ hand, ‘Now, _stop_ drinking, because wine is not at all good for the child.’

The cup drops down on the stone floor and the purple-dark color of the wine spills everywhere. Rhaenys jumps off from her stool and glares, ‘Sansa promised not to say!’

Catelyn laughs, ‘Rhaenys dear, I do not need Sansa to tell me, any woman who bore five children can see, any woman with _eyes_ can see.’

‘W-what?’

‘You are already showing.’

‘I am… I am _not_!’

‘You're gaining weight on a diet of wine, then?’

‘I… yes!’

‘Why do you tell me you cannot have a child when you’re carrying one?’

‘Because I can’t!’

‘What fool thing makes you believe that?’

‘I…’ Rhaenys takes a step away and the world starts turning around her, ‘Maesters.’

‘Maesters know nothing of women.’ Catelyn only says, and she says it with a wave, ‘Not even the best of them.’

‘Stop it.’ Rhaenys breathes, ‘I do not want to… I cannot speak of it, I cannot become a mother.’

‘Of course you can, you are a wedded woman.’

‘The maesters all told me.’

‘Have you not gone to see one?’ Catelyn asks and she looks worried suddenly, ‘You really must.’

‘ _No_.’

‘Foolish is not your usual choice of behavior.’ Catelyn says, ‘Nor is reckless.’ She stands up too and grabs the cup of the floor, ‘If you want, I could-‘

‘I don’t want anything from you.’ Rhaenys says and she realizes her eyes burn again, ‘And if you dare write a word of this to Robb I shall- I shall… I will not ever forgive you.’

Catelyn seems not very impressed by these words, yet she promises, ‘I will not write to Robb, then.’

‘Well… thank you.’ Rhaenys wants, in that moment, nothing more but to be furiously angry, to perhaps even yank that candleholder to the woman’s head, though that might cause permanent damage- yet, all she can do is cry, and damned Catelyn comforts her, because that is, or so it seems, what Catelyn is best at.

‘Oh you poor thing…’ she hushes as she strokes through Rhaenys’ hair, ‘You need a belly filled with decent food, a good night’s sleep, some dreamwine and a hug.’

Rhaenys wants to disagree but again, there's simply no power, ‘C-Catelyn I-‘

‘All women are unbearable at this stage, you know, it'll all go by. You can cast your frustrations off to whatever and whomever you choose, I know the feeling.’ She holds Rhaenys’ face between her warm soft hands and smiles the warmest, softest smile, ‘How are the mornings? Do you want me to find you some lemons? They help, you know.’

‘L-lemons?’

‘Are you ill in the morrows?’

Rhaenys nods then feels like crying some more because she's afraid of going to sleep, going to sleep means waking up and feeling miserable.

‘Come.’ Catelyn says, ‘I'll help you out of this ridiculously tight dress, undo your hair and we'll put you in some good, clean cotton nightdress, hmm? Some soup perhaps? You must try and eat throughout the day, not at specific moments, that fights the nausea, though soon, you'll be ridiculously hungry at all times.’

Rhaenys says nothing as she feels like a child when Catelyn escorts her to her room, rambling on about this thing that Rhaenys knows nothing about, never expected to have to know anything about.

Catelyn runs her a bath, waves the maids away and the moment Rhaenys sinks down in the tub she realizes how much her hands have been trembling.

‘You'll take many more baths.’ Catelyn says, ‘It'll comfort the baby. Sansa spend the last three days before Mylaena came lying in a tub.’

Rhaenys can only look down at her own reflection in the water, see through it and glare at her thighs, her wider, fuller thighs, and her breasts too. These are even worse. Her body doesn't feel like her body anymore, as if it's been taken over by something else, _someone_ else.

‘I can dry myself, thank you.’ Rhaenys says, pulling the blanket from Catelyn's hands.

‘I wasn't going to do that for you, you're not a child.’ Catelyn laughs it off, ‘Now, _stay here_ , in your room, I'll get you something to eat.’

Rhaenys wishes she could eat the way her Septa taught her, but it's almost as if her mind forgot. If there was little of her headache left after the bath, it fades as she eats.

‘We’re good at sprout in the Riverlands.’ Catelyn decides.

‘My father loved to fish.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I was here before, in Riverrun, with my father, Egg and Jon-‘

‘Egg?’

‘My brother. We always called him Egg.’ Rhaenys chews on her mashed potato and swallows it before she continues, ‘Father always tried to teach him how to fish, but Egg would have none of it. He wouldn't even touch the worms.’

‘Your father fished when he was here?’

‘Undoubtedly. It was his escape, I think.’

‘Ah… that makes some sense. One should make no sound when fishing.’

‘Yes I… yes.’ Rhaenys has truly never looked at it in such a way, but that makes far too much sense. She wants to hit herself for never making the connection. Fishing always seemed so dull to her, and Rhaegar liked lots of dull things.

‘I heard him sing once, a long time ago. And when he was at Winterfell of course.’

‘When I was little… father even sang to soldiers. It stopped when… he never sang when he grew older.’

‘That's what age does to a man.’

Rhaenys wants to shake her head and say, _That’s what losing Lyanna Stark did to my father_ , but she can't.

‘Aegon wasn't what father needed him to be, and the king never left a moment unused to let his son know.’ Rhaenys then confesses, she's not sure why, perhaps speaking one truth brings up all the others.

‘That's cruel.’

‘Perhaps it is.’ Rhaenys never saw it that way, she saw it as something unavoidable. What Rhaegar wanted was too important, yet she never failed to understand that his wants would always go unanswered.

‘I know how Aegon died.’

‘I don't even know how he died.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I wasn't there.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Well… he left me no note and never uttered a word of good-bye. I was left to guess.’

‘Were you? How many guesses can you have?’

‘Not so many.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘He left us all with this mess.’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘In a way? He should not have… had he lived all could have been different.’ Rhaenys cannot recall ever having this conversation before, not even with Robb, especially not with Jon. Every time Rhaenys mentions Aegon to Jon, all it does is unleash built up frustration, ‘Jon blames Aegon.’

‘Do you believe he ended it to punish you?’

‘Me?’

‘You, Jon, your father…?’

Rhaenys doesn't need to think about that for long, ‘No.’ she says, ‘Aegon died because he could no longer stand it to live.’

‘But Jon does not believe that?’

‘Jon needs someone to blame.’ That's not entirely true and Rhaenys knows it, ‘Aegon was always jealous of him.’

‘Of Jon?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Aegon shamed Rhaegar, Jon made him proud.Jon was what father needed Aegon to be.’

Catelyn says nothing then, but Rhaenys believes she understands what that all meant.

‘You should have seen his face when… when he found out Sansa was pregnant. Not with Freia… the first time, I mean.’

‘The first… oh.’

‘When they… You told Ned, about Sansa’s pregnancy. When you came to the capital.’

‘Yes, that is… I did.’

‘And Ned told my father, me and Aegon.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘You should've seen his face.’

‘Was he… was he angry?’

‘ _Jealous_.’ Rhaenys hates the word, jealousy is more useless than hate, ‘Father was so _proud_ , and… well, they had only been married for, how long? Three moonturns? We could not have dared hope for such a soon _fruition_ , so to speak. It was joyous news, and at the time, father could use some joyous news. He could've been… I think he might've been a good grandfather, if given the chance.’

Catelyn’s blue, big Tully eyes watch Rhaenys as she listens carefully, and as so often, the woman reminds Rhaenys of Sansa. Always listening.

‘Jon was happily married, rode a horse like a centaur, the best swordsman of his age in the capital back then, handsome, well-built, healthy as the day is long, charming, witty, calculated, clever, he spoke his languages and all… he was so promising. He could not be more perfect until he was about to become a father. That made him as perfect as a king’s bastard can be.’

‘Well-‘

‘You must understand… Aegon was charming too, and clever, perhaps not so healthy and not so good on a horse but… in many ways Aegon and Jon were much alike. Aegon could have been a good king, had he been not so selfish. His selfishness made him arrogant, delusional and unaware of duty. Jon was always aware of his duty. When father told him to marry Sansa Stark he sputtered about how he _didn't understand_ , but he not for a moment dared to disobey a king’s order. Aegon made it a sport, at one point, to disobey as many orders as he possibly could. He refused to marry when father send his lover away and there the great drama truly started. Though I dare say it began really when Aegon was caught touching his square. That was… not something my father ever wanted to happen again.’

‘His square?’

‘All court spoke of it. Then we went on this trip… we visited so many places. I think father believed he could drag out the story when he pulled Aegon away from King’s Landing. He shouldn't have… that trip made it all worse, because when we came to Storm’s End, he met Renly Baratheon.’

‘Renly…’

‘Yes Renly. His square was an accident, or an incident, whatever you choose to name it… but Renly was a problem that caused my father two of his four heart attacks.’

‘Two of the four?’

‘The other one was when Jon told him he wanted to join the Wall, though Jon doesn't really know that… and the fourth one… well, he did not live after the fourth.’

‘He had a weak heart for a man his age.’

‘A king’s days are too long and his life is too short.’

Catelyn seems almost worried then and Rhaenys decides to talk over it.

‘Aegon never liked Jon, he always knew, I think… that he was father’s back-up. He didn't like it that father believed he needed one. He proved his own father right in the end. Though I'm the first to admit it was not his fault that he happened to love men. It was… something he could do nothing about. The Gods know how much that must've frustrated him.’

‘He loved men?’

‘The way we love men.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Do you?’ Rhaenys doesn't mean to glare, she hopes she doesn't, but she doubts Catelyn sees a thing, not when it comes to this.

‘I do.’ Catelyn says, ‘Ned always said he believed it was the reason for my uncle Bryden to refuse all the hands in marriages my father offered him. It caused a great distance between them. My father even went on an on about it on his deathbed.’

It's Rhaenys’ turn to say, ‘Oh.’

‘He became a knight, took his own colors even, in a way. Since then they call him Blackfish, and my father never forgave him.’

‘Ser Bryden is a magnificent knight.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Do you think he would… I and Jon are trying to decide whom to ask for the white cloak. Would he consider? If he does not wish to take a wife?’

‘He might.’ Catelyn nods, ‘And he _is_ a magnificent knight. He'd be ever so loyal.’

‘Loyalty should never go unappreciated.’

‘Very true.’ Catelyn hands Rhaenys a napkin, which she takes to wipe her hands.

'I always sent Sansa's maid away, when she was still a girl.' Catelyn tells her as she makes Rhaenys sit down in a chair and unbraids her hair, 'So I could brush her hair out myself, until it looked like molten copper. Everyone said she had my look... but at an early age on I knew she'd be more beautiful than I ever was.' 

‘I-I must see a maester then?’ Rhaenys hears herself whisper when she sits in front of her mirror, looking at the bags under her red eyes as Catelyn pulls a brush through her daughter-in-law’s hair.

‘In the morrow?’ Catelyn suggests, ‘The castle is sleeping now.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

Catelyn smiles that smile again and suddenly decides to continue her rambling about the discomforts of pregnancy. At one point she mentions Robb some more, tells her what a perfect little baby he was, her first boy.

‘I did not even know Ned.’ Catelyn says, ‘Robb was a wedding night babe. Ned came and left me with a full belly, he came into the world at Riverrun. When I arrived in Winterfell, Jon was already there, a little over a year old.’

Catelyn looks up from Rhaenys’ hair at Rhaenys’ face and her smile fades when she sees the silent tears, ‘I’m sorry.’ Again, Rhaenys is not sure what she apologizes for, probably for being a complete and utter bitch to everyone and everything, including that damn brush Catelyn holds in her hands, this very morning.

Rhaenys, what are you afraid of?’

‘I'm not afrai-‘ Rhaenys stops herself when she realizes she's too tired to lie.

Catelyn places the brush down and instead, rubs her fingers through the thick locks, as thick as Rhoynar hair, ‘Every mother is afraid.’

Rhaenys feels some more tears drop down, ‘I'm not a mother.’

Catelyn kneels down and places her hand to the tiniest baby bump, ‘Soon you’ll be.’

Rhaenys can only shake her head, ‘I'm not that woman.’

‘The Gods disagree.’

‘The Gods have never liked me, I suspect they disagree on purpose.’

Catelyn chuckles, ‘Oh Rhaenys…’ she says, like she so often does, ‘Fear means you care.’

‘Sometimes it means we’re not ready, and know that… we’ll never be ready.’

Catelyn pushes a lock of hair behind Rhaenys’ ear, ‘I did not know your father all that well, but what I know of him, I see in you. Too high expectations of yourself and the people around you.’

‘Jon looks most like father.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And Egg had his face, his hair and eyes… I am my mother’s daughter.’

‘I did not know your mother at all.’ Catelyn confesses, ‘But if you are anything like her… then I assume she was a very strong woman.’

Rhaenys lifts her hand to aggressively rub tears off her cheeks, ‘S-she was.’

Catelyn nods, ‘She is with the Mother now, and she watches over you.’

‘I… I….’ Rhaenys wants to say she misses her mother, but for some reason, she doesn't, she can't, ‘I know s-she does.’

Catelyn dries Rhaenys’ face with a napkin, ‘All mother do.’

‘I love Robb.’ Rhaenys blurts out, ‘I do.’

Catelyn almost grins then, as if it's funny, it really isn't though, ‘I _know_.’

‘I hurt him.’ Rhaenys confesses some more.

‘He hurt you too.’

‘Not… not like _that_ , I deserve his anger.’

Catelyn takes Rhaenys’ hand in hers and looks at it, her thumb rubs the olive color of the back of it, then she sighs, ‘Robb loves you too. I know you do not believe much in silly songs… but love really _does_ conquer all. I may not know as much as you do about politics and scheming, but don't you dare think I don't know people.’

‘I don't think that.’ Rhaenys quickly says. She remembers that one time Catelyn came to visit her in Dorne. It excited her to have a woman come and visit her, and Catelyn did not disappoint. She remembers how Catelyn tried to stop Robb, when he wanted to send the Greyjoy boy away. If only he'd listened.

‘And I know Robb too, and I see the way he looks at you, so… perhaps you must not only have more faith in Jon, but have some more faith in Robb, too.’

Rhaenys doesn't expect the tear when it rolls down, ‘But he send me away.’

‘Are you the type of woman who allows her lord husband to send her away?’

Rhaenys shakes her head and Catelyn smiles some more.

‘I’ll help you.’ She promises then.

‘For Robb?’

‘Yes.’ Catelyn helps Rhaenys get up, ‘For Robb and the little babe… and for _you_ , you're my daughter by law, that makes you family. Family comes first, before duty and honor.’

Rhaenys nods, and she realizes she never looked at the Tully words in that order, or in any order.

‘Drink it all.’ Catelyn says when she offers her the cup of Dreamwine, ‘Till the last drop.’ And Rhaenys does, after which she sinks away so quickly, she doesn't even notice Catelyn leaving, and it's almost as if the woman stays until she's sure Rhaenys is sleeping.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon holds Mylaena up in his arms, not in the crook the way he almost imagined he’d hold a baby, he quickly figured out people hardly hold babies in the crook of their arm, but up against his chest, the little head cradled in his hand.

‘Look at that.’ He whispers to her tiny baby ear, ‘It’s you.’

Mylaena looks at the reflection of herself in the mirror and her wide eyes say very little but confusion. She moves her hands, two fists, and when she spreads her fingers out she grasps for his hair.

‘It’s you.’ Jon says again.

Mylaena moves her hands some more, then grabs a lace of Jon’s tunic and moves it to her mouth to stick it in there until she looks at the mirror and doesn’t spot herself, but something she recognizes.

She smiles then, at him. She _smiles_ - and Jon can’t help but grin back, so wide his jaw aches.

Jon feels Mylaena smiles most at him. He hasn’t said that out loud, but he just can’t help himself but make the conclusion. She smiles whenever she sees him, he walks into a room, she’s lying in her crib, sticking her foot in her mouth, and she smiles. She smiles when he lifts her up in the morning, and she smiles when he he places her down in her crib.

Jon expected to need bonding when he met Freia, but he never, for some reason, expected to need bonding with Mylaena. Perhaps because he never thought he missed out on a lot, not the way he did with Freia, and he didn’t, not so gruesomely and cruelly, but yet… they still needed bonding.

When Jon first saw her, he expected to feel that burst of love, the same way he feels it when he looks at Freia. But it wasn’t there. All there was, was insecurity and discomfort. Jon had never had a baby before, not _really_ , and as much as she felt like his, his baby, she did not feel like his daughter. He felt forever responsible, proud, an overwhelming sense of purpose… but no love. Not that unconditional love. And he felt such an surge of guilt whenever he realized.

But with time, it grew, and once it was there, it was all-consuming… and it started with the smiling.

‘Sansa, she’s _smiling_!’ he said.

‘Myllie…’ Sansa whispered and she took the two grasping hands into her own, ‘Mylaena, my pretty baby…’

She’s always using that high pitched, goofy, smitten voice and Mylaena loves it, she moves her hands up to grab for her mother’s face, kicks actively and coos.

‘Who has squishy cheeks? Yes, _you do_!’

Jon may not be perfect, he may have his flaws, he’s happy to embrace these knowing he’s good at one thing surely, and that’s making pretty babies, though Sansa claims he only helped.

One day, Mylaena and Freia are going to grown-up, they’ll be ladies, wearing dresses, their hair long, their eyes blue, their hair auburn or red or chestnut… and he’ll be responsible for that. Whatever he does now, all he’ll say to them, all he’ll ask of them, force them to do, allow them to do… will shape them to what they’ll be. Nothing has ever scared Jon as much as knowing that.

Mylaena is, in her own baby way, amazed and fascinated by everything. Lights, fabrics, Sansa's hair, fingers… and seeing her amazement, makes Jon feel amazed too. Seeing her amazement makes him determined to keep her that way, to keep her and Freia appreciative, grateful and happy with the smallest things, the way they are now. Knowing they’ll grow up makes him feel almost angry, because it’s simply not fair. He doesn’t want them to become as scornful as all people are, to have regrets. Most of all, he wants to be there for them, he always promised, but that was so much out of duty, out of spite to his own father, now it has simply nothing to do with Rhaegar.

Being a good father is not about Rhaegar anymore, it hasn’t been for over a year, it’s all about Freia and Mylaena.

He holds Freia in his lap as she sleeps and look at the crib in the one corner, Sansa sleeping on the sofa in the other, and he wishes he could tell them that they can become whatever they want to become in their life… knowing he’ll never be able to say that, hurts more than all the wounds that caused the scars covering his body.

It took Sansa days to finally stop jumping up and instructing him carefully on how to do everything, ready to jump in when he failed. Perhaps Sansa needed to get used to it too.

‘It’s not easy.’ Sansa said once, ‘You think they’re so little so it must be easy, but it’s not easy.’ And Jon now thinks that _not easy_ is an understatement.

He wakes up every night to Mylaena’s wailing and he feels the urge to pull a pillow over his head to cover his ears but when he drags himself upright Sansa is already standing next to the crib in the left corner of the room, hushing softly and then, when the castle sleeps, in the middle of the night, she moves back into the bed with the baby and there Mylaena drinks, wrapping her small fingers around one of Sansa’s, or she places her wrinkly palm to the perky breast feeding her, staring up at her mother as if she can't wait to be capable of speaking.

Sansa and even Catelyn asked him if he minds, and if he’s honest, he sometimes feels like dragging himself to his own bed, yet, when he wakes up in the morning, he forgets the sleepless night and the constant crying when he peeks into the crib and sees Mylaena’s happy face.

Seeing Sansa feed their baby, sitting upright in their bed, with no light but the moonlight emphasizing her high cheekbones… that is something he once didn’t believe he'd ever be lucky enough to witness, and he’s too sentimental and too grateful to give up on it simply because it causes him bags under his eyes.

Sansa seems to enjoy nursing, she seems completely relaxed and content in that moment, which is so intimate, she described it once as cocoon-like, the closeness, she said it is as if the rest of the world blurs away.

Jon sometimes feels like looking away, to allow them their privacy, though that’s hard, because he loves looking at it, and he never expected that either. Being the father to a baby slowly became a chain of things he never expected to feel, think and do.

 

‘Can you wave at yourself?’ Jon asks but Mylaena only smiles some more and makes the little noises she always makes that he learned to love so much. He holds Mylaena close to his neck, right against his chest and swaddles her in a blanket as he hums a non-existing song. It’s the way Catelyn taught him.

Jon pecks her chubby cheek and waves at her instead, and that makes her giggle her baby laugh and he’s very much enjoying himself with that when a flushes Sansa barks in and ruins his bubble. As much as Sansa can ruin bubbles.

‘You did not tell me Robb knows.’ Is all she says, and she moves her hands to her hips and glares.

‘About what?’

‘About Rhaenys being barren.’

Jon can’t help but feel immensely confused then, so all he can do is blink and stutter, ‘No, I… I’m sorry, I should have.’

‘Why didn't you?’

Jon tries to realize why he didn't tell her and decides to answer as truthfully as he possibly can, ‘I suppose that I have pushed all of that to the back of my head ever since I came here.’

‘You're being ignorant?’

‘I don't want to spend these few days that I can be here, worrying over Robb.' Jon admits, 'If that makes me a terrible person, then so be it.’

Sansa licks her lips to give herself some time to respond then shakes her head and sweetly smiles, ‘Of course not, but you must understand it's not the same for your sister. She hates it here. She doesn't handle boredom well, never has, and you know that.’

Jon can't help but smile at that, ‘No, I mean, _yes_ , but Robb told me to take her and she didn't protest. I think it's good for them to be… to not see each other. So they can think.’

‘You and Robb are deciding about Rhaenys’ whereabouts without confiding in her? That's bold.’

‘We didn't –‘

Sansa moves over and pulls Mylaena from his arms, ‘Robb has every right to be extremely angry, I hope you realize that.’

‘I do.’

‘Good.’ Sansa sits down in the sofa in front of the fire, Mylaena in her lap, and sighs.

‘It's not about me.’ Jon says, ‘I can handle Robb’s wrath.’

‘Can you?’

‘ _Yes_ , I can. Anyway, I deserve it and I know that. I don't feel sorry for myself. Rhaenys is the one who can't handle his anger.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘You’ve discussed it much with her?’

With Rhaenys? Well, we would-‘

‘Of course not.’ Sansa shakes her head some more, ‘The two of you are quite impossible.’

‘What is there to discuss? It is what it is, I can't change the situation for her, I wouldn't be able to, even if I-‘

‘Why should you change the situation? You only caused it, didn't you?’

Jon can't help but raise his eyebrows at her sarcasm and he makes sure he stands up straight when he says, ‘I forced her to do nothing, I merely _suggested_ it to her, because I wanted to save Robb’s ass, because I knew I needed peace to get you back- If one must be blamed it's Arianne, _she’s_ the one who felt too good for him, her -‘

‘Rhaenys is pregnant.’ Sansa then says and Jon can't help but laugh, though not for long.

He tries to find the perfect word to describe that news and can only come up with one, ‘That's impossible.’

Sansa only shrugs.

Jon moves over to her and she turns her head up to look at him, ‘Why would you say that?’

‘She told me herself and mother mentioned it this evening… we agree it's quite clear.’

Jon decides not to ask for many more details and he sinks down beside her.

‘Mother says… mother says she’ll let a maester look at her in the morning, she hasn’t yet.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Why do you think?’ Sansa says and she rocks Mylaena a little when the baby makes some whiny sounds, ‘She's as stubborn as her brother, that's why.’

Jon raises his eyebrows, ‘Rhaenys is convinced she cannot have a child.’

‘She is wrong.’ Sansa says as if it is that simple, it is not, ‘I have to admit, I have a hard time imagining Rhaenys as a mother.’

Jon wants to agree but then remembers, ‘Once I couldn't imagine you as mother either.’

Sansa smiles her sweetest smile and looks down at Mylaena, who’s trying to stick her fist in her mouth, ‘I could never be like Rhaenys, I would be so tired all the time.’

Jon laughs, ‘She does enjoy making her own life complicated and difficult.’

‘Maybe that is what she wants?’ Sansa asks, ‘Rhaenys likes to… she enjoys the game, she's good at it, she loves to play with the pieces and she has done so for many years.’

‘She is-‘

‘She should be who she wants to be, as I do. I intend to be happy, I’ve wasted too long being unhappy, if this is the only life I'll ever have I… I intend to live it the way I wish as much as I possibly can.’

‘Well, that is-‘

‘Very long ago I wanted silks and songs, lemon cakes and great feasts, I wanted to become a queen and have silver haired babies and I enjoyed the idea of Arya kneeling to me and calling me _your grace_.’

‘I don't think I'll ever give you silver haired babies.’

Sansa grins, ‘I don't care what color hair they have, so long as they’re yours.’

Jon looks down at Mylaena and the baby’s eyes stare right back, ‘The babies didn't disappoint, did they?’

Sansa snorts, ‘Oh no, most of the time they do not, no.’ she bites her lower-lip, gets up and lays the baby down in the crib. Jon watches her move the rocking crib for a moment until he confesses,

‘Rhaenys wants to marry Arya and Bran off.’

Sansa doesn’t seem at all surprised by that, ‘Good, Arya is nineteen, it’s time.’

‘Are you serious? Shouldn’t we focus on the war, leave the marriages to the future?’

Sansa grins then, ‘You’re such a man, you think wars are all won with battles… Don’t forget your own father ended the uprising of his reign by marriage.’

‘His grossest mistake.’

‘Was it? I’m sure Cersei back then was much better at hiding how absolutely out of her wits she is.’

‘It got worse. Cersei, I mean. Her paranoia and her drinking got worse.’ Jon admits, ‘Who knows how things might’ve went if she had learned to know her place.’

‘Too late to wonder now.’

‘I still think we should wait with the wedding planning.’

‘Why? Arya is nineteen.’

‘Arya is not going to like it.’ Jon realizes.

‘What Arya does or does not like is of no importance, everyone must be wedded, whether they like it or not, for their house, it is duty. If Arya can marry for her house and for the good of our war cause then she must marry soon.’

‘I would like to give Arya a say, nonetheless.’ Jon says.

‘Well, that’s very sweet of you, but I’m afraid Arya never wants what is best for her, she’ll refuse anyone you’ll throw her way just to make her statements.’

‘Even if she’ll like him?’

‘She won’t like him, she won’t want to. That is how Arya is.’

‘I told Rhaenys to discuss it with Robb, she’ll need his approval.’

‘I don’t think Rhaenys wants to go to Robb for anything at all.’

‘Why not?’

Sansa looks up at him with a frown of disbelief, ‘What exactly did Robb say to you?’

‘Not much, just… He asked me why I married him off to a barren woman, he asked how I could do that to Rhaenys-‘

‘Typical.’ Sansa smiles but her eyes are dark, ‘He's been married to her for how many years now? Robb still believes Rhaenys allows you to force her into anything. Surely, it wasn't your best idea, but Rhaenys was not dragged to the sept.’

Jon feels an urge to kiss her then, ‘Nor did she cry and beg for weeks, threatened to run away, wondered aloud if her little sister of fifteen years wasn't the better choice-‘

‘I am the only one who gets to bring that up.’ Sansa says, ‘Listen, Jon… It's wrong to blame you for it all, and I do absolutely refuse to ignore Rhaneys’ own doing. Robb should not have asked you why you _allowed_ Rhaenys to do anything, but you musn’t hold it against him. I'm sure he feels furiously betrayed.’

I figured I'd better wait until she started speaking of it to me.’ Jon explains, ‘To give her some room, some time to… to think.’

‘Rhaenys needs no time to overthink more than she already does.’

Jon can't help but agree and he curses himself, ‘How did Robb initially respond? Has she told you?’

‘She didn’t say, not really, but clearly it bothers her greatly.’ Sansa bites her lower lip, ‘You betrayed Robb as much as Rhaenys did, you lied to him too. Rhaenys believed she owed you, that is why she did it.’

Jon shots up, ‘I promised her an annulment. It is not my fault that Robb and Rhaenys have- that things got out of hand.’

‘ _Things_ got out of hand?’ Sansa frowns, ‘You’re so unsympathetic.’

‘ _How_?’

Sansa shakes her head at his stupidity, ‘Because… They fell in love, that is not an inconvenience. Rhaenys lied to him for over a year.’

‘That is not my fault, the moment they bedded I told her to tell him, I urged her to, but she never did.’

‘She has now. Too late yes, but only imagine how hard that must have been for her.’

‘She made it harder every day.’ Jon says and Sansa shrugs.

‘That is true, but it is that way with all lies, at one point you’re so tangled up you can pretend they’re not there and you simply don’t know how to change that.’

‘If you’re right… If you and Cat are right and she is pregnant the problem is solved.’

‘Jon…’ Sansa sighs and looks back down at Mylaena, to avoid looking at his face it seems, ‘Robb is not angry because she is barren, he is angry because she lied to him about it.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘Because I know Robb.’ She says, ‘And so do you, though you seem to have forgotten. You two have lied to him for far too long in a humiliating way about something so important. He must feel so isolated.’

‘You knew too!’ Jon says and Sansa finally looks up again and snorts.

‘Please, you sound like a baby.’ She looks down at Mylaena in the crib, ‘He sounds like a baby, doesn’t he?’

‘Sansa-‘

‘Instead of telling her to stop whining you could be a little more supportive, she needs you right now. She won’t listen to me and she definitely won’t listen to mother but the past has proven to me that she might listen to you.’

‘What do you want me to say to her? _Rhaenys, Sansa told me you’re pregnant, is there anything I can do to help_?’

‘Mayhaps?’

‘So, I must hold her hand? Rhaenys is not the person who needs others to hold her hand.’

‘You’re wrong. She has been there for you all that time that I couldn’t, how much is it to ask to let her know she’s not alone in this? I think that she trusts you enough to be weak in front of you. Allow her to be and _listen_ , she just needs you to listen. She’s terrified Jon.’

‘You put too much faith in our relationship.’ Jon says.

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I don’t think I do.’

They’re silent for a couple of minutes during which he stares in the fire and she unbraids her own hair, ‘Freia’s really making progress with riding, you should’ve seen her today, she loves it so much.’

‘Just be careful.’

‘The pony is very small, and she sits on it as if she was born on it, she’ll be a better rider than I am when she grows up.’

‘She doesn’t get it from me.’ Sansa says.

‘She holds the steers and she beams, you must allow her to keep riding once I’m gone.’

At that mention, Sansa looks up and frowns, ‘When will that be?’

‘A couple of days. The sooner I leave the sooner I’m back.’

‘So, you have a plan? To take the capital?’

‘Multiple plans.’ Jon says.

‘Multiple?’

‘It all depends on… We believe the capital and Tommen’s politics are very unstable. The city is on my side, Cersei has no allies, not after losing Highgarden, we must only keep a firm and careful eye on the Iron Islands but other than that… she’s all alone surrounded by enemies, we will probably be able to march through the Crownlands with one great swoop.’

‘I assume the intention is to save as many smallfolk life as possible?’

Jon nods, ‘Mayhaps Freia will be able to ride through the gates of King’s Landing on her own pony.’

‘Mayhaps my name is Cersei and my hair is made of Lannister gold.’ Sansa says.

‘Catelyn says she’s going to be quite something when she grows older.’

Sansa snorts, ‘I don’t need my mother telling me that. She was never easy, never took no for an answer, if you tell her she can’t she wants it even more… Worst of all is that she’s such a charmer and she knows it. I don’t need to tell you, you’re her favorite victim.’

‘I am not.’

‘You spoil her too much.’ Sansa says as she takes her shoes off.

Jon decides not to fight that accusation. He sits by Mylaena’s crib and watches Sansa’s maid help her out of her dress, then, when the girl leaves again, he gets rid of his own clothes as Sansa sings song about a roof of stars until Mylaena’s fast asleep.

‘You are going further North after I leave.’ Jon says as Sansa climbs in the bed with him, ‘I want you and the children at Winterfell.’

‘So far away? Are you sure? Don’t you want us to be closer?’

‘I want you to be safe and if Rhaenys is really pregnant it would be suitable if she could give birth to Robb’s possible heir in Winterfell.’

‘She won’t want to come.’

‘I don’t care, she can get as angry as she likes, if it’s for her own good I’ll turn deaf.’ Jon say and the idea alone makes him tired.

Sansa looks as if she knows exactly what that is like, and she probably really does. She moves her hand to stroke through his hair, ‘Yes, you’re very good at pretending to be deaf.’ She says and then giggles when he makes her pay for that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's pov of last chapter was supposed to come after Rhaenys' pov here, so i hoped you'd be perhaps a little more sympathetic of her (for some reason, but then I added the Catelyn/Rhaenys dialogue and I could only make it work in this way. I'm sure that all makes no sense, so I'm gonna go now, byeee!X


	58. A Spinning Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon may have enjoyed playing a God, Viserys may have once believed he was, Daenerys may call herself just that… Jon is extremely ordinary. Unfortunately, he is aware that Rhaenys is right, the realm doesn't want him to be ordinary. Maybe this is why his father always pretended to feel indifferent, because emotions are too damn human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not at all happy with this chapter, but I can't seem to actually find out what it is that I dislike so much. Probably the pace, and it's ridiculously long again, sorry for the ridiculously long chapters. I any case, yeah, chapter 59, here we go!

**Sansa**

* * *

 

‘Am I disturbing you?’

Sansa looks up from the baby in the crook of her arm and finds the door opening filled with the presence of her sister-in-law. She looks down at Mylaena again as Rhaenys closes the door and moves over to sit down opposite her on a chair, in front of the fire too.

‘I don’t want to move her away from the fire, it’s so cold in this castle.’ Sansa says, ‘It’s getting colder.’

‘Winter is coming.’

Sansa smiles, ‘Can you hear yourself? It’s the Stark in your belly doing the talking.’

Rhaenys blinks and says nothing during which Sansa wonders if she said the wrong thing, but she decides against asking and bites her lowerlip.

‘Do you want to hold her?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘She looks far too comfortable to be disturbed.’

Sansa smiles straightens Mylaena’s cotton hat, ‘She’s such a good baby.’ She says, ‘So sweet.’

Rhaenys says nothing as she pulls on the long sleeve of her black dress, lined with snow white fur, and it’s only when Sansa looks up that she sighs and says, ‘I owe you an apology.’

Sansa smiles then shakes her head, ‘Spare yourself the effort.’ She says, ‘I feel no desire to hear it, I know you, I have forgiven you for whatever you need forgiveness for long before.’

‘ _Still_.’

Sansa shrugs, ‘I have no time to worry about such things.’

‘You’re the most powerful woman in Westeros, I cannot have you be angry with me.’

That makes Sansa laugh, ‘Don’t be silly, I’m only me.’

‘You’re the _queen_.’

Sansa’s smile disappears, ‘My husband has yet to win his throne, and even then, I doubt I’ll ever be powerful in any way. People don’t listen to me.’

‘ _Jon_ listens to you.’

‘Well… Of course he does, he’ll regret it if he won’t.’

Sansa means it as a jest, but Rhaenys fails to hear it when she shakes her head, ‘You influence him. He asks for your opinion, your thoughts.’

‘He tells me everything, but he never asks for advice.’ Sansa says, quickly, she has always been very aware of the difference, ‘Jon is no fool, he knows I know too little to give him council of great value, he has you for that.’

‘You’re the queen.’ Rhaenys says again, ‘And you’re a deft woman. I’ve told Jon to include you in the world of politics more, and he’s told me he tells you of his daily worries.’

‘That’s true.’

‘You have to know.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Because you deserve better than to be left in the dark. I like to see Jon learn from his mistakes.’

‘His mistakes?’

‘He kept you in the dark before, I dare say he regretted it afterwards.’

‘He did.’

‘Which is why we shall not do it again.’ Rhaenys raises her head and watches Sansa for a moment as Sansa feels Mylaena swift again her, she moves her and makes her soft moany coos.

‘I don’t care for politics.’

‘Good.’ Rhaenys says and she finally smiles, ‘Those who want power, should never have it.’

‘Is that something your father told you?’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘Seems likely, yes.’

Sansa shakes her head in disbelieve and sighs, ‘So, what is it you want from me? Do you want me to _influence_ Jon, tell him to do what you want him to do? I convinced him to marry Arya and Bran off, has he told you that? I agreed with you, but he didn’t. He wanted to refuse.’

‘I figured.’ Rhaenys says and she still smiles, ‘I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I find you stupid.’

Sansa huffs, ‘I have been, at times.’

‘ _Never_ ,’ Rhaenys says, ‘Stupidity and nativity are not at all the same thing.’

‘Is naivety not stupid?’

‘No, not when you learn from your mistakes. Only stupid people, refuse to learn from their mistakes, admit to their flaws, to their faults. You would never deny a hard truth.’

‘Would you?’

‘I like to think I wouldn’t.’

Sansa nods and moves her gaze to stare at the dancing flames. The movements daze her and the weight of her baby is suddenly heavy in her arms.

‘Can I tell you something about power?’ Rhaenys asks and though Sansa doesn’t nod nor shake her head, she goes on to say, ‘It’s not about deserving. Jon doesn’t deserve power, nor do I or you. Power is not a right.’

‘I know that.’ Sansa says, ‘I may not have been raised to be cunning politician, but I was raised by my father all the same.’

‘Nobody who wants the Iron Throne _deserves_ to have it.’ Rhaenys adds, ‘Which is why I will never be queen.’

Sansa still stares at the flames when she asks, ‘Do you want to be queen?’

Rhaenys ignores that question, ‘You see… Wanting the Iron Throne equates to having absolute power, the might to decide over the lives of others. Jon doesn’t want the Iron throne, the only reason I ever got him to fight this war… was _you_.’

‘Me.’ Mylaena’s little hand escapes her loose swaddling clothes and Sansa takes it between her finger and thumb as she looks down to find the blue eyes.

‘That is why you are the most powerful woman in Westeros. Don’t ever underestimate your own influence.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘If Jon happens to die-‘

‘Don’t.’ Sansa feels a tug on her guts at the mere mention, and she instantly knows that whatever it is Rhaenys is about to say, it can’t be good.

‘He can die.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And it is necessary for us to discuss what shall happen when that happens.’

 _I’ll die too_ , Sansa wants to say, she feels like dying at the mere mention, but then Mylaena wriggles some more and coos as her hand grabs for a loose strand of Sansa’s hair. Sansa would not have the time to die, she never has the opportunity, nor the chance. She must stay alive, because the Gods granted her children, and Sansa can never leave, not even for Jon. _She’s hungry_ , Sansa thinks, ‘I should nurse her, it’s been rather long.’

Rhaenys nods and turns her face away when Sansa pulls her robe aside and helps her baby drink. Sansa rubs the fat baby cheek with her thumb and the tiniest fingers grab it and hold it tight.

‘Jon wants Freia to succeed him.’

Sansa places her forefinger under Mylaena’s chin to lift the little head up, to help the baby’s access, ‘Freia was much harder to nurse.’ She says, ‘Everything’s easier with Mylaena, somehow.’

‘That’s seem natural, doesn’t it?’ Rhaenys asks, ‘You have more experience now.’

Sansa nods.

‘Sansa…’ Rhaenys sighs and she moves her hand and places it to Sansa knee, ‘We must really discuss this.’

‘Can I not discuss it with Jon?’

‘If that is what you’d prefer.’ Rhaenys leans back in her chair again and studies Sansa some more, ‘But I don’t think you should, I don’t think it’s a subject the two of you can handle together, _rationally_. He does not want to give you reason to worry.’

‘If he believes he gives me no reason to worry he is an absolute blind idiot.’

Rhaenys bites her lip again, to hide a smile, Sansa suspects, ‘If Freia succeeds him, you shall be queen-mother and queen-regent. You know what a regent is.’

‘I do.’ Sansa says, ‘And that’s not me.’

‘No, but there is a chance that you might, one day, soon or even in ten years. Jon is not a God, he has the capacity to die. Sometimes people die suddenly, unexpectedly, with no warning.’

Sansa knows Rhaenys knows all about that, but there’s no reason to bring Aegon up. There’s never really a reason to bring Prince Aegon up, all his memory ever does is heat up arguments and tighten people’s throats.

‘There are some men who claim Jon has no heir and-‘

‘It weakens his position, I know.’ Sansa looks up and can’t help but glare, ‘I’m working on it, I promise.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘I fall asleep with his seed in my womb every night, praying for it to quicken so I have done my duty and when I wake up to the arrival of my moonblood, I curse.’

‘Your duty does not begin nor end there.’

‘Lords do an awfully good job at pretending.’ Sansa feels tears prick suddenly, her hands are sweaty and she feels warm, as Mylaena stops nursing at her mother’s discomfort and cries softly, ‘Ssshhh…’

‘You’ll have to raise a son too.’ Rhaenys says, ‘You’ll raise a king, you’ll teach him, love him, shape him.’

‘And is that why I am the most powerful woman in Westeros, too?’ Sansa cannot help but feel annoyed, ‘Because I’ll _raise a king_?’ Sansa is still not quite sure why she feels so upset. _He’ll never be a king to me_ , she vows then, _He’ll be my boy_.

‘You’re not raising one yet, but you _are_ raising princesses, and I am here to tell you- to _advice_ you, to speak with Jon about what you want.’

‘About what I want?’

‘When- _if_ he is suddenly to die. Do you want to be Freia’s regent? Do you-‘

‘Do _you_ want me to be Freia’s regent?’

Rhaenys looks at her, seems to choose her words carefully and then shakes her head, ‘No.’ She admits.

‘Then, as Jon’s Hand, I suggest you advise him just that.’

‘I did, and then, when he told me I should stop blaming you for lacking the education we enjoyed, the experience, I told _him_ that there’s an easy solution to this problem.’

‘Jon mustn’t die.’

Rhaenys smiles again, ‘We’re going to make you the best queen Westeros has ever known.’

Sansa can’t help narrow her eyes, ‘I’ll be good, you know? I can… I will make them love me.’

‘Please do, to make up for all the hate they feel for the Dornish queen.’

Sansa can’t help but laugh, ‘People hate you only because men cannot stand to see a woman be more capable than they are, they prefer women weak so they can enjoy their false impression of superiority.’

‘And that is how they play the game.’

‘The game of thrones?’ Sansa looks down and manages to help Mylaena drink again.

‘A wheel that keeps on spinning.’ Rhaenys says, ‘It never stops. The game of thrones is cyclic and continuous. The game is  _not_  over when you win, it _never_ ends.’ Rhaenys explains, ‘You lose when you die.’

‘I suppose that means I'm winning, because I still live.’

‘We’re only winning when we have the throne.’

 _That damn chair_ , Jon calls it, she'd never heard him call it that before, _My father always called it that, he was right. It is damned_.

‘The game goes on. Players get eliminated and are forgotten. Only the game remains. And the game… is not always one we play on the battlefield. I want to play it with as little lives as we possibly can.’

‘So you’ve said.’

‘Do you know what that means, a never stopping wheel… when it comes to _this_ war? Do you know what the hardest thing is about power?’

‘Keeping it?’

Sansa looks up and finds Rhaenys still smiling, almost amused now, ‘Mayhaps. I’d say keeping peace. It’s as overestimated as war.’

‘ _How_?’

‘It’s far harder. You can excuse your behavior, your mistakes, when you’re at war. When you are hoping for peace… you cannot afford so much.’

‘Are you saying the worst is yet to come?’

‘You saw how easily everyone jumped at the opportunity of fighting. Your brother, Cersei, the Iron Islands, even my uncles… all of them, they saw opportunities in fighting.’

‘But in the end, it’s unsatisfying.’ Sansa says, ‘You’ve told me. People always regret it afterwards.’

‘Yet they always end up falling back in the same pattern… why?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sansa admits though when Rhaenys says nothing she tries to answer all the same, ‘Because… peace never gives you what you hoped for. With war… there are only losers, no one wins.’

Rhaenys nods and she seems pleased, almost _proud_ at Sansa’s words, ‘Peace is not as glorious.’

‘So?’

‘We prepare for it long before it’s here.’

‘You want to prepare… for peace?’

‘One must always be prepared, preparation gives us a shot at avoiding mistakes, and a lack of mistakes may prohibit disaster.’

‘So… what do you suggest?’

‘I want a change of plans. We are making peace with our enemies, that’s why it’s called peace.’

Mylaena is still peacefully nursing, as she does most times of the day, when Sansa blinks and feels a slight bit stunned, ‘So… you want peace with the Lannisters?’

Rhaenys grins, ‘Not _yet_ , eventually yes, that’s why I need Bran to marry Myrcella. Right now, I need a change of plan.’

‘Change of plan?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You don't want the Iron Throne after all?’

‘I would hate to miss it because we’ll rush.’

‘Your father died over three years ago.’ Sansa would like some more rushing.

‘I and Jon, he agrees, we want to postpone the attack on King’s Landing.’ Rhaenys confesses.

‘ _Why_?’

‘Because we are convinced Cersei will kill herself.’ Rhaenys decides, ‘We let her dig her own grave, take King’s Landing when all we need to do is give her the right push so she'll fall in backwards. We postpone King’s Landing and focus, right now, on setting the grounds for what we’ll do once this war is over. That is why I, _and Jon_ , have decided we must concern ourselves with the Faith.’

‘Which one?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Which faith?’

‘The faith of the Seven, _the_ faith.’

‘How is that _the_ faith?’

‘It's the faith of the Seven Kingdoms.’

‘Some pray to the Old Gods or the drowned God or-’

‘A handful.’

‘Jon does, and Robb too.’ Sansa says.

Rhaenys waits a moment, bites her lip and then, slowly, carefully and fully aware of the tensions, says, ‘Jon is going to convert.’

‘To the Seven?’

‘Yes.’

Sansa chooses to keep her eyes on Mylaena, ‘He believes in the old Gods, religion cannot be converted.’

‘But that’s not the point. The _smallfolk_ must think he converted, whatever he kneels to when he’s alone is to no one’s concern. And the Northerners won’t mind so long as his wife is a Stark. I want him to be crowned as soon as possible.’

Mylaena lets go and whimpers, Sansa moves her to her other breast in the hope of continuing with that one, the baby can't possibly have had enough already, but she whimpers again, coos, her face grimaces some more and she starts crying. The mere sound makes Rhaenys pull a face.

‘Ssshhh…’ Sansa whispers, ‘It’s alright.’ She pulls her dress on, lifts Mylaena and lays her to her shoulder, ‘Shhhh… Myllie, Myllie…’

Rhaenys watches her hush her baby for a while before she says, ‘Jon must be crowned by the High Septon in Oldtown, like our ancestor Aegon the conqueror before him.’

‘Your father was not crowned in Oldtown.’

'This is not about my father. Religion is the backbone of society, I want to have it pleased.’

Sansa doesn't respond.

‘Crowned by the faith of the Seven. Aegon took the faith of his subjects, Jon will too.’

Sansa stands up so she can walk around and rock Mylaena back to peace, ‘Are you sure you want to ask that of him? To give up his religion? The faith of his mother?’

‘To take the faith of his father.’

Sansa can't help but laugh, ‘Rhaegar believed in very little, and I am saying this as someone who did not know him all that well.’

‘There is an uprising in the capital, some men who call themselves Sparrows, Jon wants to crush it and I believe religion is easily crushed with religion.’

‘Religion…’

‘It is of major importance in both peace and order.’

‘Has Jon not made sacrifices enough? What next must he give up? His name?’

‘Jon is fine.’

‘I have never heard you mention his faith before, why bring it up now?’

‘I told you, there is a rising in the capital. We need to reinstall order once Jon sits the Iron Throne, I need him to have the High Septon’s blessing.’

Mylaena coos a little again and Sansa kisses her head, ‘Sssssshhh… mama’s here…’

‘Robb has agreed to marry Arya and Bran. I thought that perhaps we could have them married together? In one ceremony, like your mother and father married alongside lord Robert and Lysa Tully.’

‘Arya won't mind the lack of fuss.’

‘I need all the fuss. After three years of bloodshed we need to spice things up a bit.’

‘You want to have some grand wedding in Winterfell? Don't-‘

‘Not Winterfell, _Oldtown_. The oldest city of our realm, largest in scale, home to the Faith and the Citadel. First, we marry the two Starks off and then, a few days later, we put a crown on Jon’s head in the Starry sept of the High Tower. The High Septon should be eager to do it. The troops can have a time of peace, we can re-find our strengths.’

‘Robb will want you in Winterfell.’

‘Robb does not decide where I go.’

Sansa can only snort.

‘He doesn’t!’

‘He'll be right, it is for your safety. And your child’s.’

Rhaenys says nothing and Sansa eyes her suspiciously.

‘Have you written to him?’

Rhaenys is, for once, speechless when she raises her chin up.

‘Don't take your frustrations out on me.’ Sansa can only say.

‘I’m not frustrated.’ Rhaenys says and Sansa snorts again, ‘I shall not deny that I wish to be there when the city falls, I want to watch them open the gates, ride on a horse through the streets, I want to take back what belongs to us by law. I want to see Cersei die, but I would never sacrifice our fortune for that desire. I want to change plans for the good of our cause. I believe this is a _good_ plan and Jon agrees.’

Sansa rubs Mylaena’s cheek with her thumb and grins, ‘I’m sure he does.’ She stops then and turns to Rhaenys to tell her, ‘I know you think Jon’s distracted, but you don't see him when he's lying in his bed. Jon's mind is with the war every hour of every day.’

‘Because the two of you speak of such things?’

Sansa doesn’t raise her voice but she warns all the same, ‘We speak a lot more than you and Robb do. Don't mock my marriage when your own is in ruins, you have no right.’

Rhaenys widens her eyes, ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She seems positively annoyed with Sansa's anger and this only angers Sansa more, ‘You and the children can come to Oldtown, you and Jon can be together, we thought that would please you.’

When Mylaena calms down Sansa moves to sit on her bed, not on the sofa. Being able to stay together… at this point that simply sounds too good to be true.

Mylaena’s big eyes stare up at Sansa, big and dark blue, almost curious. She senses her mother's discomfort. She protests when her mother’s arms leave her and Sansa moves the swinging crib gently to reassure her, ‘Jon is at your service and you know it.’ Sansa says, she moves her finger and Mylaena grabs it with her hand, sticks it in her mouth and stops crying.

‘Jon wants to defeat the Lannisters too.’

‘But he doesn't want to be king and I'll confess that I don't want to be queen. The life Rhaegar gave him, is not what I want for him.’

‘It’s not about what we want.’

‘No, but it so happens that what you want is what is the most noble and honorable and just thing. Very convenient for you.’

‘You make me seem like a power-hungry manipulator.’

Sansa shakes her head, then says, ‘You’re too hard on Jon sometimes. He’s hard enough on himself.’ Sansa says, and it pains her to do so. She stands up, for some reason, her head is suddenly boiling, ‘I have often enough held him together when no one else did.’

‘I never meant to-‘

‘Rhaenys, I know what your place is, and I know my place. Loving him is my duty, loving his children. It is the most honorable duty and I refuse to let you roll your eyes at it.’

‘I didn't.’

‘I know Jon. Pushing him and lecturing him is not what he needs right now.’

‘What does he need?’

‘He needs you to have faith in him.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘If we have him crowned first you can stay together, if you wish to come.’ She gets up rather suddenly, turns and leaves the room then and for some reason, Sansa is not sure, she feels tears well up.

Damn Rhaenys. Damn Jon. She is sick of telling them how to behave around each other. How they did not kill each other in these two years that she could not keep an eye on the both of them is beyond her.

Mylaena coos in her crib and moves her legs and arms enthusiastically at the sound of Freia’s voice when her big sister runs in the room, as blithe as always.

‘Mama! Mama, _look_!’

Sansa gasps, ‘What’s that?’

‘ _Biscuit_!’

‘Who gave it to you?’

Freia grins and looks down at her shoes, ‘I do not say! It is a _secret_!’

‘Don’t you trust me now? To keep a secret?’

Freia grins and wisely chooses not to answer but holds out the biscuit out for Sansa instead, ‘For you?’

Sansa smiles and misses Freia’s freckled cheek, ‘No, you eat it, it’s yours.’

‘It’s yummy in my tummy.’ Freia nibbles on it and points at Mylaena, ‘Biscuit for Laena?’

‘No, she’s only drinking milk.’

‘Hmm-hmm… _look_!’ Freia shows Myaelana the biscuit, ‘You cannot eat, you only drink milk! I don’t like milk.’ Freia tickles Mylaena’s tummy and the baby moves her arms to grasp for Freia’s braid and Freia giggles.

Catelyn thought Mylaena might turn all bald again but she still hasn't so Sansa has great faith that she won't be. At three moons, Mylaena can do a great amount of baby babbles, which Freia loves, she always talks back and Sansa loves nothing as much as listening to their interesting conversations.

Sometimes, when Mylaena is lying on Sansa's bed Freia lies on her stomach next to her, rubbing her sister's belly, and she plays this game where she makes a sound in the hope that Mylaena repeats it.

‘Boo!’ She says and sometimes Mylaena makes a sound that is alike and she'll be so excited that her giggles make Mylaena laugh along.

Mylaena can't roll over yet, but she arches her back when she lays on her front, her head held up high, her eyes wide and big following Sansa in every direction she goes.

Mylaena sticks her first in her mouth and drools all over it and Freia giggles some more, ‘Ew! _Drools_!’ Sansa wonders if she might start toothing soon, it could happen, it would be very, very soon. She can't believe time went by so quickly. Before she knows it Mylaena will walk around the castle too, run and scream, dance and have a tantrum. Like Freia.

Freia was more energetic, cried more too. Mylaena is calm, peaceful, always content. Almost lady-like as far as babies can be. Freia sings songs to her often, and she keeps showering the baby with sloppy kisses, as she does now, grabbing her sister’s favorite toy, a fluffy horse, one Catelyn made. Sansa sometimes places it next to her in the crib, in the hope of her finding the desire to roll over and grab it.

'Laena needs a bath.' Sansa says, ‘Do you want to help?’

‘I help?'

'Of course! I could really use your help.'

'Yes! Yes, I can help!’

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

Traveling with a baby is not something Jon believed could possibly ever go well. Sansa wasn't eager, and Catelyn decided she opposed.

Jon finds out quickly that they were both right, yet there was no other way.

Sansa needs to sit next to him when they have that damn ceremony of ridiculousness and there was no way in any corner of one of the seven hells that Sansa was going to leave Mylaena behind.

It was agreed that they'd wait till Mylaena was at least four moons old, yet when she reached that age, Sansa told him she still wasn't much convinced.

‘We have to Sansa.’ He said, ‘Unless you wish to leave her behind here in Riverrun.’

 _Never_. The past has caused Sansa to be of a certain anxiety whenever even the mention of separation from her children comes up. It's either Sansa and the girls, or no Sansa, and since Jon needs his queen sitting by his side when the High Septon crowns him, they travel to Oldtown with a baby.

Septa Aurestyne is a godsworn and gods-send woman and it helps that she occupies Freia when no one else can.

He has to return to his king role, walking with a straight back, his clothes a Targaryen black with Longclaw proud on his hip.

‘We need to give these empty souls some fun, something to look forward to. _Excitement_.’ Rhaenys says and he hates her for it.

He'd think war was exciting enough on its own but apparently, he was wrong. Westerosi nobles need two weddings, a jousting, tournaments, two hunts and a freaking coronation to remain entertained.

‘Am I a mummer now?’

‘Nobody wants their king to be ordinary, Jon.’

‘I am ordinary.’

‘It's not about what you _are_ it's about what they _think_ , we just don't want them to know who you really are, if they know you, they'll see you as a person, nobody wants a person to sit the Iron Throne.’

‘Do I have to be a thombstone?’

‘ _No_ , you have to be a King, a warrior, their hero and savior, a _dragon_ , something really special, a… a _God_.’

‘I'm not a fucking God…’ he shakes his head. Aegon may have enjoyed playing a God, Viserys may have once believed he was, Daenerys may call herself just that… Jon is extremely ordinary. Unfortunately, he is aware that Rhaenys is right, the realm doesn't want him to be ordinary. Maybe this is why his father always pretended to feel indifferent, because emotions are too damn human.

‘We’ll get you a new crown.’ Rhaenys says.

‘Please don't make it too… too _grand_.’

‘What on _earth_ do you mean?’

‘I’m serious Rhaenys, don't make me look like a fool.’

‘You don't need me for that!’ She says, a grin on her face she doesn't often show lately, but then it fades and her sternness returns, ‘Don’t worry dear brother, I'll make it grand enough for a king and simple enough for you.’

‘Let Sansa help you with the design.’ He suggests, but she waves that off and he feels his blood boil.

Thankfully the road to Oldtown is one scattered and filled with inns so he never, not once, has to let his family sleep in a tent. He can't imagine forcing Mylaena to spend the night under a canvas roof.

The more south they travel the warmer it gets and it reminds Jon of King’s Landing. Of the heat, the smell of court, the sweaty people and the noise.

Freia loves it. She loves the open fields, the bright sun, the rivers, flowers and animals. She can move a little more freely without all those layers of fur clad to her body, it makes chasing off easier, as well as sitting on a horse, which she loves most of all. People wave at them, come out of their cottages and farms to greet them and Freia enthusiastically waves back.

She's too young to understand why people wave at her, why they take their hats off and bow. She's too young to understand why they're going where they're going and her age keeps her from realizing how restricted her freedom is.

He lifts her up and she looks ten times the king he is when she sits on Everglow, her back straight like a horse rider with the experience of ten years, her hands grabbing both the steers and the manes.

‘He is BIG!’

‘I know! Hold him tight, hmm?’ Jon gets in the saddle too and they make a little trip like that.

‘Birds!’ Freia says and she happily points at a blackbird flying through the sky.

‘It's a blackbird, you can see it is, he has an orange beak and he's smaller.’

'Blackbird...' Freia whispers.

He ties the horse to a tree, helps her off it and watches her kick her own shoes off, her dress pulled over her head and thrown away into the grass, before she runs into the stream, where she squats down to collect shells, little rocks and stones, dressed in her pearly white smallclothes. She splashes the water around, kicks it with her small feet and wriggles her toes in the sand before squealing and giggling in her blithe joy.

They've went to the water before, but he never allows her to go too far in. Freia loves the water, she’s ready to take it like a guppy and she has outgrown the bathtub, so he's slowly trying to teach her how to swim.

Freia can't kick and peddle at the same time, but it doesn't matter because he always holds her close, his hands below her armpits, making sure she doesn't go down or accidentally swallows too much river water.

She can float, however, and she blinks a lot as she does, staring up at the blue sky above them, the bright sun shining down in her eyes. She likes bubble blowing too and sings as she bobs around, though the thing she loves most is when he lifts her up, as high as he can, and throws her away, after which he quickly swims over to where she dropped to make sure she doesn't sink down to the bottom.

The first time he took her swimming she lost her unicorn in the water and she sat by the side, crying bitter tears, hugging herself, shaking her head at her own stupidity, ‘Unicorn… my unicorn… he is gone! In the water…’ she sobbed and Jon felt his heart break.

He spent half an hour diving in the water to find the wooden horse with a horn on the peddled bottom of the calm stream and eventually ended up paying a silver stag to a soldier who found it, washed up against some really large boulder.

After that experience of terror and panic, Freia doesn't dare take her toy with her in the water, she leaves it, carefully wrapped up in her clothes, in the grass, ‘Bye unicorn, I'll be back, you wait here!’

Jon makes carefully sure he can, at all time, walk when he's in the water. He goes underwater with his head and it makes Freia gasp as she twirls and dances around on a wobbly jetty, grabbing her skirt in her fists, ‘You have to jump.’ He tells her.

‘You catch?’

‘Always.’ He says, stretching his arms out for her.

‘NOW JUMP!’ She calls loudly before she jumps in the water.

Jon backs away so she falls down in the water all on her own, without touching him, then quickly moves over to pull her back up.

She fills her lungs with air and wraps her arms around his shoulders, her eyes wide, but soon a grin appears on her face, ‘Again?’ She asks.

‘You want to jump again?’

‘Yes, yes!’

‘You'll have to climb out over there.’ He says, pointing at the jetty, and that clearly seems too much of an effort to her, because she shakes her head.

‘I swim. Like a fishy!’

‘You're a fish?’

‘No, papa! I am a mermaid.’ Freia always manages to talk to him as if he's saying some extremely dumb thing, she giggles at his nonsense and shakes her head.

‘Of course you are.’

‘Can you do a shark?’

‘I could, maybe, but you don't want to, sharks bite.’

That makes her laugh, ‘You don't bite!’

‘Nope.’

'Kiss!' She says and she takes his head between her hands and sloppily kisses his cheek.

The water is crystal clear and she giggles and points at the tiny fish that swim by her feet, she kicks at them, ‘they're really, really fast! Papa look!’ And then tries to grab them with her hand.

‘If you suck in your breath you can go under water and watch them.’

‘That is ow to my eyes.’

‘It won't hurt too much.’ He promises, ‘There's no soap in this water, you've had it in your eyes before haven't you?’

‘Suck in breath?’

‘Like this.’ Jon fills his lungs with air, then disappears with his head underwater and comes back up five seconds later.

Freia giggles some more, ‘Now me!’ She fills her cheeks with air so they look even chubbier than they already are and goes down. It lasts two seconds before she comes back up, splashing and gasping, ‘I see no fishies!’

‘That's cause your eyes were closed.’

Freia shakes her head, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, ‘It is ow to my eyes.’ She explains.

'Aye, you better not open them then.’

‘Hhh-mhh…’ she pushes herself off him to float in the water again, lying on her back, her arms waving like wings, her legs kicking. He walks after her, his arms stretched out just in case.

‘Do you know a song about fish, Freia?’

‘ _I am a twir-bing swir-bing mermaid, I flip and flap under the sea_ ,’ Freia starts, ‘ _I swim, I splash I sing, for-lard, back-lard, deep in the sea_!’

‘That's not about fish, that's a song about a mermaid.’ Jon says but Freia ignores him entirely.

‘ _Oooooooooh, mermaid, mermaid, your tail is sil-ber and bright and light and wiiiiide!_ ’

Afterwards she runs by the side of the river, collecting pebbles and flowers for mama and Jon prays to the Gods she won't end up being allergic to one of them, he will have a hard time explaining to Sansa how Freia’s arms are covered in rashes.

‘Come Freils,’ he says, ‘We’re going to the inn, it’s going to be dark soon, you hungry?’

Freia nods eagerly, holds the flowers out for him to put them in his saddlebag and he's pleased to find her all dried up by the sun. He only rubs her hair with a blanket, to stop the dripping, and her curly hair turns into one poufy, fluffy crown. She grabs it and pulls it down before he ties it in a braid, then lifts her into the saddle again.

When they arrive at the inn Sansa has settled and she pretends to be so very happy with the flowers, despite them being weeds. She kisses his cheek, tells Freia to _sit down Freia, calm down_!, and then forces Freia to eat her brew.

‘I don't like it.’ Freia tells Jon, ‘It smells of water in the rivers.’

‘That's not much to taste after.’ Jon says.

'Here, have a slice of bread.’ Sansa says, but when she tries to cover it in creamy butter Freia pushes her hands away.

‘I do it!’

After eating it her eyes sink down, the swimming always tires her out, which is probably the main reason for Sansa to agree to it, because Freia will sleep through the whole night.

Jon lifts her sleepy figure up in his arms, to drag her up the stairs to the small chamber where Myleana is already dreaming in a crib that stands along the bed. He places her down in it and wraps the blankets tight around her.

When he looks up again Sansa fills the door opening, ‘You're going to sleep?’

She nods, ‘I'm not enjoying prince Oberyn’s company so very much, I often have no idea what he speaks of.’

Jon smiles at her apologetically, ‘He's like Rhaenys, means you shouldn't listen to what he says.’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’ She sighs and moves over Mylaena’s crib to check on her as she peacefully sleeps.

‘I'm sorry, I never expected him to join us, I thought he'd arrive in Oldtown before we would.’

It was the Dornish army they met first, Oberyn strong and proud on his Dornish stallion. He jumped off it and kneeled deep, called Jon your grace, promised him his sword and loyalty and then walked over to Rhaenys to hug and kiss her fiercely. The way only Dornish know fierceness.

After that he kissed Sansa's hand, told her she is the most enchanting queen he's ever seen and it didn't even make her blush, meaning he did it entirely wrong.

‘It is as if they speak of these things just to scare me off, because they know I have no idea what it is they're discussing.’

Jon nods once, ‘I'm sorry.’ He says again, ‘I'm sure Rhaenys doesn't mean to make you feel left out.’

Sansa doesn't respond, only sighs, as she sits down on the bed and starts fidgeting with the laces of her sleeves.

‘Let me help you…’

He moves over and takes the end of her dark green sleeve in between his fingers, ‘I’d rather have you fight the knots at my back.’ She says and he follows that command.

‘I'll talk to Rhaenys if you want.’

‘You can't talk to Rhaenys, no one can.’

'Oh yes I can, watch me.’

Sansa smiles to herself, ‘She exhausts me a little, that's all. She still hasn’t written to Robb, you know?’

‘We’ll be in Oldtown soon, she can tell him then, I can see why she would want to tell him in person.’

‘Yes, well…’ Sansa sighs some more and flexes her muscles and shoulders when the corset’s released.

Jon presses a kiss to her bare shoulder and Sansa sighs to leans against him.

‘You should go down, I suppose the prince Oberyn deserves his king’s company for a night after holding a fortress suck as Casterly Rock for nearly a year.’

‘Not nearly a year…’ Jon says and he presses his nose in her auburn hair, ‘You were pregnant with Mylaena when we took Lannisport, and Mylaena is-‘

‘Nearly five moonturns old.’ Sansa helps him remember, she looks up at his face and grins, ‘Before you know it, you’ll have to teach her how to ride a pony too.’

Jon grins too, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll find the time.’

Sansa looks at the crib where the sleeping figure of Mylaena seems to reassure her, ‘Will you?’

‘Of course.’ She sighs turns to him and her smile changes then, at first it was tired and a little unhappy, now it's brighter, though almost nervous, ‘Jon…’ she breathes.

‘What is it?’ He immediately asks.

‘I think I…’ she takes a careful breath as her lashes flutter and her eyes move around the room as if she hopes to find the right words in a corner somewhere, ‘I am really not sure at all, but I… it's far too early to tell, but I believe… it could be that I…well, I’ve missed my moonblood-‘

‘We’re having-’

‘I'm not sure!’ The size of his smile makes his cheeks hurt, ‘I’m only a week late, it could mean anything, we've been traveling, my bleeding was late before when I was in a situation as uncomfortable as this.’

Jon takes her head between his hands and kisses her, he tries to do it gently but his heart beats too fast for him to keep his self-control entirely, ‘it's alright, don't… don't freak out.’

‘You're the one who's freaking out.’ She says, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

‘No I'm not.’ He says, pressing his lips to hers again, ‘I love you, really very much.’

‘I know you do.’ She says, then she shakes her head and adds, ‘I should not have told you, I've made you excited over nothing.’

‘I won't be disappointed, I'm only glad you told me.’

Sansa leans down in the bed, on her side, ‘I only told you because I don't want to end up like Robb and Rhaenys.’

'We will never end up like Robb and Rhaenys.' He promises.

Sansa bites her lower lip, ‘It might be better if I'm not… it's so _early_ , I'm not sure if I'm ready.’

Jon grabs her hand and she hides her face in the crook of his neck, ‘We’ll wait and see, it will be alright.’

Sansa smiles and kissed the line of his jaw and moves her head up again, ‘Freia and Mylaena are so far apart, I suppose I… it feels like I was pregnant yesterday, I didn't expect it so soon.’

Jon nods, ‘I understand, but you'll manage. Perhaps you're not, and if you are, we'll make it work.’

‘Perhaps we should have been a little more careful- we should have waited until the war is over, having Mylaena during wartime, in Riverrun, away from you and all… I did not like it and I'm not sure if I want to do it again.’

Jon grabs her hand and squeezes it, ‘I could promise you the war is over when this baby is born.’

Sansa bites her lower lip and frowns, ‘Shouldn’t make promises you can't keep, Jon.’ She says, ‘There's little I fear more.’

He kisses her cheek again, ‘I'll protect you though, I'll promise that.’

Sansa smiles, ‘I'll protect you too. In any case… if it's a son then I can cross that of my list of things I must do before I die, it might give me peace.’

‘Anything to give you peace.’

Sansa only huffs as she gets up to shed herself off her dress. She folds it carefully before laying it on the chair in the corner. The corset he opened for her on top.

She climbs in bed and he decides instantly that there is no way he's going down again to drink ale with all these men he doesn't like.

Sansa spoons Freia and he spoons Sansa and she grabs the hand he lays on her very flat belly.

‘I'm not sure if I should be happy or… Mylaena is not even half a year old and this war is just –‘

‘We’ll make it work.’ Jon promises, ‘I know I can end this war within half a year.’

‘Half a year? I mean it Jon, no promises.’

‘I'm not promising, I'm just _saying_ …’

Sansa doesn't say anything, only moves her head on the pillow to rub her cheek to it, ‘as long as you end it as soon as you can, I'll be pleased.’

‘We shouldn't tell anyone.’

‘I shouldn't have told _you_.’ Sansa says, though she smiles.

‘I mean it, don't tell Robb or Rhaenys.’

‘I'll maybe tell her once her own child lays in her arms.’

‘She'll be much better once she and Robb have reunited.’ Jon says, though he knows it's only something he has been hoping, ‘until then, you shouldn't listen to what she says.’

‘I’m worried about her.’

‘Do you think she can't… do you think she'll have trouble with-‘

‘She never thought she'd ever be a mother, now that she will I don't believe she knows whether or not she truly wanted it.’

‘It's a blessing from the Gods.’ Jon says, ‘She's just scared.’

‘Of course she is, and I could sympathize was it not that she tends to take it out on me.’

‘Let me talk to her.’ Jon says, ‘I will, I promise.’

‘Rhaenys always behaves as if she can do and say whatever she likes but it's not true.’ Jon says, ‘And I'll tell her that.’

Sansa only sighs, ‘Good luck, your grace.’ She says and he can hear in her voice that she's falling asleep.

Jon wakes up about seven hours later, when the sun is already peeking and he carefully let’s go of both his wife and daughter.

Mylaena is awake in the crib, though she's not crying, she stick her own foot in her mouth instead and when he tickles her she babbles and smiles.

‘Hello you…’ he whispers as he lifts her up, ‘Good morning… would you like to break your fast?’ He wraps Mylaena is some swaddling clothes with a little cotton hat with ribbons on it, because, apparently, that is important, so he's been told.

With the baby in his arms he goes down the stairs where he finds no one but the tavern wife who’s cleaning and Rhaenys, who sits at a table filled with some lavish breakfast.

‘Are you breaking your fast?’

Rhaenys looks up and only nods.

‘No one else here yet?’

She shakes her head, ‘Everyone is still asleep, I figure we can take our time to have a good night of sleep, we will arrive on time or early in Oldtown if we are not delayed.’

Jon nods and sits down next to her.

‘Did she wake you up?’

‘Mylaena? No, she was awake but didn't cry… did you? No you were such a good girl. This baby does not cry, she’s always smiling.’

Rhaenys rolls her eyes and takes a slice of bread, ‘So Sansa is still sleeping?’

‘Sansa and Freia both.’ Jon nods, ‘I'll leave Freia to the Septa, I think, Sansa was very tired.’

‘Is she pregnant again?’

Jon looks up from Mylaena, who’s cheek he was rubbing, ‘What? Why would you say that?’

Rhaenys leans back and seems extremely pleased with her capacity to predict the unpredictable, ‘She is.’

‘We don't know for true yet.’ Jon says and he can't help but feel irritated, Rheanys and grinning is a combination he has hated since being about twelve years old.

 

‘Have you decided whom to give command over the Rock?’ She asks after she swallow a drape away.

Rhaenys refuses to trust Tyrion and though Jon can sympathize with her reasons, he feels their father always taught them to befriend their foes. He'd rather befriend Tyrion than any other Lannister, it was the sole reason for him to accept his fealty in the first place, for you make peace with enemies, and he doesn't feel much for pushing any other family in the seat of the Westerlands.

Tyrion remained behind when Jon and Rhaenys rode for Riverrun and he and Robb are already in Oldtown and Catelyn stayed in Riverrun to wait for the arrival of Bran and Arya, for which Jon is glad. He is dreading the moment Arya's eyes full of spite will find his.

Neither Bran nor Arya have written him, and he hopes to the Gods that they'll ever forgive him.

‘We could marry the imp off to Daenerys.’ He japes.

Rhaenys’ face, one of actual consideration, makes Jon laugh, ‘The imp has to marry _someone_.’ She says with a shrug.

‘I thought you didn't want Daenerys to ever set foot in Westeros again?’

‘I don't but… it could be nice to keep an eye on her and her _children_.’

‘We could not insult her more. I doubt insulting her is what we want.’

‘That is what she likes to believe. That her pride concerns us- there is little I'd love more than to embarrass her to the bone.’

Jon knows better than to tell her not to exaggerate, ‘Let us not waste time on discussing her.’ He says.

‘I hear she is finding out that conquering a land is a whole lot easier than ruling one.’

‘Yes, well-‘

‘She's not brought up to rule, she lacks the qualities. Daenerys believes her dragon blood is all she needs, but she is wrong. Kingsblood doesn't bring you knowledge and cleverness, all it does it make you feel entitled to things you should stay far away from. You'd think she learned from her brother’s mistakes.’ Rhaenys shakes her head at their aunt’s foolishness, ‘It's always so fatally glorified.’

‘What is?’

‘ _Kinging_.’

Jon can only snort. Unfortunately, he knows more of that than Rhaenys does, ‘Rhaegar always called his throne a damn chair, do you remember?’

‘I can still hear him say it.’ Rhaenys says, she allows her gaze to wander over his face for a moment until she says, ‘You must name your King’s Guard after being crowned.’

Jon nods once, ‘Suggestions?’ he asks and he takes a berry from a bowl and holds it front of Mylaena’s mouth. The baby tries to grab it but he pulls it away from her grasp after which she allows him to put it in her mouth. She eats it with the 2 bottom teeth she has and then stretches her hand out for another.

‘Ser Barristan of course, as awful as it is.’

‘The man was father's friend and he has been my loyal servant.’ Jon says.

Rhaenys snorts, ‘Father's _friend_.’

‘He was!’

‘Was he?’ Rhaenys leans back and seems far too pleased with herself when she decides to mention that one thing that the two of them never seem to be able to talk about, ‘When prince Rhaegar took Lady Lyanna Stark with him to the red hills of Dorne, hid her in a tower he named one of Joy, put his only bastard in her womb, he had her guarded by not one, not two, but three members of the King’s Guard, that is, two more men than the one he put in front of my mother’s door. One guard to shield her from the rebels who ended up killing her… you and me both know who father loved most in his life and he did not have her guarded by Ser Barristan the Bold. Berristan Selmy did not even know where Rhaegar was when the war broke out… he did not know with whom, he did not know of your existence until long after you were born when Rhaegar recognized you as his own.’

‘What is your _point_ Rhaenys?’

‘Arthur Dayne is the only friend father ever had, it was that man who guarded Lyanna Stark and her unborn son. He died protecting her. Slain by your uncle Eddard, _if_ the tales speak true.’

‘So? Why should Barristan be in my King’s Guard if father did not trust him?’

‘Oh he trusted him fine, yet not good enough to protect you. That is all I say.’

‘I was not even born back then.’

‘Doesn't that say it all?’ Rhaenys turns her cup of milk around in her hand, a smile around her lips that's almost angry, ‘to have an unborn you protected by three men and a living breathing princess-‘ she doesn't finish that sentence, chooses to close her eyes for a moment before she says, ‘Ser Barristan went to Dragonstone when father died, he chose to protect those members of our family.’

‘Because he believed they needed it more, he was _right_ , Daenerys was-‘

‘The proclaimed queen consort of a usurper. He should have gone to you running once he heard of father's will. His _friend’s_ will. I'll never forget that one time I heard him tell Dany… he said _you are so much your brother, my princess_ , and Dany though he spoke of Viserys but he shook his head, _Rhaegar_ , he said.’

‘You do not believe Dany is like-‘

‘Do _you_? Father may have once believed himself a promised prince but the rest of his life he chose to see power a burden given to him by faith, a duty that eventually ended up killing him, along with his mistakes. Daenerys is _nothing_ like our father. Our father was the greatest king that ever sat the iron throne, Daenerys is a jest.’

‘Then _why_ ask Ser Berristan to be-‘

‘He swore his oath. He won't grow much older. He served our father loyally. He's a good knight-‘

‘He spied on Daenerys for us.’

‘Oh yes, very gallant of him to tell us little more than what the sailors from across the narrow sea have to say. Daenerys has a tendency of taking over the heart of the blind and feeble.’

‘The blind and feeble?’

‘ _Men_.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘If truth must me told I wish her in the company of as little friends as possible. I hear she send Ser Jorah of Bear Island from her service, without Ser Barristan too she’ll struggle to find good advice _anywhere_. You can imagine how much she must rely on good advice, _if_ she chooses to listen to it, that is. Always a surprise whether one will or won't.’

‘Ser Jorah spied for Varys the Spider, I can imagine she found out.’

‘What a tragedy.’ Rhaenys sighs and moves her eyes over the inn as it slowly fills itself with people, ‘Be careful to choose them from various areas, men from every corner of the realm, preferably from different nobility too.’

‘It is not nothing to ask a man to choose the white cloak.’

‘A tat more honorable than the black one.’ Rhaenys says, ‘In any case, I suggest the Poole boy, lord Manderly’s second son, ser Rodrik thingy, ser Malckom, of course, lord Tyrell’s boy-‘

‘The knight of Flowers?’ Jon can't help but spit it out, ‘He was in Joffrey’s guard.’

‘He's a fine knight, or so I've heard and he is clearly willing to take the vows. Remember, as I said, we would have to choose knights from different corners. You want some men who know how to protect you too, that is what they'll do, after all.’

‘I'll think about it.’ He says. Jon has learned in the past two years that saying he'll consider it is really the only way to stop Rhaenys from actively trying to persuade him sometimes.

‘I suspect you don't want any other knight of Joffrey’s guard to keep the job?’

‘No.’ Jon says sternly, ‘They shall all die.’

‘I have heard… Ser Arys Oakheart who travelled with Myrcella to the Eyrie protested. He told Joffrey no.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘Arianne.’

Jon snorts, ‘I do not care.’

‘Jon-‘

‘I heard some of the same and Sansa told me he hit her anyway. Arya too. I want all their heads.’

‘Should she eat that?’ Rhaenys asks when Jon gives Mylaena another berry.

‘She's still nursing but she can have some solids. She eats a lot squashed things, apples and potatoes…’ Jon says, ‘You can't just switch one day.’ Jon kisses Mylaena’s head and grins then, ‘Sometimes she can sit up straight all on her own.’

‘How impressive.’ Rhaenys’ smile is amused now.

‘Sansa says she’s getting curls.’ He goes on and he touches the hair at the nape of the baby's neck, ‘Look.’

‘Hhm-hhm.’

‘Sansa says Freia was very clingy at this age and started crying when she came near strangers or was held by someone she didn't know, but Myllie’s not like that, she is the friendliest baby… aren't you? You're nice to everyone, aren't you?’

Myleana has her fist in her mouth but she still smiles and Jon pulls her hand away and wipes her face with a napkin.

‘I hope she'll maybe start crawling soon, but it can take moons.’ Jon says and he holds out another berry for her, she takes it and sticks it in her own mouth, wide open, ‘That's nice huh? It's a berry Laena, can you say berry?’

Mylaena coos again and makes no sound as she eats.

‘She can say things, she babbles.’

‘So I hear.’ Rhaenys says, her chin leaning in the palm of her hand.

‘She's a very happy baby.’ Jon says.

‘Where is Sansa? Can't she take her away?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it distracts you and we have to talk.’

‘I can talk.’ Jon insists, and he hands Freia a cloth to chew on.

‘She's always drooling on everything.’ Rhaenys says and she pulls her nose up.

‘That's because she's teething.’ Jon says and he feels almost attacked, ‘She's a baby, baby’s drool.’

Rhaenys only raises her eyebrows.

Jon leans back in his seat too and studies her for a moment, he wasn't planning on having the conversation so soon but clearly, it can't wait, ‘Sansa's not very happy with you.’

Rhaenys purses her lips, ‘No one seems to be, lately.’

‘I'd say that is your own fault.’

She glares at him with her purple eyes and looks down at her food, ‘Taking out my frustrations on those who don't deserve it has always been one of my least pleasant habits.’

‘You do it because you know we’ll love you anyway.’ Jon argues.

Rhaenys huffs, ‘What a hollow excuse.’ She blinks at him and then decides to admit, ‘She believes I am too hard on you.’ It's evident in her voice that she does not agree and it makes him grin.

‘She believes I am too hard on you too.’

‘I'm not planning on softening.’ She says, ‘That is where Sansa is for.’ She makes a hand gesture to Mylaena who still has the cloth in her mouth, ‘And your brood.’

‘I think…’ he sighs, ‘Sansa is a wonderful mother. She's made me happy. That is important to me. She'll be my queen. When I am crowned, she will sit beside me, not you. I need you to remember that.’

‘It doesn't interest her.’ Rhaenys says, ‘She doesn't care about the war so long as it ends as soon as possible.’

‘Isn't that how every person views war? I'm not sure how much it interests me. I'm not like you, I don't enjoy the game, once you told me that is a good thing.’

‘Tyrion enjoys the game.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He lost.’

Jon grabs her hand and squeezes it, ‘Do you still want to be my Hand?’

‘Of course, why wouldn't I?’

He clears his throat, ‘Sansa says you sometimes seem to pretend it's not here.’

‘Now that I still can.’ Rhaenys says, her eyebrows raised.

‘A-da-da-da!’ Leana says and she drops the cloth to the floor after which she coos a little and looks up at Jon with a frown as if she wants to tell him to grab it for her, which he does.

'Are you not looking forward to it at all? Parenthood is a blessing from the Gods.’

‘A blessing… or a curse. It all depends on the one who carries it, I’d say.’

Mylaena throws the blanket on the floor again and makes soft cry sounds. Jon grabs it once more and gives it to her outstretched hands.

‘You must look forward to telling Robb? You do not need an annulment anymore.’

Rhaenys only huffs some more, as if that doesn't please her at all.

‘I thought you didn't want to lose him?’

‘Not like this.’

Mylaena throws the cloth on the floor again and Jon sighs in frustration as he grabs it and holds it in his hand, ‘What do you mean?’

‘For him to stay with me, just because... I don't want to be that woman. I know Sansa deserves all the respect for mothering these two, but her life is not what I want.’

Mylaena realizes he's not going to give the cloth back and she starts moving her legs, almost as if she wants to hop on her bum, she makes her baby's whimpers as she pulls on Jon’s hand, ‘You don't want to be a mother?’ he asks.

‘I have never thought about it, for obvious reasons.’

‘Are you scared, Rhaenys?’ He then asks, he has wanted to ask for a long time.

‘Just lost, that is all.’

‘I'd argue that is quite something.’ Jon says, ‘Do you know what you'll say to him? Robb? When you see him?’ Jon gives Mylaena another berry to distract her from the cloth but she won’t have it and pulls her hat off until she throws it to the floor too, then gives Jon a look of great expectation, until he doesn’t seem to plan on picking it up, and she grimaces.

‘Robb, I am pregnant?’ Rhaenys suggests, ‘I'm sure the words will roll from my tongue when I see him, that is what usually happens whenever I open my mouth, I am sure my vocabulary will not disappoint me.’

Mylaena is just about to start crying but then Freia loudly scream at the top of her lungs, ‘PAPA!’ Jon looks up when Freia comes running towards him, fully dressed, her hair in one, long chestnut braid, tears streaming down her face.

The inn has filled itself with people, men of their own and other travelers both, all had bowed theirs head at him, and called him your grace, but he’d barely noticed their presence.

Apparently, he didn't notice Freia coming down either, since she's running towards him from the opened door, not the stairs.

‘What is it?’ Jon asks and Mylaena starts twisting in his arms at the sound of Freia’s cries.

‘The bird is not waking up!’

‘What bird!’

‘A blue bird!’

‘A blue… what are you saying?’

‘Ser Malf-Lon is saying she is a pigeon!’

‘Where?’

‘Under the tree!’ Freia pulls on his upper arm, ‘Come! She is not waking… Malf-lon is saying she is d-dead!’ At that word, Freia hides her face behind her hands, ‘Poor, poor birdy is n-not… she is n-not… the bird!’

Jon realizes what it is she found under a tree, he internally curses Ser Malckom and then looks at Rhaenys, ‘Here, you hold her.’ He says and he hands her his youngest.

Jon takes Freia's hand, ‘Come, it's alright, I'll look at the little bird.’

Freia nods, ‘Bird is not waking up, papa… you have to make the bird better.’ She says, still sobbing when he raises her up in his arms so he can hold and comfort her.

He comes with her outside and finds the dead pigeon under a tree, not long dead thank the Gods, for it indeed looks like she's sleeping.

‘Have you touched it?’

Freia shakes her head, big fat tears on her chubby cheek.

‘The blue bird is in a much, much better place now, Freia.’ He says after which Freia bursts out in sobs and wails.

'You have to make the bird better! Laester Lubin can give a drink o-or a medi-phin and the bird is better!’

‘Maester Luwin is not here, remember? And even if he was… I don't think there is much he could do.’

This is clearly a teaching moment, he realizes and as he puts her down, back to the ground, he takes her shaking hands in his and kisses her forehead.

‘Sweet Freia…’ he whispers, ‘Sometimes it's too late. Sometimes little birds die and no maester in the whole world can do anything about it. That is very sad, isn't it?’

Freia nods and her sobs wrack her chest, ‘Bird is not waking up?’

Jon shakes his head apologetically, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘H-how?’ Freia asks and she rubs her eye with her knuckle, ‘She is… is she… al gone?’

Jon nods again, ‘That happens sometimes.’ He says, ‘The bird is not here anymore, she's not sleeping, because when you sleep, you _wake up_.’

‘The bird is not waking up?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘No, the bird is somewhere else now, where we can't see her, and she can't see us, and there is no pain and no sadness.’

‘I can visit?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘No.’ He says and he points at the sky, ‘She’s somewhere where we can't go. One day we will, when we’re old, super old… we will die too.’

‘Me?’

Jon nods, ‘Soooo many years from now, years and years.’

‘You too?’

Jon nods, ‘My papa has died, and my mama too.’

Freia shakes her head and sobs again, her eyes terrified, ‘I don't want to… p-papa no-hoo-hoo!’

Jon pulls her against his chest, ‘But it will not happen in years, a hundred years if I get my way, I promise Freia, I'm not going anywhere.’

Freia only sobs and he kisses her hair, ‘Poor bird… bird is not waking u-up…’

‘We can give it a very proper funeral, would you like that?’

‘Fu-deral?’

Jon nods and Freia looks up at him with her big, watery blue eyes, ‘We put it in a box, so it has a teeny home, and then put it in the ground, so no one will bother her… would you like that?’

Freia nods once and he lifts her up again, ‘Bird can sleep in the box?’

‘He’s not sleeping, remember? But inside the box it's warm and safe.’

‘Warm and safe.’ Freia whispers and she nods some more.

Freia helps him dig the hole in the ground beneath the tree the bird died under, and they place the bird, with their hands in gloves, in a small, wooden box.

‘Bye bye bird… you can sleep now.’ Freia whispers as he fills the hole up again and the earth that covers it forms a small hill.

‘Come.’ Jon says, ‘The bird is in the good place now, we can go break our fast… would you like some Apple cakes?’

‘Yes apple cakes!’ Freia dances around at the mention and hops her way back to the inn, Jon following her, his hands covered in dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, have an amazing week and I think I'll be back somewhere next week!X


	59. A Craven and a Jest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘It’s true! King Rhaegar _this_ , king Rhaegar _that_ … the man is _dead_!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all been far too happy lately, so angst is coming.

**Sansa**

* * *

 

When Sansa hops down the stairs she quickly rushes her way down when she recognizes Mylaena’s wailing. She instantly recognized it and she cursed Jon, because the cries are no cries of hunger, displease or exhaustion but cries of discomfort. Cries for her mama, and it angers Sansa because she knows Jon is perfectly capable of recognizing the differences in Mylaena’s cries.

Sansa enters the hall of the inn, her head probably as red and a tomato, yet when she walks over to the crying she finds Rhaenys, her cheeks covered in tears, a wailing baby sitting on her upper leg, uncomfortably held steady with one hand.

‘Sansa I'm sorry…’ she whispers as Sansa quickly moves to grab Mylaena.

‘Shhhhhh…’ she bounces Mylaena up and down, holds her close to comfort her and the wailing turns to whimpers.

‘I'm sorry I… she started crying and I… I'm sorry.’

‘Jon gave her to you?’

Rhaenys nods.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Outside.’ She makes a hand gesture to the opened double doors and uses that hand a moment later to shield her face.

Sansa looks around the inn. There is hardly a soul, most are outside, preparing for travel, saddling their horse or readying one wheelhouse.

‘I'm sorry…’ Rhaenys whispers again.

Sansa sighs, wipes Mylaena’s tear covered face with the cloth the baby holds in her hands and sits down, ‘Why did Jon leave you with her?’

‘He didn't mean to, I think, he… Freia came here, she was upset and… I don't know, he was gone b-before I could… I made a mess I'm sorry, the baby is-‘

‘Why was she upset?’

‘Something about a bird.’

‘A bird?’

Rhaenys shrugs and Sansa looks to the opened doors. Freia and her damn obsessions with animals.

Sansa nods, rubs Mylaena’s chubby cheek and sighs, ‘Rhaenys…’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Don't apologize.’ Sansa puts Leana on her other hip and takes a berry from the bowl in front of her and holds it out for Mylaena, who eagerly opens her mouth for Sansa to put it in.

Rhaenys leans her elbow on the table, her chin in her palm, and she closes her eyes as if it's late in the evening, not early in the morrow.

‘Rhaenys… I- if there's one thing that I've learned in the past couple of years it is that not talking about things only makes it worse.’

Rhaenys seems to ignore her words.

‘I know you're scared, I would be too, but it's going to be here, you have try and maybe… look forward to it, if you can.’

‘I’ll be a horrible mother.’ Rhaenys opens her eyes as if her lashes are as heavy as a horse, ‘Even that one hates me.’

‘Don't be silly, she's a baby.’ Sansa looks down at Mylaena who grins at her mother.

She's all happy, as if she wasn't screaming her lungs out mere moments ago, ‘Aba-la-la-la…’ she babbles.

‘Mama…’ Sansa whispers, ‘Say mama.’

‘Meh!’

Sansa smiles and lays her cheek to the cotton of Mylaena’s hat. It doesn't match her other clothes at all, which is typical, considering Jon probably put it on. Her dress and tights are all pearly white with yellow duck embroideries while her hat is beige, with lilac butterflies on the front, decorating her forehead.

‘Freia hates me.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Have you seen the way she looks at me?’

‘If perhaps you could not always scold her so much.’

‘I don't!’

‘You scold everyone.’

‘Not everyone hates me for it.’

‘Freia is three, half the time she doesn't know what you're saying because you use complicated words. You must accept she's a little girl who enjoys simple things, daydreams… fantasizes about unicorns and mermaids. She's a child and children don't know hate, Freia is incapable of hating anyone, least of all you.’

‘She called me stupid. I've been called many things but never stupid.’

Sansa feels the urge to laugh but keeps it in, ‘Rhaenys she's _three_ , her vocabulary consists of mayhaps two-hundred words. I am left guessing sometimes. She annoys you and she senses it. She may be a child but she can feel things and she can read your face.’

‘No one can read my face.’

‘ _Please_.’ Sansa shakes her head, ‘Freia calls you stupid… well you treat her as if she is and obviously that makes her dislike you.’

‘She hates me.’ Rhaenys decides again.

Sansa only laughs, ‘You might consider teaching her some things. You could tell her stories about Nymeria or queen Rhaenys… Freia loves stories.’

‘She doesn't want to hear them from me.’

‘You mustn’t think she's as capable at conversing and upholding relationships as you are. Freia sees the world as she knows it, which is awfully small and a great lack of politics, it's all very confusing to her.’

‘I'm not trying to be hard on her I just- I _try_!’

‘My daughters are not your unborn child.’

‘ _Of course_ they're not.’

‘You can be one amazing mother, Rhaenys, I know you can.’

Rhaenys snorts and grabs a piece of bread, ‘Don't say more or I'll start drinking before noon.’

‘You don't want a child?’ Sansa blatantly asks.

‘Baaaaa!’ Leana stretches her hand out towards the bowl with berries, opening and closing her hand repeatedly, demanding to be fed.

Sansa pushes the bowl away, ‘No more berries, Myls.’

‘My own child will hate me.’ she then says.

‘At first because you believed Robb would dump you and now you feel sorry for yourself because Robb _won't_ dump you. For some reason, the end to all your problems is an inconvenience to you as that's how you shaped it all in your head and… I know you wanted to be that person who proves to the world that women can be _more_ , but I promise you that life doesn't end when you have a child.’

‘For you it did. All you do all day is raise these two.’

‘But I'm still _me_. My identity has not changed, I still exist and so will you. You can still be who you want to be _and_ have a child.’

Rhaenys snorts again, which isn't at all something she usually does, ‘Being a mother just doesn't seem _me_.’

‘Why? Because you don't want it or because it was never a part of your over calculated life plan? Just because this was never something you envisioned doesn't mean it will be miserable.’

‘I'll have to be the lady of Winterfell, stuck in the North, breeding children, one after another, hidden away in that cold freezing place with _no one_ for company but _Catelyn_ , as far away from the capital as I could possibly be unless I jump on a ship and move to Essos, waiting all day for Robb to finish his lordling duties so he can dote some of his attentions on me and I'll sew and embroider and-‘

‘Robb doesn't hate you so I highly doubt you'll end up in your greatest nightmare.’ It doesn't sound like much of a nightmare to Sansa. The thing Rhaenys describes was once exactly what _she_ once envisioned for herself, and she was perfectly happy with that promise.

‘I'll never get him to live in the capital.’

‘You got yourself pregnant, it is in all fairness, your own fault.’

‘I didn’t know I could!’

‘But then, you weren't actually supposed to engage in the act of making one in the first place, am I right?’

Rhaenys ignores that.  
Sansa looks down at Mylaena who's chewing on her own wrist, ‘I remember the day they lay Freia in my arms for the first time… you were there. I'd never felt so terrified before. She was so small and vulnerable and completely reliable on me and me alone. She came out relatively alright.’

‘She's a little spoiled, I’d say.’

‘Spoiled with love, I'm proud of it.’ Sansa grins and pecks Mylaena’s cheek and Mylaena grins right back. Sansa moves her hand to rub Mylaena’s tummy, ‘Nice berries, hmm? She's such a happy baby…’

‘I would be a happy baby too, with a mother like you.’

Sansa looks up and sees a sincerity in Rhaenys’ eyes that she has been missing for moons, ‘Thank you.’ She says, her voice a tad bit too soft.

Rhaenys sighs and hides her face behind a hand, ‘You'll help me? When I… when the baby is born?’

‘ _Of course_ I will.’ Sansa promises, ‘You don't need to ask.’ She takes Mylaena’s chubby hand and the small fingers wrap around her thumb, ‘You’ll manage Rhaenys,’ she says then, ‘Like all women do.’

‘MAMAAA!’ Freia's voice trembles as she hops through the inn, right towards Sansa, ‘Mama... papa put the bird under the ground?’

‘He did what?’ Sansa looks up at Jon, who sheepishly grins.

At the sound of Freia's voice, Mylaena enthusiastically wriggles in Sansa’s lap, stretches her arms out towards her big sister and babbles some more.

‘Bird… bird is gone, mama.’ Freia says and it's almost as if she's being apologetic.

‘I’m so sorry…’ Sansa lays her hand to Freia’s freckled cheek.

‘Papa put him under the ground!’

‘I gave him a proper little burial.’ Jon says as he drops himself down on the bench and fills himself a cup of milk.

‘Leeaaanaaa…’ Freia whispers and she tickles the baby, ‘Tickle tickle tickle!’

Mylaena claps and tries to grab Freia’s braid, ‘Fleebaaaahh!’

 

Freia jumps up as she always does, and then professionally sticks a berry in Mylaena’s mouth, who chooses not to spit it out.

'Mama, papa saying I can have apple cakes!’

Sansa takes Mylaena from Rhaenys again and places the baby in Jon’s lap, ‘There are some over there.’

‘Apple cakes!’ Freia claps and Mylaena follows her example, ‘Can Leana have apple cakes?’

‘No.’

‘No apple cakes for youuuu…’ Freia says and she presses her finger to Mylaena’s nose.

‘Careful!’ Jon says, pushing her hand away as Mylaena rubs her own nose with a flat hand.

‘Mama, Ghost found the bird! And I go there… and I see the bird and the bird was sleeping.’

‘It wasn't sleeping.’ Jon says.

‘Bird is in great wide some-there and is not coming back.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Hhhmmhh,’ Freia nods as she hops from one foot to the other, ‘Ser Malf-Lom was saying the bird is gone, but papa saying the bird is in muuuuch better place.’

‘I'm sure.’

Mylaena finally manages to grab Freia’s braid and Freia laughs, ‘Ow! Careful, mama look! Mama, Laena is pulling my hair!’

Jon pulls the tiny fingers from Freia’s braid and moves Mylaena to his other knee, ‘Sit and eat.’ He says, pointing at the last free chair.

Freia obeys and eagerly allows Sansa to place to apple cakes on her plate, ‘Wash your hands first or use the fork!’

Freia rolls her eyes and sighs before she grabs the fork and Sansa leans over to Jon,

‘She didn't touch the bird, did she?’

He shakes his head, ‘We used gloves.’

Sansa gives him a proud look and nods, then looks down at his hands and tells him, ‘Wash your own hands before you eat.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ He says.

‘It's _your_ grace for you.’

 

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

The Oceanroad is officially called the Oceanroad, but Rhaenys can't help calling it the Searoad in her head. Every time someone mentions the name, she hears her father's voice.

‘Remember how father always called it the Searoad?’ She asks Jon and she hopes the memory makes him smile too, but he only shrugs.

‘He wasn't the only one.’

To Rhaenys he was. She can't stop thinking about her father, for some reason. She thinks it's maybe because she's pregnant. Maybe, it's because she's not only pregnant, but because she can feel her child move.

Somewhere, after the forest around Crakehall, past Old Oak, along the coast, opposite the Shield Islands, as they follow the Oceanroad as it moves inland to Highgarden on the Mander, she feels a feeling, and she knows what it is.

‘He moves.’ Rhaenys whispers to Sansa one night, as they sit, shoulder to shoulder, in some inn, when everyone else has either gone to bed or outside, pissing against some tree.

‘They're supposed to.’ Sansa says with a grin.

‘He won't stop. It _tickles_.’

That makes Sansa laugh. It's rather often that Rhaenys says something about all this and it'll make her laugh. Rhaenys believes Sansa enjoys it to finally be able to be that person who knows more.

Rhaenys tries to take mental notes at all she says, but even if she does, and even if she follows the advices, usually, it doesn't help all that much.

Her belly grows, so much everyone can see. Important men stare, women glare and old ladies pat it- as if a pregnant belly is a belly that can be touched without permission.

She constantly feels some sort of desire to hide and hold her belly, as small as it still is. She just wants to keep it in her hands, to never let it go.

‘Why don't we tell Freia? Can I tell Freia?’

‘About what?’

‘We should tell her she'll be a big cousin!’

‘Oh erm… why not.’

It’s harder than Rhaenys initially thought, for Freia actually giggles, ‘Leana not in aunt Rhae-lys tummy! Leana is Leana,’ she points at her little sister, sucking on a rattle, ‘ _Look_!’

‘Another baby, a new one.’

Freia doesn't seem that excited at the prospect of another baby as she eyes Rhaenys and frowns, ‘New little brother or sister? One _more_?’

‘No,’ Sansa says, shaking her head, ‘A cousin.’

‘One more _cousin_?’

‘You don't have a cousin yet.’ Sansa says, ‘This will be your first. Aunt Rhaenys is the mama. It’s in her tummy.’

‘Papa is putting babies in aunt Rhaenys tummy?’

‘No!’ Sansa's look of horror gives Rhaenys almost the urge to laugh.

‘Uncle Robb did.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Other papas put babies in tummies do. That's their thing. They put babies in bellies and then they… go to sleep.’

Sansa gives her a look of shocked offense she usually saves for Jon and purses her lips. The disbelieve and confusion on Freia’s freckled face is one that perfectly describes how Rhaenys feels. She doesn't understand it either.

‘New baby…’ Freia shakes her head in disbelieve, ‘How?’

‘The gods.’ Sansa answers and Rhaenys is convinced she gives the answer not because it's such an easy answer.

‘Gods are always doing all the funny and all the weird things and _all the time_!’ Freia says and she laughs at the silliness of the gods.

‘Silly gods.’ Rhaenys mutters, nodding in agreement, ‘Always doing weird and funny things.’

‘Uncle Bobb is papa too!’ Freia laughs some more and when she shakes her head, her two braids dance.

‘You can be a cousin. You and Laena. Don't you like that?’

‘I be cousin! Big, _big_ cousin!’

‘Yes!’ Sansa beams at Rhaenys as if Freia's promise is comparable to an oath sworn to save the world, ‘Like… like uncle Robb is papa’s cousin.’

‘Uncle Bobb is big brother of you!’

‘Yes I… he's also papa’s cousin.’ Sansa smiles at Freia's increasing confusion, ‘Septa Aurestyne will explain your family tree to you one day.’

Freia claps at the situation, as if she's already looking forward to yet another squealing, red, unable to speak or walk or do anything other than cry and sleep little creature that will steal away her desired attention. Her enthusiasm hits Rhaenys, for some reason she cannot instantly explain, and it makes her cry.

Freia doesn't see it, because she has turned around, grabbed a doll and a comb to brush the strands of fake hair.

‘She's such a sweet thing, isn't she?’

Rhaenys wishes she could agree. She can see why Sansa would say it, why so many people think so.

‘When will you tell her she’ll be a big sister again?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Jon said you’re pregnant.’

‘He did? When?’

Rhaenys shrugs.

Sansa looks sad then, ‘Oh well… I thought so. I was wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

Sansa nods, ‘I missed my bleed, but I’m not, I only missed it once.’

‘Oh.’

Sansa’s sadness makes Rhaenys feel like crying some more.

‘It’s silly.’ Sansa smiles, ‘It wasn’t ever there yet I feel rather sad, I mean, even though it wasn’t going to… well, it’ll happen soon enough. I’m young.’

That all makes Rhaenys feel guilty and as she feels nausea creep in as Sansa turns around to drop her cheek down to the wall of the wheelhouse, hugging a fluffy pillow to her herself. To close her eyes and sleep for hours or more.

Right before the switch from the Oceanroad to the Roseroad they are joined by Catelyn, who is accompanied by Sansa's rebel sister Arya, brother Brandon the crippled, and Myrcella.

Freia is the only one who Arya Stark greets enthusiastically. Jon and Sansa were right in their predictions. The child is extremely displeased. Apparently, she feels too good to be married off the way her kind is supposed to do. The way her many betters have done before her.

She _could_ be pleased, Rhaenys decides. She'll be married to the future lord paramount of the Stormlands. It's a great match, one many ladies will be jealous over. She'll marry him in the famed Starry sept in the capital of the faith, the most beautiful city in all of King’s Landing.

It's all an honor, she could be _grateful_. Who would she have married, had she not been forced to? She would have ended up running away with some stable boy. She's wild enough to do it and by far not pretty enough to woo some meaningful lord to marry her for love. Rhaenys will not admit it to many, but Arya Stark is simply not pretty enough to object to any kind of marriage contract. Her face is too long, her hair too boring. It's oft Rhaenys feels herself at complete denial, that she cannot possibly be Sansa's little sister. She looks like _Jon’s_ little sister.

The girl reminds Rhaenys of Freia. The cheekiness, the boldness. They're both impertinent and rude. They don't care about looking proper, their hair is a bird’s nest atop their head, their eyes are wide and challenging and most of all, they're just so terribly spoiled. Both used to getting their way.

Sansa is used to Arya's anger, and therefore manages to easily shrug it off. Jon not so much.

Though Rhaenys can escape Arya and her wrath, Jon can't and the angry Stark she-wolf hates him for forcing her into something she should have been forced into years ago.

‘Let Sansa talk to her.’ Rhaenys suggests when Jon’s complaining.

‘No! I'm not the one who decided to marry her off to a Stormlader bastard, son of a rebelling, murdering usurper.’ Sansa says as she sits in front of the fire in an inn, her hands needling. It's too early in process for Rhaenys to make out if it's for Freia or Mylaena.

‘Sansa married a bastard too and she's the older one. He's of her age, he'll inherit Storm’s End, from what I've heard he's not too stupid… what more can the girl ask for?’ Rhaenys asks.

‘A say over her own life?’ Jon asks, he drops down next to Sansa and leans his head on her shoulder.

‘That's more than most women demand.’ Rhaenys decides, placing her hands to her hips, ‘We must all do our duty. Complaining about it is unheard of.’

Catelyn laughs scornfully at that, ‘Oh Rhaenys dear… you are so terribly unsympathetic.’

Before Rhaenys can open her mouth Sansa answers for her, ‘Sympathy is a feeling of no value.’ Sansa looks up into the eyes of her mother, who seems a little shocked, and then at her sister-in-law, who feels annoyed for the stolen comment, ‘Was that not what you were about to say?’

‘It certainly was.’ Rhaenys nods her head once and Catelyn shakes her own in disbelieve. Rhaenys hears her mutter but doesn't put effort in trying to hear.

‘She'll get over it.’ Sansa decides, then she down at Jon, who's not at all reassured, and smiles, ‘I got over it.’

A small, barely-there-grin, appears on his flustered face and he sighs as he raises himself again, to sit up straight, ‘At least Bran doesn't seem to hate me too much.’

‘Bran and Myrcella always got along alright.’ Catelyn says, ‘They're friends.’

‘Friends?’ Rhaenys leans back in the sofa and raises her eyebrows at Catelyn’s frown, ‘What more could we ask for but friendship?’

Catelyn shrugs and then sings the words of her house, ‘Family, Duty, Honor.’

Sansa winches as the needle presses not in the fabric but in her thumb. A drop of blood ruins the green of the silk and she groans.

Jon takes her hand in his and kisses the pain away. He smiles at her all sweetly and Sansa palms his cheek with her hurt hand after which he moves his face close to hers, whispers in her ear, something only she can hear, _thankfully_ , for it makes her blush. Jon then gently pecks her cheekbone and Sansa wraps a curl of his hair around her forefinger.

The way they are so shameless in showing their affection for each other, right in front of the eyes of others, makes Rhaenys still feel embarrassed, even after all these years. Jon still glances at Sansa every other moment, just to make sure she's alright. Sansa still giggles at his stupid jokes. They defend each other as if life depends on it, even when they know the other’s wrong.

It reminds Rhaenys of how they once were, it makes her realize how they never changed. How two years apart didn't break them, how, somehow, they only seem to love each other more.

Jon doesn't frown so much when he's with her, she forces him to eat as well as sleep, and she mends his clothes. Jon makes her giggle and he listens to her, in a way not many have ever listened to her.

They take care of each other. As if they fit, as if they _belong together_. Rhaenys doesn't believe such a thing exists, but if it does, they are a wonderful, jealousy ensuring example.

Their happiness doesn't bother Rhaenys anymore. It just makes her miss Robb. She misses him almost as much as she dreads seeing him. It’s conflicting and she cannot help herself but fall asleep with tears dropping in the pillows below her head every other night.

She hasn't written to him, not a single word, and she hasn't allowed anyone else to write to him either. She wouldn’t know what to say, mostly, _especially_ , because he couldn't bring up the courage, the decency, to write to _her_.

Is that how much he hates her now? Can it be true? She feared it so much and she always expected to see it in his eyes, or read it in words on a piece of parchment… but perhaps the lack of words, spoken or written, is the clearest message she could possibly ever ask for.

Rhaenys expected Catelyn to give her a judgmental glare, a speech too perhaps, to eye her as if Rhaenys were a little girl, and she a disappointed septa, ready to scold. She doesn't. Catelyn only smiles, and it's not a smile of worry, the one Jon continues to give her, it’s not even a smile of understanding, like Sansa’s… it's a warm motherly smile. One that Rhaenys has not often received throughout her life.

‘You look amazing.’ Catelyn says one day, as they sit opposite each other in a wheelhouse, separately from Sansa and the girls, in the company of two handmaidens who are both needling some dress Rhaenys will never wear. That's how fat she's getting. Fatter every day. But they don't need to know that. Let them needle, there's little better they’ve got to do. Rhaenys frowns at the woman, but even she has to admit that it doesn't even sound like she's lying, though Rhaenys decides she must be. Rhaenys has looked at herself through a mirror. She can't recall ever looking so exhausted.

‘Don't lie to me.’

Catelyn breathes a smile, ‘I am not a liar.’ Is all she says, then she pecks her daughter-in-law’s cheek, strokes her hair and nods, ‘It will be a son. I'm sure of it.’

‘How on earth can you know?’

‘Women know such things. Sansa always guesses correctly… don't you have any idea?’

‘No, of course I don't.’ Rhaenys can't believe the woman actually believes such a thing can be _guessed_ , ‘Im sorry to disappoint you, but we'll have to wait and see what rolls out.’

Catelyn laughs at that, ‘Oh _you_ …’ she says, shaking her head in a way that reminds Rhaenys of Freia, ‘You're so much like Jon.’

‘I don't oft hear that.’

‘Sansa’s oft complaining about how the both of you are equally stubborn.’

‘I wouldn't say she _complains_ …’

Catelyn laughs, ‘You're both so angry all the time. Always worrying, always brooding… seeing problems when none are there. Always making your own lives much more complicated than needs to be.’

‘There are always problems Catelyn, everywhere.’

‘It must be all Rhaegar. I suppose worrying over nothing or silliness and nonsense makes you a good king. There was never a king too careful.’

‘How is creating your own problems the same as being careful?’

‘So, you admit to creating your own problems?’

‘No!’

Catelyn only laughs some more, then goes on to ask all sorts of questions, some embarrassing, most confusing. Rhaenys tries to answer them all with as little words necessary.

Rhaenys cannot, however, deny how much Catelyn’s kindness means to her. The woman is still the same, with the annoying habits, her infuriating curiosity, her intruding, her lack of shame and her mothering… never mind the way she cannot stop talking about Robb… and somehow, these things seem less annoying when it's all, for some odd reason, very reassuring.

She gives advice too, and it differs a little from Sansa's, because unlike Sansa, Catelyn keeps mentioning all the horrors of motherhood too. Sleepless nights, not being able to use a bassinette properly, puking babies, more blood than during your moonblood, aching backs, more sleepless nights… she gives Rhaenys the impression that it will not be just sunshine and rainbows and for some reason… that helps. Because Rhaenys doesn't want it to be all sunshine and rainbows. If it's going to be all sunshine and rainbows then why can't she look forward to it? Why does it scare her so much?

Sansa pretends as if it's the best thing in the world, Catelyn tells her it is but adds, ‘It's perfectly normal to be afraid, all first-time mothers are.’

Rhaenys knows that Catelyn is right about one thing. She _is_ angry all the time. Her anger exhausts her as much as her twirling baby does.

As they near the western terminus of the Roseroad, the mouth of the river Honeywine where it opens onto Whispering Sound and the Sunset Sea, the High Tower of Oldtown appears on the horizon. The highest building, only challenged by the ice wall all in the North, which can be seen, some claim, when one stands on top. A beautiful structure, a massive stepped tower with a beacon on top to guide ships into ports. One of the nine  _Wonders Made by Man_ , written about by Lomas Longstrider, Jon's favorite book when they were children. He spend hours staring at the pictures and when Rhaegar took his three eldest with him on one of their many tours, Oldtown was the place Jon enjoyed visiting most.

Somewhere close to the Whispering Sound, Rhaenys wakes up because she hears Sansa screaming. Screams of absolute terror, and the worst images cloud her mind as she runs, barefooted, to the sound. Her bare feet are covered in blood when she nearly falls backwards.

Sansa covers Freia’s eyes and Jon pulls his tunic over his head, ‘He’s dead.’ He says, as if Rhaenys has never seen a corpse before.

‘What… who’s-‘

‘I don’t know. A sellsword.’ Jon points at Ser Melckom, ‘He saved Freia’s life.’

‘Freia?’

Sansa doesn’t wish to hear the words as she lifts her daughter up and drags the child into her own room, weeping still.

‘He tried to kill Freia.’

‘Not you?’

Jon shakes his head and Rhaenys has never before seen him so absolutely terrified. The look in his eyes in one she has never seen before except once. When he dragged her of the floor in Aegon’s solar, when not only her feet, but her hands and dress were all drenched in blood.

‘Jon…’

Jon only shakes his head, wipes his forehead with the tunic in his hands and then leaves to follow Sansa.

Sansa cries all day the day after, as does Freia, for the child is no longer allowed to leave the wheelhouse. No more chasing off, no more running through the fields, no more plucking flowers, no more catching butterflies and chasing squirrels.

The sight of the Highest Tower on the horizon, appearing above the trees, far in the distance, does not impress Sansa as much as Rhaenys expected it would, and after the incident of the assassin, Rhaenys recognizes a bit in her that she’d believed had gone. Her eyes are wide, her skin pale, her lips thin as she presses them together.

The building still excites Jon, however, as much as it did when he was a thirteen-year-old, brooding, frowning, shy and angry little boy. He pretends to shake off the attack on his precious pumpkin though everyone around him knows better. He pretends for Sansa and Sansa pretends to not know he pretends.

‘Look at that Freia! Look, can you see it?’ Jon lifts her up, ‘I told you about it.’

‘It is…’ Freia thinks carefully about her answer and then gasps, ‘The high tower of all places!’

‘Yes!’ Jon grins, ‘It is the highest tower! 800 miles up in the sky, the highest building in all mankind, you can see it from this distance, we need to ride for three more days at least and you can already see it, can you imagine? That's how big it is.’

‘Super, super very big!’

‘I know!’

Rhaenys moves the heels of her shoes, to dig them in the hard and stern ground beneath.

‘What is now the Ravenry of the Citadel was supposedly the stronghold of a pirate lord who robbed ships as they came down the Honeywine.’

Freia gasps, ‘Pirates?’

‘Yes, with one hand or three noses, with bones they took from-‘

‘Jon,’ Sansa raises her voice, ‘Tell her about Samwell the Starfire.’

Jon gets the message and starts telling the tale of a hero.

Rhaenys is woken, early in the morrow, only a week before they are meant to reach Oldtown, when dark wings bring dark words.

‘The Ironborn.’

Rhaenys nods and glances at her uncle, who clenches his jaw. There’s something of Rhaegar she recognizes in Jon when he slams his fist again a wall, ‘I’ve warned you!’

‘I-‘

‘I’ve told you so often! I said I wanted more spies!’

‘I send more spies!’

‘Not enough!’

‘There’s only so many we can spare! They knew they were being watched!’

‘We’ve spend too much time preparing for the future, too much long-term planning, we lost sight of now, here, _today_.’ Jon concludes and Rhaenys can’t help but fear he blames her for it.

‘We can take it back, we _shall_ take it back.’ Oberyn promises.

‘This is going to cost lives.’ Jon throws the letter in the air, which is not something one must ever do if he means to look impressive… it matters not, Jon’s rage is strong enough on its own, it impresses even Rhaenys.

‘Let me do it.’ Oberyn says, he turns to Jon, who’s eyes are so dark, they are not grey, but black, as black as his fury, ‘Let me fight for you.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I cannot be king when I cannot defend my own lands.’

‘It’s only a reaping.’ Rhaenys tries but she regrets it instantly for Jon raises his voice.

‘Don’t lie to me!’

‘I do not lie!’

‘You speak no truth, I name it lying.’ Jon leans his hands down on the table and glares at the map of the Westerlands, ‘I cannot believe it.’ He sighs, ‘I _cannot_ believe it.’ He slams his fist down right at the spot that’s meant to represent Casterly Rock, ‘Casterly fucking Rock! Back in Cersei’s hands! Because of the _Ironborn_!’

‘We can take it back.’ Rhaenys argues.

Jon nods, ‘Will you do it for me?’ He mocks, ‘Do you want to borrow my sword?’ He unsheathes his longsword and throws Longclaw down into the table, ‘ _Seven hells_ …’ he mutters then, shaking his head, a humorless laugh escapes his mouth.

‘Jon…’

‘After all the men we lost to take it in the first place...’

‘It means nothing.’ Rhaenys tries, ‘It is only a castle, a… a stupid castle.’

‘It’s Casterly Rock! Cersei has _allies_! You told me… you told me I had all of Westeros by my side!’

‘You do! It’s only the Iron Born!’

‘The Iron Born fleet helped Cersei take back Casterly Rock! Jaime Lannister is in Lannisport, they raised the lion banner at the gates. Don’t tell me it’s _only the Ironborn_ , don’t ever say it. They have a fleet, a fleet that could very well be easily as big, as strong, if not larger in scale than our very own!’

Rhaenys bites her lower lip, looks down at her hands and sighs, ‘It’s only a stupid castle.’

‘She’s right.’ Oberyn says and she wishes he wouldn’t, she knows Jon will think he only says it because he’s not pleased when anyone yells at his niece, ‘One castle, surrounded by many others, castles all loyal to the dragons.’

‘It’s their stronghold, their baken of power, a symbol to their rule, their might and wealth. It’s the embodiment of their gold and pride. We cannot afford this loss.’ Jon says, ‘It’s a setback.’

‘It is.’ Rhaenys agrees, ‘But it does not mean all’s lost. It’s a _setback_ , nothing more.’

Jon nods, he looks at Oberyn again, ‘You will fight for me?’

‘I saw it fall once I shall see it again, gladly.’ Oberyn says, he seems almost excited then as he looks from Rhaenys to Jon, he too unsheathes his swords and lays in on the table, next to Jon’s.

‘You shall not fight for me, you shall fight _with_ me.’

Oberyn, Rhaenys can still recall the skepticism in her uncle’s eyes and words when Jon came to Dorne these years ago, whe no one called him king yet but Rhaenys, his eyes widen for a moment, then he raises his chin, ‘It shall be my honor, your grace.’

‘We’ll ride out in the morrow.’ Jon decides.

‘You don’t have to come.’ Rhaenys instantly says, ‘Let the Dornish do this for their king. It can be quick, smooth, with a blink of an eye, no wounds for you. We must have you crowned Jon.’

‘I cannot be crowned when I am no king!’ Jon raises his voice once more and Rhaenys backs away from the sound. _So much rage_ , she thinks, Father was right after all, he truly is a dragon.

‘You are, you have been king since-‘

‘I shall be king once I’ve won this war.’ Jon decides, ‘Before then, I am merely a jape.’

‘ _No_ , you are the rightful king, father named you his heir-‘

‘Only Westeros declares me their rightful king, and if they shall they will do so knowing I am no feeble man, I’ll have proven to them, in sight of men and Gods old and new, to be no craven.’

‘Jon-‘

‘You shall bring Sansa and the children to Oldtown.’ Jon tells her, ‘You can fight your battles there, I shall go back to the Westerlands to fight mine.’

Rhaenys wants to protest, but her baby jerks and her head aches. She cannot find the strength, she wishes she could find one to match Jon’s the way Sansa does that night.

‘I FORBID YOU TO LEAVE ME!’

Rhaenys lays on her back and hears them scream to each other. She has never heard them scream like that, not to each other. She was under the impression that they did not fight so much, but since a man was killed in front of Freia’s bedchamber door, Sansa has been tense, Jon has been moody, and it turns out even perfect couples lose their temper.

‘You’re staying with us!’

‘I can’t, you know I can’t!’

‘I know you can’t leave me here! I refuse to travel without you! You have _lost_ your mind!’

‘I have no choice, don’t you understand?’

‘No Jon, no, I do _not_ understand! It’s only-‘

‘It’s Casterly Rock, the Lannisters cannot have the Rock!’

Rhaenys lays a hand to her belly, still flat though, slowly growing, carefully, steadily, into something strong, something alive. She feels her baby flutter and it's almost as if the unborn child is reaching out, as if it's trying to say hello. She closes her eyes, hoping she may magically not hear every word they scream to each other through the thin walls of the inn.

‘I want to go home!’ Sansa screams at one point.

‘We will.’

‘No, we won’t. What even _is_ my home? Winterfell? The Red Keep?’

‘The war is almost over.’

‘You’ve been promising me that for _two_ years! How much longer, Jon? I can’t do this anymore!’

Rhaenys turns around and feels the need to cry, for she feels guilty. She wishes the baby could understand what words meant, that the baby could hear her, so she could apologize to him. Ask for forgiveness for not being as excited as she should be.

She wants to promise the teeny tiny life that she won't be as bad as she's indicating, that's she'll be strong, that she'll be good. She'll learn to be good. Sansa can teach her, Catelyn too.

She wants to apologize for not feeling utter happiness alone. Sometimes she feels like the cold and unfeeling cruel monster that some think she is, when she realizes she should have dropped down on her knees, giving thanks to all the Seven for this blessing. This _miracle_.

‘You should sleep.’ Jon loudly suggests, and Rhaenys agrees with him.

‘It goes on and on and… I don’t see it ending! There’s this castle that needs to be taken, this lord that must be brought to his knees, another problem that delays it all, and you’re away _all_ the time!’

‘I’m sorry! I-‘

‘The children are so young and I don’t want to do it on my own. I know you have a duty, that people have certain _expectations_ -.’

‘You and the girls are always my priority.’

‘ _Are we_?’

‘ _Yes_ , Sansa of course!’ Jon seems annoyed at being forced to confirm.

‘How should I believe that?’

That question does not please Jon even little, ‘I want you to go to sleep. You’ll have calmed in the morrow.’

They tone their voices down for just a moment and Rhaenys wonders if Freia can hear their parents scream too, when Sansa raises her again.

‘You _promised_ me!’

Rhaenys turns around in the bed and it muffles Jon’s response, thankfully.

‘You don’t need me! You don’t even _care_!’

‘ _How_ can you say that?’

You can fight your war without me!’

‘It’s NOT my war!’

‘ _Yes_! It IS! They’re fighting it for you!’

‘Not for _me_ , they’re-‘

‘Whatever Jon! Whatever helps you sleep at night. I _can’t_ sleep at night. Not this night not the others. I wake up and there’s a man bleeding to death in front of our daughter’s bedchamber!’

Rhaenys has trouble hearing Jon, for his deep, raspy and husky voice is tired, too low for her to understand, and she wonders if that gladdens her.

‘You _don’t_ know! I’m sick of hearing you say this is all because they _chose_ you, because this is your duty or your… It’s not true!’

‘It is!’

‘No it’s not Jon! You and I both know what this is about.’

‘Do tell me!’

‘About your father, of course. It’s always about your damn father!’

‘That’s bullshit! You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘I am perfectly aware. My ears are not yet chopped off, I hear my own voice, words I shaped with my tongue in my own mouth.’

‘It’s bullshit.’ Jon says again, Rhaenys presumes, because he finally lowers his voice, though Sansa doesn’t and Rhaenys wishes she could bury her face under her blankets to shield her from Sansa’s words when she goes on.

Rhaenys wishes her father was _here_ , he could council her, council Jon, he could right now tell Sansa to keep her damn mouth shut. He could tell Rhaenys that what she feels inside of her womb is _real_. She might believe Rhaegar, in a way she cannot believe these maesters. Rhaenys never believed she'd be a mother and now the prove to the measters’ mistakes is growing inside her womb.

Catelyn calls it the sacred outcome of a holy vow. The seal of love or whatever nonsense it is she decides to name it. Rhaenys calls it a fucking miracle. Miracle is truly all the words she needs to describe what it is that her body is doing.

‘He’s dead. What do you want to hear him say? You won’t hear it Jon, he’s _gone_. He’ll never tell you he’s proud of you, it’s too late for that. He died and took his heart with him to his grave. He’s gone and he won’t come back, it’s you and me now- you, me and the children.’

‘I know he’s dead.’ Rhaenys can almost hear Jon pace around the room, ‘You can’t bring up my father just because you’re angry, just because you’re scared and-‘

‘it’s true! This is all… this is all for _NOTHING_!’

‘No it’s not! What do you want? For us to go back to Winterfell and be a happy family? Do you want to go back to playing that stage performance? This is real, this war, it’s here, it’s our reality. We cannot just pretend it’s not!’

‘No!’

‘Good, because we can’t. It’s not going anywhere. We shall not be save until I have won this war.’

‘Why do you… Why is it _you_ who has to win it? Why must you go? I need you too!’

Rhaenys really just needs this night to be over, this day, this week, this moment of her life. The loneliness. The baby is calm now, perhaps he’s sleeping. She wonders how big he is. She could ask the maester, but she never does. Why not? Because it’ll be real. It is more real every day, that’s as scary as it’s wonderful. It being wonderful is scary.

If it's a boy they'll have to call him Eddard, to please both the Northern lords and Catelyn. Rhaenys decides she doesn’t truly care. It’s Sansa who worries over such things, Rhaenys worries over greater, realer issues.

Like what words she'll use when she'll have to tell Robb. She'll have to tell him eventually. And he'll pretend to love her again, only because he knows he'll have to, just like she'll have to pretend she’ll believe him.

‘They expect the world from you, only because… You’re doing this to yourself only because he decided you had to, he has this power over you.’

‘You say the man is dead, dead men have no power!’

‘This is not what you want! It’s what _he_ wanted and he had no right to do this to you! This is all his fault!’

You bring up my father for _no_ reason.’

‘Plenty of people do, it’s a common and popular practice.’

‘Sansa-’

‘It’s true! King Rhaegar _this_ , king Rhaegar _that_ … the man is _dead_!’

‘ _Shut up_!’

‘Sometimes it’s as if what he wanted is more important than anything, more important than I am.’

‘You know that’s not true.’ Rhaenys wonders if Sansa is saying all she’s saying because she wants him angry. If she is, she’s succeeding tremendously.

‘He always treated you like useless garbage and you still care, he’s still-‘

Rhaenys hears Jon open the door and there’s sudden panic in Sansa’s screaming.

‘It’s almost as if those who died are more important than those who live. Not to me! I _have_ to protect the girls!’

‘So do I.’

‘Please don’t forget it.’

Jon mutters something Rhaenys can’t hear and then Sansa screams with a voice so furious it’s as if not Jon, but she is a dragon, and her flames set all the thin walls of the inn on fire, it makes it shudder like a dollhouse.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Rhaenys can’t hear Jon’s response, but it’s the wrong response, ‘ _Why_?’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

Rhaenys can’t help but feel a little proud when she hears Sansa’s response, ‘Don’t I?’ Sansa laughs a humorless laugh, ‘This is what men always do. Whenever a woman tells them what they do not wish to hear they decide she must either be lying or… or tired, or stupid, or delusional, or dumb or at the end of her wits. I _know_ what I’m saying Jon, I’m aware, I mean all of it.’

Rhaenys can’t hear what it is Jon says again, his voice is too low, but she hears how it makes Sansa laugh some more.

‘Stop being so theatrical and get back in the bed.’

‘ _I_ am being theatrical now?’

‘Where are you going to sleep? _Outside_?’

Jon’s response to that is about the stupidest thing Rhaenys has ever heard him says, ‘Any place better than your bed!’

It sounds like Sansa yanks something to his head, Rhaenys suspects it’s a book, or something else that won’t do much permanent damage. It still seems to hurt, though.

‘ _OW_! Have you lost your mind, woman?’ Rhaenys can hear Jon march out of the room and Sansa only manages to scream after him the lowest thing possible she could’ve come up with.

‘Come back here, you _bastard_!’

 _Sansa is right_ , Rhaenys thinks, as the silence finally returns to the inn. _Jon wants to make father proud. But she’s wrong too for he is not gone. He’s with us, he guides us and we will make him proud. We won’t let him down_.

As Rhaenys is sure she hears Sansa’s tears, she feels guilty. She feels sorry for the cruelty of her words, but she will not ever give up knowing they were words of truth. _You must be a queen Sansa, for Jon._ she wishes she could tell her.

_Jon needs you to be a queen, and queens don’t whine._

Rhaenys wonders if mayhaps it is a good thing, that Sansa got to say what she all said, for mayhaps now, she and Jon both can stop running, they can stop avoiding mirrors. Mayhaps now, the jape ends.

If only Sansa could know that Jon leaves only because he believes he must. If only Jon could understand that Sansa is so terribly angry with him, because being without him scares her. She’ll have to miss him more often than not. He is no king for the span of this war, he shall be king until he lies dead under the ground and even then.

Sacrifices must be made. His faith now, what shall be next? His good and blissful marriage, or so it seems, for Jon holds stand, no matter how much Sansa screamed, no matter how much she cries, for she does.

Rhaenys wakes herself at the morrow of their departure, and she finds her brother sitting by Freia’s bedside, stroking the girl’s hair as she sleeps. Rhaenys decides to say no word, for she knows it’s not ever her place to be the one to rip him from this. Jon must rip away himself, and he does.

He places a kiss to Freia’s forehead, then pecks Mylaena’s chubby baby cheek, wraps a blanket tighter around her, and moves to leave the room with one last nod to the curtsying septa.

‘Take care of them.’ Jon does not ask, she remembers how he asked when he left all these years ago, but now, it’s a king’s demand.

‘I will.’ Rhaenys does not promise, she promised last time, she failed last time, now, she swears, and Rhaenys will never fail Jon again.

Sansa cries, silent tears though she cannot shut her mouth. She whines some more, Rhaenys realizes. She softly whispers to Jon as he watches the men ready their horses. Rhaenys can’t hear, and she’s happy for it, because she’s heard enough. She can imagine perfectly well what it is Sansa says.

Jon is angry no longer, though it did not melt away like a frozen lake underneath the summer sun. He holds Sansa’s hand, seems to squeeze it, and brings his face close to hers when he speaks.

Sansa shakes her head, closes her eyes and more tears roll down. Rhaenys can see her say his name, it’s a whisper as much as a beg. Then Jon pulls her to his chest, strokes her hair, pecks the top of her head and her shoulders shake.

Rhaenys can see other people watch them too. They stare and they judge, they make up their minds, they shape their opinions and Rhaenys can see them do it in their hawky eyes.

Jon cups Sansa’s face, he speaks to her some more and Sansa shakes her head some more. Rhaenys glances at Catelyn, who stands beside her, watching too. Everyone’s watching, and either Jon and Sansa do not care or they simply do not notice. _Negligence_.

‘They do not look like our king and queen.’ Catelyn says, naming that what all are thinking.

‘They do not think they are, in this moment.’ Rhaenys says.

‘Does that anger you?’

‘It worries me.’ Rhaenys admits. _For they are king and queen always, every day, at all times_.

Sansa presses a kiss to Jon’s lips, soft and sweet, as painful as a kiss good-bye can be, too short to be passionate, too long to be respectable, ‘ _Don’t leave me alone in this world_.’ She says, Rhaenys can read it off her lips, ‘ _Don’t die_.’ And Jon promises.

Then, Jon gets on his horse, and he’s off. Stared after by the woman he left sleeping on her own just last night.

Sansa, dressed in little but the simplest dress, not properly tied, her hair loose and flowy like a child’s, turns around and Rhaenys cannot recall the last time she looked so miserable. The last time she and Jon parted, it was on her own terms. There were tears, but no begging. Now, this is not even near the woman’s own terms.

Sansa lifts her grey dress up from the muddy ground underneath her feet, her shoulders hang foreword when she drags herself near the door, and when she passes her sister by law, Rhaenys cannot help but tell her, ‘Queens don’t embarrass their king with weeping for all the world to see.’

‘ _Fuck off_ , Rhaenys.’ Is all Sansa says, and though it hurts, though she knows it’ll be long before she’s forgiven for the cold and heartless remark, Rhaenys also knows that a shield Sansa carried with her everywhere and always, has finally been scattered, as it should’ve been years ago.

 _A bucket full of ice water_ , Rhaenys said, _Sansa needs someone to throw it in her face_ , she said, she told Jon, and Jon never even denied it. _Give her a goddamn break_ , he said instead, and Sansa has had it. It’s over now, reality has knocked upon her door and burned down her dollhouse of ignorance. Here’s Sansa’s bucket of ice water, and all Rhaenys can do is hope it came in time.

It’s like when one pulls off a blister, when it hurts first, and the moment was delayed again and again, yet… once it’s off, it’s off, and the wound might have healed. _Might have_. And the scar will always be that reminder for the unharmed skin that once was, but people learn to love the reminders of their pain. A reminder of strength.

Jon is king first, Sansa’s husband second, and the woman is right, but wrong, for it is not because of Rhaegar, not out of duty, it hasn’t been for long now, it is out of choice. Jon chooses to be king, he chooses to accept his faith, , and he does it well.

 _This is what being queen means_ , Rhaenys thinks as she watches Sansa sit in the wheelhouse later that day, her face puffy and her eyes wide, red and bulging. _It’s not about pretty dresses, feasts, masquerades, lemon cakes and being your graced _. Rhaenys wants to ask Sansa how much she likes it exactly, _dissapointing, isn’t it?_ but there’s no reason for it. Sansa is no longer that child, these dreams were scattered years ago, only to come back and haunt her now. Such irony. To cry your eyes out when you lose it, cry again when it finds you back. __

___Being queen is being married to a man who is your king and a king is married to his people first_._ _

__Jon in no craven, he fights this war himself. _His_ war._ _

The wolves won't stop howling. Jon said that it's because they know they're nearing their brother. They're howling for Greywind, to let him know they're coming, that they'll be a pack again soon.

Rhaneys can remember how Eddard Stark told her once. _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

__

Rhaenys wishes she could howl with them, for Robb. To let him know she misses him, to let him know she longs for him. She cannot do this anymore. Rhaenys has never missed anyone so much in her entire life. Nor has she ever before felt so alone.

__

_I'll be a good mother_ , she promises then. She's not sure how yet, but she promises all the same, and when she climbs on her horse and tells the beast to move, refusing the wheelhouse, she knows she can wait no more day, that she must leave now, or she'll never truly arrive.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and update as much as possible, because I really want to have this story done with before season seven... does things. If I can, I'll update three times a week. Next chapter Jaime's back! Yay Jaime.


	60. The Honeywine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘ _Seven hells._ ’ is all he says.

**Robb**

* * *

 

Oldtown is the most beautiful place Robb has ever seen. He saw the pictures, heard the stories about the Highest tower, about how it was built before even the Andals invaded, the oldest city in all of Westeros, home to the Citadel, with its crowded harbor, constantly filled with ships from the free cities and all these other places from across the Narrow Sea that Rhaenys would tell him about as they lay in bed at night… But not in his wildest dreams did he imagine it to look the way it does.

Men had lived at the mouth of the Honeywine since the Dawn Age, some old writings of measters, dead for thousands of years, even claimed to have lived among the Children of the Forest. Rhaenys loved to tell him these stories, she always loved to laugh at them too, because clearly, men in the were even more stupid than those who live today.

The only story Robb keeps hearing now is how it has been three-hundred years exactly, that Aegon the conqueror entered through the city gates, after the High Septon convinced Lord Manfred Hightower to yield with no conflict. Aegon, first of his name, was crowned in the Starry Sept that same year, and there the reign of the Dragons began.

Now, in the year 300 AC, a new Targaryen king shall be crowned in that same sept, one with no dragons, a descendent from a broken, bastard line, after victories made, not on the back of a dragon so big it lay villages in shadows… but on the ground, on his feet, a sword in hand, among his men.

Robb simply doesn’t understand how it can be that Sansa dreamed of King’s Landing for so long, longed only to see that place. He fully comprehends when Jon constantly told her he’d bring her to Oldtown one day, because truly, this city is stunningly beautiful.

Robb walks through the cobbled streets, gazes at the many buildings, small and big, new and old, all along the many rivers and canals that crisscross through the city. It is a labyrinth, and he can imagine one must get easily lost. There are so many alleys, grand and small markets that smell of herbs and salty fish, the streets are often wide, and the air is clean, with a soft sea wind that blows through his hair.

The High Tower is an insanely high, stunningly crafted work of art, a massive lighthouse, topped by a huge beacon that, so he’s been told, can be seen for many miles out to the sea. Robb can only begin to imagine. It stands in the complete middle of the city, and all the rest of it is built around it. One can tell what time of day it is by the tower’s shadow and Robb has noticed, that many truly do this, which seems incredulous at first, terribly convenient later.

With a lack of firm city walls, placed there to refuse any growth, it is never crowded, and it stretches so wide Robb cannot imagine any city could possibly ever be bigger. The food is fresh, flowing and tastes amazing. No dead bodies in the streets, no sickness sweeping the streets clean of life, no rats, no beggars… If Oldtown was in the North, with Winterfell nearby, Robb would never want to leave again.

House Hightower of the High Tower is an ancient and noble family of impeccable linage, traceable all the way back to when they were petty-kings. Robb knows how famed they are for avoiding war, often hiding behind their support of the Faith, preferring trade over war… if Robb must take them for their own word.

Lord Hightower is not much fond of Robb, and though it’s never specifically said, he knows it may have to do with the murder of Ser Gerold Hightower, the man’s own kinsman, killed by no other than Robb’s own father, at the Tower of Joy.

Robb can still remember how happy Rhaenys was when the city decided to support Jon, going on and on about how the house was as ‘rich as the lions’, could field three times as many swords as other Tyrell bannermen as well as raise the manpower of Oldtown. As he stands on the steps leading down to the gates, staring at the backs of lord Leyton and his lady wife Rhae Florent, he wonders if they’d all be dead by now, was it not for this particular support.

He doubts it. Rhaenys would probably have found another way, either by manipulation or other possibilities of force.

Lord Leyton has many children, by four different wives, though he nearly always forgets who belongs to whom. All of his living sons and daughters are there but Alerie Hightower, the one married to lord Mance, mother to Margaery and these three sons of his, and the other one, the youngest, who lives in the Free Cities now.

‘I only recently met your second daughter.’ Robb told the man, ‘I must say, she does not look much like her father.’

When the man glared at him, almost suspiciously, as if he wondered what on earth the deep, hidden insult could be, Robb couldn’t help but grin. Rhaenys would be proud.

 _Confusion is always underestimated_. She often said. She probably still says it, he wouldn’t know. He has not spoken to her in moons and has not written either, didn’t know what or how. He assumed she didn’t want to hear from him anyway. Most of all he’s been hoping that the words will all just come flowing out of his mouth when he finally sees her and, if they do not, he can at least be assured by the knowledge that she will certainly not lack the words she wishes to speak. One will never have to be disappointed in Rhaenys, when it comes to moments of uncomfortable silence.

He only once sat down, behind a desk, grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down three stupid, pointless words, words she will never want to read, that will certainly disappoint her and that, above all that, did not, not in any way, describe how he feels.

 _I am sorry_.

Robb stared at the words for what very easily could have been hours, then added what his mother always told him to say, in situations where he finds himself at a lack of words.

 _I do not know what to say_.

He stared at these words for only a minute before he added,

 _I miss you_.

And right after that he folded the paper in a ball and threw it in the fire, with so much force he hurt his shoulder- because throwing a piece of paper does not require much force.

He cannot recall ever before feeling so angry. There are a thousand horrible things he wishes he could scream at her, names to call her, accusations to make. Robb has many flaws but he’s not a violent man, yet, he wishes he could beat her silly. Then, when the idea reaches him that beating her will mean he’ll have to actually hurt her, he feels sick and hates himself even more than he did before.

He probably already has. Hurt her, that is. He saw it in her eyes too. He not often finds himself being a master at reading what it is that’s in her eyes, but that last day he saw her, moons ago now, he could see the pain, he saw hurt and guilt and disappointment too, he assumes. Robb must be such a disappointment to her.

The old man of Oldtown, is what the smallfolk call Lord Leyton. Robb bets Rhaenys doesn’t know that. Once he used to find a certain amusement in knowing things she doesn’t know. He certainly amused himself with the irritated gleam in her eyes when he teased her about it. Now, he realizes it really is of just simply no importance what the smallfolk call their lord. Especially not when it’s as meaningless as _old_. He is old, that is for sure. Old and proud, with his grey banner, adorned with a white tower, like the grey and white of the Starks, _We Light the Way_ , say his words.

He’s so proud the man reminds Robb of Rhaenys… though, arguably, most things remind Robb of Rhaenys. He walks along the shore, sees ships and remembers how Rhaenys always tries to predict where they come from, where they’re going and why. He sees a raven fly through the sky and he hears her voice in the back of his head, _Dark wings, dark words_. He lays awake at night, staring at the ceiling and imagines her complaining about the mattress and the pillows as she twists and turns beside him. He imagines her making fun of all the Hightower women, mocking their dresses, hairstyles and _worthless lives_. He listens to a maester tell him a tale about prince Oberyn’s time at the Citadel, and he can nearly see Rhaenys sit next to him, her eyes wide and curious, hungry for knowledge, for news, for _words_. Robb stands in the middle of a market and a little blonde-haired boy bursts against him as he runs after a ball, falls flat on his face and thanks him when Robb helps him back to his feet.

‘My… thank you m’lord! My apologies m’lord!’

‘Is okay… be careful were those feet of yours take ye!’

He stares after the boy and Robb remembers how he and Rhaenys will never, not ever, have a blonde-haired boy like that.

Lord Leyton told Robb a story about how he unhorsed Ser Barristan Selmy once. He told Robb a day after the knight arrived in Oldtown, fresh from a boat, full with stories about Jon’s dragon mother aunt.

Lord Leyton told Tyrion a story about how Tywin once offered his second son as a bride to one of the man’s own daughters… then laughed in the dwarf’s face when he recalled the rejection, as if such a thing is simply hilarious and Robb hid his own flushed face of countered-embarrassment behind his hand.

 _These cursed southroners_ , Robb thinks more than once. He misses Jon, can’t wait till he’s finally here so they can make fun of all the nonsense and the useless frills and extravagance together over a full glass of wine.

Robb has missed Freia too, grown quite fond of the little thing, the way she calls him _uncle Bobb_ , which is honestly so adorable and he genuinely looks forward to meeting the new addition. He feared it would be painful, somehow, after finding out, especially after finding out on the same day they heard of her birth, but he believes he can perfectly separate the two.

He missed Sansa too, it has been over a year since he last saw her, as big as the High tower herself, so round and bloated.

Perhaps he can avoid Rhaenys by spending some time with Sansa. And Arya, Bran, Rickon, his _mother_ … It’s been even longer since he saw Arya. Arya probably hates him guts. She probably expected him to say no to her marriage match. Perhaps he should have said no. He could have said no. But then, Rhaenys is one persuasive and feisty woman. He’s also terrified out of his mind over her likely re-found hatred for him and when his great-uncle Bryden marched into his tent, telling him ‘Your lady wife wrote to you with a request!’ Robb could not even hear his own mind thinking over his beating heart.

He was ready to yell back, ‘Whatever it is, say yes! The answer is yes! Give her all she asks for and a tiny little bit more!’

But thankfully he had to wait for the fastest raven to return, which gave him half a day of consideration and the time to write not only Jon, but also his mother and Arya and Bran themselves to inform them of his carefully-calculated decision, based on many a hundred reasons… as well as a desperate attempt at keeping a tight hold on the last shred of hope he has left that he will not, eventually, end up, all alone and -Gods be good- a sinner of a broken marriage.

He comforted himself with the realization that Jon probably spoke to her, and Sansa, and he knows he can count on them to let the waters run calmer. He knows his mother may have attempted too, though he has less faith in her powers of persuasions. Rhaenys is not, probably will never be, much fond of his lady mother. They are, by lack of a better description, not much alike. Perhaps that is what attracted him to Rhaenys in the first place. It definitely made her all the more fascinating. As he goes through it all in his head he realizes that despite the absence of a tight and close mother and daughter-in-law connection, out of all people in the world, his mother certainly regards him as a pleasant, noble and honorable man the most. So maybe, he desperately prays, she can sell him a little in that regard.

The thought that comforts him the most is that, in the end of the day, Rhaenys will need his permission to get that separation, the annulment she wants. Or doesn’t want, he’s still not much sure. But then, keeping her locked up in a marriage of inconvenience, that she does not want to be in… he does not want to be _that_ lord husband either. What he really just wants is for her not to hate him.

Robb’s gone through the conversation a thousand times in his head. What she said, what she did with her hands while she said it, when she pushed her hair from her face, when she looked at him, when she avoided to look at him, when she cried, when she screamed… He goes over it so often that he eventually ends up realizing that it’s such a vague memory, a flash of feelings, anger and crushing pain, that he doesn’t remember that much of it at all. Yet he still goes over it, again and again, nearly as much as he has gone over all the things they can do, the things he can suggest to make it all better.

Bran will be a decent lord, hopefully for not too many years, in case Robb has the luck of growing old. Then, of course, Rickon will be next for Bran will never father a child, so they’ll have to find the boy a decent bride. Perhaps a Karstark, to end that feud… or a Hightower. Probably not a Hightower… Robb wouldn’t want Rickon to end up like that Mormont heir.

Robb stares at the cobbled street below his feet, at the Dornish, proud and handsome in yellow. All are there but Oberyn, who accompanies the royal party. Doran is standing in front of Quintyn and Trystane. Arianne is with her uncle Oberyn. Robb still kneels in front of the Gods daily to give them thanks for not forcing him to wed _her_. Rhaenys is not, will never be, easy, but at least she’s human, and not a plain evil, darkness witch.

He had learned the names of all the Dornish by head. He was embarrassed to admit that measter Luwin failed in his duty there… but of course, how high were the chances of Robb ever being bothered by such a company? Not much high, and knowing the highest lords would have been enough had Robb become one simpler lord of Winterfell, with one even simpler lady of Winterfell. There has never before been such an un-simple lady of Winterfell.

Dorne is not a far travel from Oldtown, so, as far as Robb can tell, they too are all here, as well-represented as the Reach. Houses Brook, Santagar, Shell, Wade, Wells, Vaith… even Dayne. Again, those are not much fond of Robb, again, this has probably much to do with a certain tower and a certain bloody, deadly fight over what was hidden inside.

Behind him Robb hears the murmurs of the Northeners; lord Glover, lord Umber, lady Mormont, and lord Bolton… the Manderly boys and lord Cerwyn… He has seen too much of them in the past couple of years, which is something he never beforehand could have prepared himself for.

The Reach is well represented, most of them are here but the Tyrells; not invited. A little painful, but no one mentions it because everyone prefers to act as if it’s the most natural thing. The Ashfords and house Footly are all there, in their full glory, according to expectations. And of course, the Florents… these are happy. lord Alester is the new lord paramount of the Mander and he walks as if he’s always been. Of course, he and the Hightowers are terribly pleasant… lady Hightower is his youngest daughter. The people from the Reach are as bad as the Targaryens, with all their inbreeding.

Robb enjoys the company of lord Alekyne Florent, who is, in his turn, married to lord Orton Merryweather’s younger sister Leagoiry, who was once a lady in waiting of Robb’s own wife. Rhaenys mentioned her a couple of times, called her ‘pleasant enough company’. Robb instantly understood why Rhaenys would ever say such a thing when the woman shoved him during a feast, pointed at the banner of house Cordwayner of Hammerhal; black boots on a field of green and gold, chuckled and said, with a voice so smart it was as if she was about to choke, ‘That man has a number of bastards… it’s unheard of! Hideous, the Gods all know it, you cannot _begin_ to imagine... And no shame in it neither! _Ghastly_!’

The Vale is present too, though lord Robin, as Robb’s mother’s own ward, has not yet arrived, for which Robb is grateful. He’s heard the stories of his ill and weak health and he's hears the stories about the child’s mother too.

Uncle Bryden is here, though, and Robb knows that man looks forward to seeing his mother. Uncle Edmure too stands near Robb. Edmure is still unmarried and Robb wonders who Rhaenys wants to marry him too, she probably has some candidates in mind… Poor Edmure. He really ought to be married though, Robb can hear his mother nag about it in the back of his head.

Then, of course, the Westerlands are nowhere to be seen… but Robb literally heard a man loudly question, ‘Why care about the sodding Westerlands _anyway_?’ and Robb figured most agree.

The Stormlands have forgiven Jon for the crime of being the bastard son of Rhaegar, murderer of usurper Robert Baratheon, for many reasons but especially a very great deal of convenience, naturally, and they too, are straightening their doublets, and grabbing the pommel of their swords as they either stare up at the sky or at the opened gates.

When the party arrives at last, it reminds Robb of that one time Rhaegar, first of his name, rode through the gates of Winterfell, into the courtyard, dressed in black, arrogant and stately. A king in every inch a man can be king.

Robb can’t know, however, if the man taught his son well- Jon’s not among the armored men.

It’s only the royal wheelhouse, and Sansa eyes all the lords of Westeros as if she distrusts them in every way she should from me moment she departs it.

‘Where is Jon?’ Robb asks his mother, who attempts to kiss his cheek.

‘Off killing Ironborn.’ Is all she says.

‘What?’

‘Look at you! You’ve tanned.’ Is all Catelyn says, all she needs to say to tell him now’s not the time for explanations. Robb’s just glad she doesn’t shower him with kisses. He doesn’t want to seem a fool in front of Westeros and the Citadel.

Robb turns to watch Sansa allows lord Hightower to pledge his everlasting loyalty to his queen and she makes a hand gesture to let them know they can rise from their deep curtsey. She looks uncomfortable doing it, almost scared, nervous most of all.

‘Arya, don’t you want to meet your betrothed?’ she asks and she doesn’t wait to watch Arya glare her most spiteful glare at her future lord husband, newly legitimized bastard son of the man Rhaegar killed at the Trident.

What a collection of people, Robb thinks as he moves his eyes over everyone. He wonders what they all must be thinking. Sansa’s hand is kissed and it is then that Robb notices all these other people, Bran, Jon’s fake bastard sister Myrcella, Rickon, even little Freia… but no Rhaenys.

The frown disappears from Robb’s face when he kisses Sansa’s cheek, ‘Your grace… we have awaited your arrival… and the other one’s too.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’ she says, she looks like a queen, in that dress, with her hair in a hairnet made of pearls, but she still has those same blue eyes, ‘We were a bit delayed. It rained and all… and my king husband is fighting his own battles, at his own request.’ She looks at lord Hightower when she explains.

‘His grace is no craven.’ Lord Hightower says.

‘No, he has never been.’ Sansa blinks as if speaking these words annoy her, ‘My sincerest apologies.’

‘It matters not.’ Robb mutters.

‘Well, we’re here now. Such a joy.’ Sansa walks over to greet the other lords, all of them frown at her, not hiding their disappointment well, though they seem interested enough in the red-haired wolf queen.

‘Arya…’ Robb hears his own voice creak when he moves to Arya, who pretends to not hear him. She looks nothing like he remembers, yet exactly the same. She’s wearing a dress, he notes, and her hair is brushed too. His mother’s work, Robb suspects. Her eyes are grey, her cheeks are no longer these of a baby, she’s taller and her long face seems somehow less long, ‘You look so pretty.’ It’s a stupid thing to say, Robb knows that, but it’s the truth.

Arya ignores him again, though she finally looks him in the eye. _Betrayal_ , Robb thinks, she must feel excruciatingly betrayed. Arya blinks, raises her chin, purses her lips and straightens her back. There’s no anger, and that almost makes Robb feel afraid. _How can there be no anger_? Perhaps she cannot feel angry, for Robb has not been her brother for too long, for _years_. Last time he saw the girl she was a child still and left with their father. How old was she back then? Robb does not even know it by head.

Sansa is greeting Vale lords when Robb turns around at the squeal of, ‘Uncle Bobb!’ and he catches Freia just in time before she throws herself in his arms.

‘How are you, little pumpkin?’

‘I see the highest tower of all places!’

‘Yes, I’ll give you a tour, if you want?’

Freia gasps, ‘My-phaela can come!’

‘Mylaena? Is that your sister?’

‘Hhhm-hhm! I teach her walking.’

‘That’s good of you.’

‘Uncle Bobb?’

‘Yes?’

‘Papa is fighting bad men.’ Freia soften her voice and moves her mouth to his ear, hiding it behind a hand so no man can hear, ‘Mama is always crying.’

Robb looks up and begs his mother with his eyes, who takes the four-year-old (is she four now?) from him, ‘Papa will be here soon, I’m sure.’ He tells the girl, kissing her cheek.

As the queen is presented to the high septon Robb glances at his mother, feels his throat tighten as he asks, ‘Where the hell in Rhaenys?’

‘Oh, you didn’t know? She went ahead! She was supposed to arrive in the city in the morrow!’

Robb can’t help but curse under his breath, such a vile word it makes Catelyn press a hand to Freia’s ear.

‘I supposed she went ahead because she was eager to see you.’

Robb closes his eyes and sighs, ‘I really highly doubt that, mother.’

‘How so?’

‘because I am a horrible man.’

Catelyn laughs and shakes her head, ‘Oh dear boy… I’m quite convinced your lady wife disagrees and… is that not all that matters?’

Robb can’t find a proper response in time before his mother puts Freia back down, takes her hand in his and brings her foreword, so she can be presented to the realm as the proper little, trueborn Targaryen dragon princess she is.

 

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

She’s sitting on the bed, unbraiding her hair, when the door opens, it’s with such force Rhaenys fears for a moment someone’s here to kill her.

His head is red, his eyes wide, his lips pressed together and truly… the storm on his face is the heaviest one she’s ever seen. She can always see everything on his face... in that he is her absolute opposite. As readable as a book written by the laziest maester. It’s not only raining, she notes, it’s crushing cities, with thunder and lightning, setting trees and castles, cattle and all else it meets in flames, crushing ships to the shore or down to the bottom of the sea. Perhaps that is why his eyes are burning her as she jumps up and stands there.

Rhaenys pulls on the blue silk of her gown. He always said he believed she’d look pretty in blue. It’s not why she wears it though, she wears it because it conveniently hides the soft swell of her belly.

She opens her mouth, though she never plans to say a thing. What could she possibly ever say? There are many things that go through her mind, all of them not good enough, yet far better than what Robb ends up saying when he stops the heaviest, most piercing silence she has ever experienced in her life.

‘Hey.’

‘Robb.’ She breathes.

He unfists his hands, stretches his fingers before he clasps them together and moves his gaze down to stare at them.

‘You are here.’ A stupid thing to say as well, but she allows herself to get away with it, at least it wasn’t as lame as what he said.

‘It seems so.’

‘Has Sansa… Sansa has arrived, has she not?’

‘I thought you would arrive too.’

‘I did.’

‘I mean… with Jon. Where’s Jon?’

‘Oh. Yes, we always planned to… Plans change. Jon’s on his way to Casterly Rock.’

‘Casterly-‘ He seems to change his mind and decides to bring the subject to the other thing that must confuse him, ‘I didn’t know you were already here.’

‘It is because… Because I’ve been dreading to see you.’ Rhaenys decides right there and then that honesty is the best policy… it used to be her shield, perhaps it can protect her now, too. Everything fell apart when she started lying anyway.

‘I see.’ He says and there’s an honest anger again, more so than discomfort.

‘I mean I… I’ve been thinking about what to say to you and I couldn’t come up with much so I… I suppose that I… thought I’d avoid you until the words would appear, ready for me to grasp… so to speak.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He says then and the anger is gone, just like that, as if it was never there, which startles her, ‘I don’t know what to say either.’ He adds.

‘There’s not so much to say.’ She breathes and she fails to breathe when he takes a step towards her, closer, and she can see his face more clearly.

‘I missed you.’

That brings tears to her eyes. Damn these tears, she specifically told herself to keep them in. It was the only promise she made… but then, she didn’t exactly expect him to say _that_.

‘Forgive me for not writing you.’

‘You don’t need forgiveness for such a thing.’

‘I think I do.’

‘Oh well…’ She’s desperate to make her voice sound terribly unaffected, but even she herself has to admit that she sounds everything but that.

‘Rhaenys…’ He shovels forward some more and clasps her hand. The touch stings so much it nearly hurts and a shudder goes through her body, ‘I’m a terrible person, I never should have allowed you to go or I… I should have come with you. I never should have said all these things I said, I should have come right after you, I never should have allowed you to say all you said and-‘

‘What did I say?’

‘Bran can be my heir. Rickon his. Rickon is young and a healthy boy… we’ll marry him off to whoever you like, you can choose… so long as she’s not too old or… or too young. I’ve been thinking and…’ He loses track of what it was he has been thinking and then drags her against him. That touch burns too. She cannot allow herself to collapse against him, mostly really because her bump bumps against his stomach, and that is both incredulous and terrifying. The baby in her womb jerks almost as if he knows who it is he’s meeting, as if he senses the presence of this person that will be so important in its life.

As Rhaenys wonders if he can feel it, Robb keeps rambling on about all he believes he did wrong, about all he has decided he should certainly have done, and all the things he promises he’ll do to make it all better.

‘Please forgive me, Rhaenys… please, I… Please don’t leave me.’ He says, his voice all high as if he’s about to cry but he won’t cry, she knows that, he’s not dramatic enough, too embarrassed too. She’s the crier in their relationship, and that is mostly because he is one of the few people she’ll ever allow to show her tears to.

‘Robb…’

‘I’m sorry, I am… I-‘

‘I lied to you.’ She says as she moves her face to the crook of his neck, to smell his scent, still the same as she remembers, of woods, grass, horses…

‘We’ll find a way.’

‘You cannot ask me for forgiveness.’ She says and she pushes him away. She must, above all else, think clearly now. When she allows him to serenade to her, she’ll never be able to uphold all that she must, at all cost.

‘I never-‘

‘I do not deserve to give you anything of the sort. _I_ am the guilty party.’

‘I don’t care.’ He says and in that moment Robb reminds her of Sansa, and a bit of Jon too. What a bunch of stubborn children are they all, herself included.

‘You must forgive me.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘No there’s not.’

‘Yes there’s… just say you forgive me then.’

‘Rhaenys, I-‘

‘ _Forgive me_!’

‘Fine! I forgive you.’

Rhaenys nods and takes a step away from him, ‘I wanted to write you too.’

When he moves his hand to grab hers again she pushes it away, ‘It all matters nothing now,’ he decides, ‘It’s over. You’re here.’

‘I have so much to tell you.’

‘You can tell me all of it.’

‘I don’t know how.’

A worry appears in the way his eyebrows are furrowed and she can only imagine what it is that he might come up with.

‘Robb I… You’ll be angry when I tell you.’

‘Why? What is… what did you do? Did you…’

‘I did nothing I… Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing happened?’

‘ _Everything_ happened…’ finally a tear wins its battle down her cheek and she wipes it away, furious with herself and this dreadful situation, ‘And I should have written to you.’

‘I should have written to you too.’

‘Not as much as me. I’ve only made it worse. I betrayed you, Robb. Please don’t insult yourself by begging for my forgiveness when it is me who does not deserve it.’

‘I have had plenty of time to think of it.’ Robb says, and he seems almost annoyed, ‘I am not a boy. I feel angry with those I want to feel angry with. Being angry with you is exhausting. I could be angry but I choose not to. I choose _you_. The Gods brought us together, we are bound by the old and the new, we cannot be parted, it would be a sin.’

‘You choose me in fear of the Gods?’

‘I choose you in fear of the sanity I’ll lose if you ever leave me.’ He says and it is then that Rhaenys grabs her bump, as if she needs to feel her swirling baby to tell her it’s real, ‘because, I will… lose my sanity- when you leave me, I mean.’

‘I would never have left you. You need not ask or… or worry.’ She whispers, she moves her gaze over his face and is then reminded of how handsome he is, her memories were unable to represent it, ‘Not willingly.’

Robb stretches his arm out to touch her again but Rhaenys knows she must say it first before she’ll let him hold her.

‘Robb I… you’ll be a father.’

He rolls his eyes then and seems extremely annoyed and it is not the response Rhaenys ever believed to receive from her lord husband at such news, ‘I don’t _care_ , Rhaenys. Not as much as I care about you.’

‘No Robb, you do not understand. What I mean is, you will have children, because-‘

‘I don’t want children! The Others take my children, I’d rather have you.’

‘Preferably not.’ Rhaneys breathes, ‘Thankfully the Others are all g-gone.’

He finally manages to grab her hands at last and he holds them between his own, trying his best to deeply stare in her eyes in the hope of bringing the message over as clear as possible, no chance of miscommunication, ‘Rickon can have as many children as the Gods choose to give him.’

‘He c-can.’

‘I’ll teach him all father taught me and more.’

‘Certainly.’ Her voice is as soft as Sansa’s and he barely hears herself when she says, ‘But he won’t be lord of Winterfell. Not if… I hope he won’t have to be.’

Robb seems extremely desperate then, ‘Stop _saying_ that. I have… I will not do such a thing to you. You cannot let me shame you. You are my wife, in sight of the Gods and the law, the old Gods are my witnesses, I shall not ever marry another woman so long as you’re alive.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘That’s… very sweet of you.’

He frowns deeper then, ‘I’m glad you appreciate my kindness.’

‘Robb…’ She closes her eyes and sighs, ‘Please don’t… please listen to me?’

‘Not if you’ll convince me.’

‘I won’t, I promise.’

‘Alright then.’ He eyes her suspiciously until she breaks down in sobs. She succumbs in his arms like a weak and meek kitchen maid and her body trembles in his arms as he strokes her hair and holds her. She has missed being held by him so much.

‘Robb… You’ll be a father… it’s true, the Gods have granted us… the old or the new, I’m not sure. I do not know what I have done to deserve it… I have lied and schemed, betrayed and more… _worse_. I’ve prayed to all the seven when I wished my enemies dead… I cannot believe they blessed me, I do not believe it still but it is true… It is true Robb… it is the truth…’

He says very little as he holds her when she cries, strokes her hair, pulls her tight against his chest and the bump, though small, is already in the way. She wonders if he feels it. If he does not she wonders if she must change that. When her sobs finally leave her she grabs his hand in hers and lays it to the spot where she feels the most of movements.

‘The measter told me we shall have a daughter, but your mother is… she’s quite sure it will be a son.’

Rhaenys tries to think of a word to describe the look in his bulging eyes, but even her dictionary knows no better word but ‘terrified’ to describe the way he stares at her.

‘I did not believe it… I could not but… then my belly grew and now I… I feel him sometimes. I feel him always he… he keeps me awake at night. He’s strong.’

‘Rhae-Rhaenys…’ He whispers eventually and he moves his hand on her belly, as if he means to stroke it and the warmth of the touch is that what she never knew she needed so badly.

‘I’m sorry I did not write you. I simply… I did not know what to say and… I have dreamed of bringing you this news so often, even before when I still believed… and I could always see your face when you found out. I suppose that makes me foolish or… or selfish, but I don’t care anymore.’

‘You are not a fool.’ He only says, ‘How could you possibly ever be a fool, that is my job.’

She can’t help but breathe a smile then, ‘I… You are happy? I know this is-‘

‘ _Happy_? I’m sure I’ll be overjoyed in a moment, it’s just that I feel a great deal of disbelieve now, a bit too much to comprehend.’

‘It’s alright I’ll… I’ll give you a moment.’

‘ _Thank you_.’ He stares at her for a while, then stares at his hand on her swollen belly, and them rambles a little, ‘I-I don’t understand I… you seemed so convinced. You said the measters were all certain, _you_ were certain and there seemed to be no doubt that-‘

‘They were wrong. They must’ve made a mistake or… perhaps I healed. Perhaps the Gods disregarded. Perhaps you and I are simply… Perhaps faith had other plans.’

‘Is it not dangerous? Are you well? Does it not hurt or-‘

‘No, no, nothing is- none of that.’ She shakes her head and hopes to reassure him with her smile. Rhaenys lays a hand to his cheek, which seems to burn, so hot is his skin, it reminds her of Dany for a moment, but she quickly pushes that face away, ‘Nothing hurts. I’m well. Me and the baby both.’

‘How long?’ he asks then, ‘You are… you have a swollen womb already.’

‘It’s not so big but… the measters believes it was conceived five moonturns ago. So that… that means we made it when we were together before we took Highgarden.’

‘That is… _Five turns_.’

Rhaenys nods.

‘ _Seven hells._ ’ is all he says.

‘In t-three t-to four moonturns I shall… in four moonturns we shall have a child, if the Gods will help me.’

‘Four- _Seven hells_.’

‘Stop saying that.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I'm not sure where I… I perhaps should not have come here. Jon thought you'd want the child to be born in Winterfell, but I… I don't know, you know _me_ , I did not want to be left behind.’

‘No, you never want to be left behind.’

‘So I might have to… it could be that I'll have to birth it here.’

‘ _Seven hells_ …’

‘Robb!’

‘I'm sorry!’ He shakes his head as if it's full of rocks and he means to roll them around, ‘This is madness.’

‘You'll get used to the idea, it… it took me a while too.’

He lets go of her then and drops down on the bed, as if the power in his legs left him and the pressure of the world on top of his shoulders is pushing him down, ‘You should have written me.’ He says then, ‘I could have… I would have jumped on my horse instantly.’

‘That would have been an inconvenience, you had to stay where you were, with the-‘

‘Is that why you did not write me?’

‘ _No_.’ Rhaenys sinks down beside him, shakes her head and grabs his hands, ‘I told you why I didn't.’

‘I should have written to _you_.’

‘It doesn't really… it's too late for that now.’

Robb shrugs, ‘Have you seen a maester?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Back at Riverrun when we… at Riverrun.’

Robb nods too, ‘What did he say?’

‘That it's going to be a girl and… that it's healthy and all. My belly is so small it… it should be bigger, I think, but your mother says it's normal when it's the first and I've never been big, I was always very slim so-‘

‘My mother?’

‘Yes?’

‘Does she know?’

Rhaenys nods apologetically, ‘I… it's been a… she guessed. I suppose it's something she knows a lot about.’

Robb shakes his head, ‘ _Seven hells_ …’

‘Your mother thinks it'll be a son, but the measter said it'll be a daughter.’

‘What do _you_ think?’

‘I think I... I think one of them will be wrong.’

Robb raises one eyebrow then and a smirk appear out of nowhere, ‘the Gods are witless.’ He decides.

‘Which ones? Yours or mine?’

‘Are they not all secretly the same? It's only that… in the south they need all these rules, candles and statues, not because of the _Gods_ , but because they like the splendor.’

‘Who knows… Not me.’ Rhaenys says. It's lately that she's been wondering why people even need Gods. Has the world not enough extraordinary difficulties just the way it is?

Robb sighs, looks down at his hands, sighs again, and shakes his head, he laughs as if something's very funny, then grins at her and when she finds his eyes she feels like sobbing when she sees not one shade of anger, ‘You're one extraordinary woman, have I ever told you that? The Gods gave me an extraordinary woman.’

Rhaenys is not sure whether to take it as a compliment, even when he obviously means it as one, ‘perhaps it was all to make up for your simplicity.’

Robb laughs some more, ‘Who knows? Not me, I don't think I want to find out.’

‘Robb I… I meant all I've said. You know that, don't you?’

‘What specifically do you mean? You have a tendency for saying a lot.’

‘When I said that… all I've told you. I _lied_ to you, you cannot simply pretend to have forgotten, I do not want you to.’

‘Rhaenys I…’ He takes her hand in his and looks at it, ‘I've had enough time to consider it all. We would have not annulled our marriage, not ever. I would have given you freedom if I believed it was what you wanted, but I don't think I believed that for a moment.’

‘Because it's not. I would not have-‘

‘So, I meant all I said too. I mean everything I've ever said.’

Rhaenys closes her eyes to fight the upcoming headache, ‘I… I wish I could say the same.’

Robb smiles a little, then pulls her in his lap, just like she was when she cried and he told her they’d have plenty of children. He moves his hand to lay it in her neck and leans forward to kiss her forehead.

Rhaenys curls her fingers around his wrist and in that moment, she finds it hard to look him in the eye, for her guilt is still so great, ‘I'll make it up to you.’ She says, ‘For all I did. I'll make it better.’

‘There's nothing to make better. All but…’ he moves the thumb of his hand in her neck below her chin, to push her face up, so their gazes can meet and Rhaenys flutters her eyelashes, ‘You are not damaged goods. You are not a brooding mare. You're not a worthless woman and you've never been, you'll never be. Don't ever think nor say that again. It's all I ask.’

‘It’s… it was true.’

Robb only shakes his head, ‘No.’ he says, ‘Never. You live and you breathe, you're smart and cunning, and you've been winning this war with us, for us… you saved the North, you saved _me_ , you're an amazing sister, and you're the only wife I could ever want to have. You're not a bag of bones, you're not your womb, Rhaenys, you're more than what they try to make of you. You don't have to let them, you don't have to fight them, they are wrong and that is all.’

‘It’s easy for you to say, you're a man.’

‘True.’ He says, ‘But do you think it's easy for me to hear you speak of yourself in such a way? When I _know_ you? I know who you are and what you are capable of. I cannot stand to hear you diminish yourself the way you often do.’

‘So, what is it… what are you trying to say?’

‘I never married you because I needed you to give me an heir, and I will not remain married to you now because of it. That's not us, that's not why we are who we are.’

‘You're so terrible with words.’ She can’t help but smile through her tears, ‘You're just like Jon.’

Robb shrugs, ‘We were raised by the same man and that man was good and just, he earned the respect of even his enemies, because he was the most honorable man I ever knew. My father would have wanted me to stay true to you.’ He scoops his hand down then, and placed it to cover her bump, ‘I’ll raise our sons to be honorable too, if you like.’

‘They'll be Starks.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I'll give you Stark sons, if that is what _you_ want.’

Robb grins, ‘I won't mind blonde hair and purple eyes.’

Rhaenys grins too, ‘I was hoping auburn.’

‘Really?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Especially for a girl… Sansa's hair is the most beautiful.’

Robb leans forwards to snuggle his face in her neck and Rhaenys lays her hand over his. His hand on the swell of her belly is something she'd dreamed of so often and so vividly that it almost feels like this is a dream now too.

 _Real_ , Rhaenys thinks, _When was the last time I felt so real_?

‘You’re right. You never should’ve send me away. Promise to never do it again?’

‘I didn’t think you’d let me.’

‘Promise.’

‘I promise.’

Rhaenys nods and leans forward to kiss his lips but he moves away, grinning once more, ‘We’ll stay together forever?’

Rhaenys grins too, ‘Please.’ She says and she feels no shame in begging.

 

**Jon**

Jon had hoped to never ever see Casterly Rock again. It’s uglier than ever before and as he hears Oberyn command the archers to loose, he takes a sip of wine. Jon's throat is dry, his wrist hurts for he has carried his longsword around all day and the feast for crows that spreads ahead of him stinks. The stink gives him a headache.

‘There will be no man alive if we set it on fire, your grace.’ Arianne notes, ‘So I suggest it is what we must do.’

Jon is not sure if it's meant a jape, all he knows is whether it is or isn’t, it matters terribly little, as he won’t find a proper response either way, therefore, he says nothing. His tactic of preference when it comes to Arianne.

‘Bloody Lannisters.’

‘let’s make them shit gold.’

‘Let’s cast the stranger upon their rock walls.’

Lannisport opened its gates at first sight of enemy men. Enemies coming at them from the sea, the land, even from the sky. The new watchtower they built (‘I helped them built it!’ Oberyn screams), is burning away.

‘It was ugly anyway.’ Arianne decides.

Jon is used to the Dornish now. Used to all their habits, their choice of words, their food preferences, their music, loud vocal opinions and lack of shame. They really do only care for fighting and fucking and it’s all so much easier once one accepts that. After the years Jon’s had, he learned how to not feel embarrassed at much, Oberyn is partly to thank for that. Jon now knows what to say, when to laugh, when not to laugh.

‘Seven blessings to you, your grace!’ they say, ‘May the Gods be ever in your favor.’

‘The only God is between a woman’s legs.’ Jon says. Tyrion’s joke. It makes his soldiers, clad in the sun of house Martell, laugh. Of course it makes them laugh. It would not have made a knight of the Vale laugh, these prefer japes about the weather. Jon has gotten rather good at japes about the weather, too.

‘Winter is Coming.’ Jon says, ‘Let’s finish this before summer returns... with fire and blood.’ And soldiers cheer.

Jon’s not uncomfortable anymore, when he has to sit on his very big stallion as it rides him around the army lines. He is a doll, Rhaenys is right, a very important, clad in iron armor doll. A doll who’s not permitted to the tiniest mistake. A precious one, one people will kill and die for. It makes Jon no longer feel uncomfortable, it does not make him feel powerful either, just all the more determined.

He feels nothing but determination as they break the gates, the Ironborn ships in the back enlighten the world in a cloak of gold and red, the Lannister colors, the color of burning ships, of flames, _Fire and Blood_. As if a dragon is soaring through the sky, his wings make the air around Jon move and he feels like flying, like floating.

‘They’re all dead.’ Arianne says and her eyes are too excited.

‘Dead?’

‘These Ironborn filth.’ She says, ‘They burned, on their ships, as the pirates they are, you can hear their souls sing as they climb up to the sky.’

‘They are drowning.’ Jon says.

‘What?’

Jon only shakes his head, _they’re drowning_ , he thinks to himself, _As I shall burn. I shall fly up to the sky, wings flapping, breathing fire, like a dragon. I shall burn_.

It was years ago when he last walked through the halls of the Rock, it has not changed for the better. Men always say only a Lannister can love the Rock, and if there was ever a concern for Jon that he might be a Lannister, it’s squashed now. The Rock is as unlovable as men devoured by Greyscale.

‘We have the Kingslayer, your grace.’

‘Dead?’

‘No, your grace.’

‘Good. Bring him to me.’

Jon can’t help but breathe out in relieve. He’s not sure what he would’ve done with a Jaime Lannister corpse.

Jaime looks much better than the last time Jon saw him. They did not help him out if his Lannister armor, the lion proud on his breastplate, covered in only spatters of blood, his hair golden of color, as always, his eyes as green as his sister’s. _A beautiful man, a broken man, a beaten man_.

They push Jaime, his hands, one real, one of gold, chained at his front, in a chair and Jon waits until he’s seated, the soldiers who brought him in gone, before he turns his face away from the window, from the sight of flaming ships, when he turns, Jaime looks down at his chained hands. There’s no Lannister pride, Jon cannot find it, no pride whatsoever, Jaime looks like a beaten dog, a beaten puppy… a lion robbed of his manes. They’re shaven off, and the hairs are scattered around him, on the floor.

‘Jaime.’ Jon says, it is no question, he knows who this man is, and Jaime knows who Jon is. He walks over to the man, once his uncle, once his family, he can still hear him speak the way he did back then.

 _The king requests to speak to his son_. Jaime told Cersei, and he brought Jon to his new and strange bedchamber then, _Get some sleep bastard_ , he told Jon, _You look like you could use some_.

‘Do you remember when you pushed Joffrey of the docks?’ Jaime asks, his voice is hoarse, dry, _because of the smoke_ , Jon thinks, and the knight does not look up, and Jon can imagine his shoulders hurt. _Someone truly must rob him off his heavy armor_.

‘I do.’

‘I told your father.’ Jaime says, ‘I told him Cersei wanted to have you beaten. I heard Rhaegar speak to her that night, I have never before nor after seem him so enraged. He called you his son then. He told her no one had any right to harm his son. It was as if he was swearing it.’

‘She never got to beat me.’

‘No. No one did, if I remember correctly.’

‘You do.’

‘Rhaegar never forgave me for my failure to protect Elia.’ Jaime says, ‘But for the oddest reason, he trusted me more than he put trust in Tyrion.’

‘He kept you on as a member of his guard.’

‘He did. He even made me guard your door. When you came back with your Stark wife, he let me guard your door, night and day.’

‘Father must’ve believed you’d protect me.’

‘He must’ve, because I knew, ever since you pushed Joffrey of the docks, I’ve always known, that there was no man anywhere, that Rhaegar wanted to protect as much as he wanted to protect you.’

 _Aegon_ , Jon thinks, _He wanted to protect Aegon. But the harder he tried, the harder he failed_.

‘I never understood why he trusted me.’

‘I never understood that either.’ Jon admits.

Jaime finally looks up, his eyes are bloodshot and wide, as if the man has not slept a single night in a turn at least, ‘If you kill me, do it the Northern way, I’ve always liked that. I can die a little less a coward.’

Jon can’t help but smile, ‘You don’t think I’m to kill you, you’re not as thick as castle walls.’

‘Cersei will not stick a hand out for me.’ Jaime says, ‘You know that.’

‘Of course, I know that.’

‘Then why?’

‘You’re no use to me dead.’ Jon says, Jaime knows that too.

‘I am no use to you alive, no use to no man. All your soldiers want nothing but to see my head rot on a spike.’

‘Thankfully my soldiers are not my king, I am theirs.’

‘Have you learned to love your crown? They all do eventually. Power is addictive, it does odd things with a man’s wits.’

‘I have no crown yet.’ Jon says, looking down at his hand holding the pommel of longsword. The white dragon stares at Jaime in his dangerous rage, ‘But I will.’

‘Your head’s big enough to carry it, unlike Tommen, I’ll give you that.’

Jon smiles some more, ‘You can watch me wear it, would you like that?’

‘No.’

‘You’re coming with me to Oldtown.’

‘Just kill me, bastard.’

‘You’re coming with me, and you’ll dress nicely, and when the High Septon crowns me Jon, first of his name, King of the Andals, First Men and Rhoynar, protector of the realm… you can swear your fealty to me, kneel and look as if it pleases you.’

‘Never.’

‘In a couple of weeks. You’ll do it, willingly too.’

‘How is that to be?’

‘You’ll do it and you’ll be happy for it, but if you won’t…’ Jon turns his head to look at the blue sky outside, ‘I can take the Rock and add a victory, or the Rock can surrender and kneel to their rightful king, I shall spare it, I shall accept your loyalty and forgive you… Tywin is dead, you are the lord paramount now, you choose.’

‘It has fallen already, there is no choice for me, these are facts.’

‘Facts mean nothing when no one believes me. Swear your fealty, be loyal to me, and you shall live.’

‘I don’t care if I live.’

‘yes, you do.’ Jon sighs, and sits down in front of Jaime, so they’re at eyesight, ‘I’ve known you for a while. You have killed my grandfather, pushed my cousin from a window, allowed your sister to poison my wife… and you gave my wife back to me. I swore to you I’d forgive you all your sins if you’d do what you did. you kept your word, I will always keep mine.’

Jaime only blinks, though he makes no effort to avoid Jon’s eyes. There’s no longer any spite.

‘You kept your oath… I know you’ll keep every new one you’ll swear to me.’

‘You want me in your King’s Guard?’ Jaime smiles a humorless smile.

‘I want the Rock to _kneel_.’ Jon says, ‘I want you to surrender with a white flag covering your walls, no flaming banners, _surrender_. I want Cersei to be ashamed to her absolute core. I want the sybol of Lannister pride to fall to my army, _willingly_ , I want the dragon to kneel and cry like a scolded child.’

‘What if I refuse? Will you kill me then?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I could kill Tyrion.’ He says, ‘I have Myrcella too, I could kill her as well. When I take the Capital- because I _will_ take the capital- I could kill Cersei and your other son. I could kill them all. Finish the job my queen started when she fed Joffrey poison.’

Jaime gulps at that new piece of knowledge, though it doesn't seem to surprise him much, ‘Cersei swore to have Sansa Stark kissed by the stranger.’

‘I swear no one will ever hurt my queen again, who do you choose to believe? Cersei… or me?’

Jaime gulps again and gives not answer, ‘And you will… if I don’t kneel? Are you threatening me?’

‘No, I’m politely asking.’

‘You’ll kill us all?’ Jon knows Jaime needs to know how serious he must take this threat, and Jon purposely won’t give it to him.

‘ _Kneel_.’ Jon says again, ‘And all of you shall live, that I promise.’

‘Cersei too?’

‘All but Cersei.’ Jon smiles again, ‘I’ve promised her head to my sister, I keep my promises, you know I do.’

‘I’ve promised your sister’s head to my sister.’ Jaime tells him, ‘I dare say you’ll snigger when I say I keep my promises as well as you do.’

Jon shrugs, he’s not the one to snigger, and for some reason he sees himself stand in front of the Godswood, cloaking Sansa in Targaryen colors, when he thinks of all the promises he broke, to be here, to be who he is, who his father wanted him to be.

 _Damn you, Rhaegar_ he thinks, when he remembers the twinkling tears on her cheeks. _I never thought you’d ever hurt me_ , she said, and these words are itched in all his muscles, the ache whenever he moves. _Damn you, Rhaegar_. The king took it all, all Jon was, all he wanted to be, his bastard name, his mother, his gods, his home. Now he’s taking what Jon loves the most. _Don’t take her away from me_ , he begs. He begs it every night. To a tree still. The Godswood in his soul, red leaves the color of her hair, the color of his direwolf’s eyes. The Gods of Lyanna Stark, the Gods of his mother.

 _Jon, you must go home,_ Lyanna told him. He needs her to tell him what to do now.

‘Kneel.’ Jon says, ‘And you’ll have my word.’ Jon look down at the chains around Jaime’s hands, ‘You’ll come with me to Oldtown. I’ll release you of your King’s Guard vows, you can be with Myrcella, you can see Tyrion.’

‘He killed my father.’ Jaime says, ‘If I see him I’ll kill him too.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Jon moves his hands to the chains around Jaime’s wrists and with the tiniest key he frees him. In the back of the badly lid room Ser Rodrik and Ser Malckom grab the pommel of their swords, just to be sure, to be absolutely ready.

‘You’re asking me to betray Cersei.’

‘I’m asking you to do what is right.’ Jon says, ‘I’m asking you to choose Myrcella and Tommen over Cersei. They are your children, are they not? Do you want them to follow their brother to a grave? I’m a father, as a father I’m advising you to make them your paramount responsibility.’

‘Jon, I-‘

‘Myrcella will marry Bran, she’ll be lady of the Rock after I make her a legitimized Lannister.’

‘And Tommen?’

‘He must never father children.’ Jon says.

‘So, you’ll send him to the wall?’

‘He’s a boy.’ Jon says, ‘Only cruel men send boys to the wall. Have you ever seen the place?’

Jaime nods and he rubs his wrist with his hand, ‘This is the second time you’re unchaining me.’ He notes.

‘And it shall be the last. You kept your promises last time, I shall keep the promise I made you then, too. I promised you to forgive all your sins if you gave me my wife and child, and you have. Ever since you have done nothing to deserve death, so you’ll live.’

‘Live so I can kneel to the dragon?’

‘Kneel for Myrcella and Tommen. Kneel for Casterly Rock.’

‘You’ll set the place on fire?’

‘I’ll sell it to prince Oberyn of house Martell and he shall set it on fire.’

‘You bring me with you to Oldtown and those men there all will kill me, they want me dead.’

‘I’m the only one who decides over your life.’ Jon says, ‘You can be of value to me.’

‘Do you want my knowledge?’

‘Yes.’ Jon admits, ‘And you will give it, too.’

‘I must kneel and tell you all I know?’ Jaime shakes his head, ‘I can’t.’

Jon nods, ‘Of course you can. Tyrion has already done just that, he can show you exactly how it’s done.’ Jon stands up and so does Jaime. At the movement both Malckom and Marvel take a step closer in their way.

‘I will never betray my father’s house.’

‘You won’t. The Lannisters have been loyal to my house for over three-hundred years. Cersei is my enemy, not Casterly Rock. I don’t want to sell it to the Prince Oberyn. I want peace, and I know how hard that is, far harder than war. War is easy compared to it, as making it starts with befriending foes, that’s why it’s called peace.’

Jaime watches him then, for a long while, and asks again, ‘You will kill us all if I do not kneel?’

‘There’s only one way you’ll find out about that.’ Jon grabs a cup from a nearby table and takes a sip. _Water_ , he thinks, _No wine to numb my mind as I seperate his head from his neck_.

Jon needs no wine, for Jaime nods, then sinks through his knee, his head low, the way Jon’s father once recalled the moment the blond-haired boy kneeled to king Aerys, second of his name. It angered Tywin, to be robbed of his heir. If only Tywin could see Jaime now.

Jon takes another sip, then places the cup back down, ‘You won’t regret this.’ He says, then he turns, and leaves to walk the room, a kneeling Jaime staring down at the floor, shivering of all but the cold.

‘Nicely done, your grace.’ Ser Rodrik says.

‘One of your finest moments, son.’ Ser Malckom adds, and Rodrik glances at Malckom for the choice of words but at the comment Jon can finally feel his muscles relax and he smiles.

‘It’s time to drink, I’d say.’


	61. Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘That is why we are _here_ Robb. In Oldtown. This is my battle to win. I fight not with swords but with words.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beforehand I just want to say, _yes_ , I went there again. Not because I like torture or ran out of ideas to torture, but because it fitted well in the aim to give JonxSansa a nice full circle. In any case, it will hopefully make sense in the chapter after this one, that you can expect this saturday.

**Robb**

* * *

 

The sun is sinking down into the ground when it still bathes the bedchamber in yellows and golds.

Robb looks down at her head in the crook of his arm. Her eyes are closed but he knows she’s not sleeping. He can tell. She never falls asleep so quickly, especially not after lovemaking, she always wants to talk afterwards, even when it’s the middle of the night. Usually that can be frustrating, now, her silence causes him to worry.

‘You’re being very quiet.’

Her eyelashes flutter and her lips form a small smile, ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘I don’t… I don’t know. You can always come up with something.’

She smiles and looks up, nudges his chin with her nose, ‘I suppose I’m waiting for you to demand your answers. Don’t you have so many questions?’

‘I do.’ He admits, but somehow, he doesn’t really want to ask, they’ll have to talk, and perhaps words will shy away this blessed bliss he feels wrapped around him, ‘Jon’s fighting in the Westerlands again?’

Rhaenys nods.

‘That’s been a while… he must’ve looked forward to it.’

‘Not one bit, it was the last thing he wanted, the last place he ever wanted to see again.’

‘And yet he went.’

And yet he went.’ She confirms.

‘How long do you think it will cost him to come here?’

Rhaenys’ voice is as husky as ever as she speaks softly, her lips close to his ear, ‘With only horses? Depends on how eager he is.’

‘That shall be soon, then.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘He could be here in a little over a turn, mayhaps more.’

Robb sighs, ‘ _Good_ , I need him to mock all this nonsense.’

‘It is no nonsense.’ Rhaenys tells him and she seems to prepare herself for all the arguments she has to defend her point, but today is not the day for these, Robb decides, as he leans closer and shuts her up with kisses.

'I must get dressed.' She mutters to his lips.

‘You’re already dressed.’ He claims.

‘This is not dressed!’ Rhaenys giggles, as far as Rhaenys and giggling work together. She pulls her loose and thin robe tighter around her body. It’s too small. Everything’s too small, Robb quickly figured that out. Everything’s in the way too. It infuriates her, and Robb loves it. She’s growing, and _why_ …

‘Seems perfectly fine to me.’

‘In the North perhaps.’ Rhaenys says.

‘In the North?’ Robb can’t help but laugh, ‘Winter is coming, you’ll freeze to death dressed like this if you were anywhere near Winterfell.’

‘Thank the Gods we’re not anywhere near Winterfell.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Robb looks down at her and wants to frown but then she smiles.

‘You _know_ how I feel about Winterfell.’

‘Is this something we must… Are you saying…’ Robb shakes his head, ‘Have you prepared to battle me on this? You cannot force me to live in the _capital_ , I’m the Lord of Winterfell.’

Rhaenys shrugs her shoulders, smiles up at him far too sweetly as he turns to move over her a little, ‘You don't have to live with me.’ She says, cupping his face in one hand, ‘Your mother stayed behind when your father was Hand.’

Robb snorts, ‘You're only saying that because you know it's never going to happen.’

‘Very true.’ She seems not at all ashamed to admit as she smiles a broad smile before he presses his lips to hers.

‘Perhaps we ought to leave these discussions to the end of the war.’ He tells her after a long moment of blissful kissing.

‘We shall.’

'Which will be soon.'

‘Let’s hope so, yes. It is something I prepared myself for, for so long, yet now it’s _here_ … it’s been four long years and I need air to breathe.’

‘They call it the Snow Rebellion in the south.’ Robb says, as he watches his fingers play with a strand of her hair, ‘Because they say Jon’s army brings snow.’

‘I'd say it's winter.’

‘His name is Snow too, of course.’

Rhaenys places her hands to his shoulders and digs her nails in his skin when she tells him, ‘His name is Targaryen, and this is not a rebellion.’

Robb chuckles, ‘That is debatable, sweetling.’

Rhaenys knits her eyebrows and he laughs at her face.

It is only then, Robb remembers Arya, and he hates himself for not remembering her sooner, ‘Has Arya… how is she?’

‘I’m afraid she doesn’t tell me such things.’

‘She looks so old.’

‘ _Old_? That is old? I’m twice her age.’

‘Not _twice_ … and you know what I mean.’

‘She’s a woman. Soon she’ll be a wedded woman.’

‘Does… does she hate me very much?’

‘Oh yes. You and Jon can feel bad about it together once he’s here.’

‘Is it that bad?’

‘It is when you allow yourself to feel bothered. It is her duty to marry for her family and her house, you must tell her to stop whining, to feel honored, that she can do this for her kin. Remind her to be grateful that her family has found such a good match for her. Remind her of who she is.’

Robb rolls off her and lays down on his back, ‘I will do no such thing.’

‘She hates me. All Stark women hate me. First your mother and now your sister.’

‘Sansa loves you! And my mother is a Tully by birth.’ He pulls her close and wraps an arm around her, ‘Who cares what they think, anyway?’

‘Sansa is not at all happy with me.’ Rhaenys admits.

‘Why? What ever did you do?’

‘I have been too honest.’

‘I did not ever expect you to say these words.’ Robb says and she ignores that.

‘I told her queens don’t whine.’

Robb laughs, ‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’

‘It got worse when Ser Malckom killed a man in front of Freia’s bedchamber door, ready to press a sword through the child’s heart.’

Robb shakes his head, ‘Sansa’s… she is paranoid when it comes to her children, which is for obvious reasons and I believe the one guilty of these is _me_. Sansa loves you, she'll be… have you apologized?’

‘I tried… they were fighting you know, they did not part on good terms, it was a mess, it’s been a mess for a while.’

‘This is why you should have written to me, so I could have been there.’

Rhaenys drops her head on his shoulder, ‘I’ve missed you terribly.’ She admits, ‘I have. I was always…’

‘Always what?’

‘I don't know, just… don't ever leave me all alone again with your mother and Jon and Sansa and their brood. Not on my own. Please?’

Robb only laughs.

‘I drove them to madness, I’m sure and these two… these other two, they _hate_ me, especially Freia.’

‘They do _not_ hate you.’

‘I’ll be a good mother, though.’

‘Of course, I know you will.’

‘I sometimes see Catelyn watch me and I can just tell that she thinks I’m going to be… I’m going to be a _complete_ disaster and I… I thought that too, for a long time, I did. But I don’t have to be. I can choose to be a good mother.’

‘You won’t have to _choose_.’ Robb says.

‘I see Sansa and… it’s all so _natural_ for her, and it’s all she’s ever wanted, all she’ll need to feel happy and fulfilled in life but that’s not _me_ Robb, and I should not have a child when I don’t want it.’

‘You don’t want to have a child?’

Rhaenys grabs her swollen belly and then shakes her head, ‘I do! I really do, but I wasn’t sure at first, I’ll admit that. I was scared.’

Robb presses his hand to hers and his forehead to her temple, ‘I understand.’ He says, ‘That’s… I’m sure I’ll be scared too, once realization settles in… when it's here, I assume.’

Rhaenys lifts her free hand to tenderly push some hair from his face, ‘I never thought I’d be a mother, and I didn’t think I wanted it because of it.’

Robb smiles warmly, ‘Does it matter now?’

Rhaenys shrugs and a breathtaking smile appears, ‘Perhaps not.’

‘You’ll be a wonderful mother. You love people with everything that you are, you’ll do anything for them, you’ll sacrifice your life and limbs. I feel so grateful that you love _me_.’

‘Is that… you think it’ll be enough?’

‘You mention Sansa and my mother… and _I_ can help you too. Even Jon, have you _seen_ him wash Freia’s hair? You’re not _alone_ , you won’t have to do it all by yourself. You and I… we’ll do it together.’

‘That’s not usually how these thinks work. I prefer for most people to be unaware that Jon washes Freia’s _hair_ , it’s not very kingly or lordish.’

Robb chuckles, ‘Nobody has to know.’

‘They all expect me to take a wetnurse and dump the child with that woman when the first cries escape from the throat.’

‘You _could_.’

‘I’ll feel I… I’ll feel cold and heartless, the way they all think I am.’

‘It’s not about what they think, you know better, _I_ know better. The… the _baby_ will know better. We’re all that matters. I know you.’

Rhaenys nods and shakily breathes out. He always had such a wonderful talent for reassuring her, it’s as if someone higher whispers in his ear what he should say, ‘Thank you.’

He grins, ‘Don’t thank me.’

She smiles and rubs his cheek with her thumb, ‘I think I… I needed to hear someone say it, that’s all.’

‘Look at all these women who’ve done it before you… _of course_ you can do it too.’

‘I’m not very much like most woman.’ Rhaenys says.

He smirks, ‘I know that but… maybe it’s not so bad to be like most women when it comes to this.’

‘I lost my mother when I was three and ever since I… I have not seen many women do it _right_. I know what _not_ to do.’

‘Well, then… that’s a good place to start. I have seen women do it right. My mother was a wonderful mother, she still is. Good people raising their children right, I suppose the world needs a little more of that. Change the world, start small.’

‘I wouldn’t call it _small_ , it’s not to me.’

‘It’s not to me either.’

Rhaenys drops her head back on his chest. The comfortable sound of his steady heartbeat below her ear makes her feel like weeping.

‘We shouldn’t spend so much time away from each other again. I don’t believe I like that very much.’

Robb kisses her hair, ‘Me neither.’

‘So, you’ll have to come and live with me in the Red Keep when I’m Hand.’

She feels his laugh roll through his lungs and it makes her smile, ‘We were not going to discuss that yet, were we?’

‘I’m only saying.’

He laughs some more and pulls her closer, ‘Would I sit around and wait all day as you do your duties and rule Seven Kingdoms for Jon?’

‘I won’t rule it for him, I’ll give him my council, assist and support him. It’s not a dazzling job, and there’s great responsibility.’

‘That does sound like something you’d enjoy.’

‘Many able men have failed the office through the years, it’s not _easy_. The Hand must speak with the king’s voice, he can command the king’s armies, at times even sit upon the Iron Throne.’

‘Is that what you want? To sit upon the Iron Throne, _at times_?’

‘Oh no, if I must it means Jon is ill or indisposed otherwise… Why should I want that?’

Robb chuckles some more, ‘You know what I _mean_ ’

‘I do and I’ll ask this… have you ever _seen_ the Iron Throne?’

‘No.’ Robb admits.

‘It’s a great building, not a simple chair at all, Aegon the Conqueror saw it built of the swords of his defeated enemies and it’s preposterously uncomfortable. My grandfather always cut himself because the blades were so sharp. You cannot lean back, you cannot shovel, you cannot even place your elbows on an elbow rest. A king can never sit easy.’

‘What is your point?’

‘No man should wish to sit the Iron Throne, those who do are all fools.’

‘Jon wants it.’

‘Oh no! He absolutely does not, that is why _he_ must sit on it, because he is my father’s son and because it is rightfully his but mostly… above everything else, he must be king because he does not wish to be king.’

‘Won’t that make him indifferent?’

‘He’s not indifferent, he knows what it means and demands. The job killed my father. We must pray it shall not kill him too.’

‘ _You_ know what it means.’ Robb argues.

‘I do but… I am a fool, you see? The Iron Throne will cut deep cuts in my skin if I ever dare touch it.’

‘Because you enjoy power.’ Robb says, and it’s not a question.

‘Thank you for not making it sound like a bad thing.’

‘Men have committed greater crimes than wanting power, what they do _because_ they want it is what should scare the world.’

‘Hand of the King is a responsibility as large as the realm itself, it’s no _fun_ , but I know I could do it. Father taught me. I promised father I’d help Jon, I promised I’d protect him and I shall, I’ll protect him with all I know.’

‘Don’t they always say that the hand builds what the king dreams?’

‘How often have I told you that it is of no matter what they all say?’

‘Nearly as often as you’ve told me how, even though it matters nothing, one must still always listen.’

‘Oh yes, both true.’ Rhaenys smiles and hides it in the crook of his neck.

‘Smallfolk say the King eats and the Hand takes the shit.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes!’ Robb laughs, ‘You did not know that?’

‘I don’t converse with smallfolk much.’

‘Perhaps you should? They greatly outnumber us.’

Rhaenys can’t help but chuckle at that, ‘How awful, isn’t it? We forget that.’

‘That the smallfolk don’t care, you mean? Because they don’t. They only care about an endless summer, healthy children and rain. They only want to be left in peace, yet they never are. It is being common-born, that is truly dangerous, when the Game of Thrones is played.’

‘The game is always played, it never ends, it never stops, it’s an endless turning wheel.’

Robb sighs, ‘Oh yes, that is tragic too. And _exhausting_.’

‘’You’re such a Stark.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Hating the wheel, feeling sorry for the commons, wanting them to love you greatly or better...’

‘I thought you cared so much about the greater good?’

‘Oh yes, of course I do, but I’m still a Targaryen.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Once, when I told father how the people of King’s Landing did not like me much, he said _fools love fools_.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The smallfolk are just like us, they live and dream and die… but they don’t have our responsibility nor our books. My father was a father to them, that is why they loved him so, they forgave him for pushing them all in a deep, dark, slaughtering rebellion because… why exactly? Because he gave them peace. They’re fools.’

‘You don’t think highly of them, then.’

‘Oh, but I do. It’s only that, they _allow_ us to rule over them, they need us in a sense because they cannot rule themselves. They believe in things that do not exist, not only Gods, but in mermaids, children of the forest, giants and snarls. They believe in faith, in prophecy and in visions.’

‘Well, _you_ believe in Seven Gods with human faces, names and purposes. We must all believe in something.’

Rhaenys ignores that comment, ‘I envy them, perhaps that is it.’

‘I don’t think you should. War is the smallfolk being slaughtered as we hide behind our castle walls.’

‘I shall never hide behind castle walls.’

‘You will, if you must you’ll run towards them. Perhaps that is why they don’t like you, because you pretend to be brave.’

‘I don’t pretend!’

Robb chuckles some more, ‘I presumed they did not like you much because you always favored the Dornish?’

‘It is why they call me _Dornish Queen_ , yes, but then, I’m lady of Winterfell now, surely they could see that I am not a Dornish puppet of my uncles… but they do not, because they’re _fools_.’

‘Those left in the dark are not necessarily fools, Rhaenys.’ Robb says, ‘Look at Sansa. She wanted to marry your older brother, be a queen and give him Targaryen prince babies.’

‘That’s an odd comparison.’

‘But you see what I mean, do you not? When you speak of the greater good, you must speak of them, because it’s they who suffer and it’s the people who lose, not us.’

‘If we lose this war I shall lose my head.’

‘And those you will bring with you to your grave will greatly outnumber you, as they always will, in victory and in defeat.’

‘That is why we are _here_ Robb. In Oldtown. This is my battle to win. I fight not with swords but with words.’

‘Less deaths but so much more painful.’ Robb sighs and he burst out laughing when she kicks him for saying that.

 

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

Rhaenys spends the full evening trying to help Sansa memorize all the names of all the people she’ll have to pretend to like, making head gestures to the person mentioned as she does, ‘Lord Leytin. The Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port, Lord of the Hightower, Defender of the Citadel, and Beacon of the South. He has not left his home for nearly a decade, and his daughter is married to Mance Tyrell, so you can only imagine how uncomfortable this may all turn out to be. Though we did not chop off Alerie Hightower’s head, _and_ he's married to a Florent. His _fourth_ lady wife, I was there when they married. In the Starry sept, such an extravagant ceremony, I still remember vividly.’

‘But he's grandfather to Joffrey's bride.’

‘And has been a loyal bannerman to King Jon first of his name ever since the Florents decided to change their mind. I've known lady Rhae for many many years, and his daughter Malora was in my service once… not anymore. They call her the mad maid now, Gods know why.’

‘You don't know?’

‘Not for sure at least, it’s the best kept secret in Westeros, though one can always _imagine_ … his other daughter lady Leyla was in Cersei’s service. She's a dear friend of mine. A trusted and favored spy. She's married to Ser Jon Cupps. Not a very suitable marriage, her father wasn't much pleased, but I gave her my blessing and there was little he could do… he forgave her eventually. Leyla is one of his favorites. Then there's also dear Alysanne… she's married to an Ambrose. And, of course, _Lynesse_. Caused quite a scandal when that one left her lord husband for another man. Last time I heard of her, she was the chief concubine of Tregar Ormollen in Lys, apparently even his own wife goes in fear of her. In Oldtown smallfolk generally call her _that whore_ … or so I've heard. Not that I often hear smallfolk tales, they and I are not that well equated.’ Rhaenys shakes her head at the tales, ‘All very embarrassing. She too, married for love. But she couldn't stand the cold of the North and her husband started selling poachers to slavery for gold to please her… well, I'm sure you've heard _that_ story.’

‘Of the Mormont knight?’

‘Yes. Such an embarrassment.’

'The one who's with Daenerys? The man father wished to behead and then fled to banishment?’

‘That one, yes.’

‘What about lord Leytin’s sons? Does he have many?’

‘Of course he does! Plenty of them. What else could possibly be reality with so many wives… there's the handsome Baelor with his splendid reputation. He's married to Lady Rhonda Rowan, much younger in years, another friend of mine. He was once a suitor to my own lady mother, you ought to hear the stories my uncle Oberyn tells of these days… They have three sons, one girl, the eldest is of Rickon’s age, named Willas. You've met Baelor, he was in the Red Keep, for Aegon’s funeral.’

‘I remember.’

‘Not his lady wife however, Rhonda hasn't left Oldtown since she had her first. She must look forward to seeing Jon.’

‘Jon?’

Rhaenys grins then, ‘They were very fond of each other once.’

‘Fond of each other?’ Sansa can, funnily, not help herself as she visibly feels a little annoyed at the choice of words.

‘Oh yes.’

‘What do you mean, _fond of each other_?’

‘What do you think I mean? The Rowans were ambitious, truly, and Rhonda has always been weak for handsome faces.’

‘Did he court her?’ Sansa’s eyes are big as she watches the woman.

‘Depends on the meaning of the word. It was never going to happen, of course, Jon was always going to marry someone suitable and profitable enough to possibly become a queen. That is, either you or Daenerys.’

‘Are you saying Rhaegar considered marrying Jon to Daenerys?’ Rhaenys realizes she has never before said such a thing and she curses herself for doing it now, when she looks at Sansa and sees the expression on her face.

‘All for… for the blood of the dragon.’ Rhaenys says.

‘The Others take the blood of the dragon.’ Sansa mutters and Rhaenys grins.

‘How can such a thing possibly ever make you jealous? So disappointing.’

Sansa ignores that, ‘Daenerys would have made Jon miserable.’ She decides, ‘She's not what he needs.’

‘I agree and so did father, which is what should matter now.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Daenerys idolized him far too much… he was perfect in her eyes and she was blind to his flaws- but then, she did that with all things she wanted very badly but could nor would never have.’

‘Such as?’

Rhaenys shrugs again, ‘Poor Dany…’ is all she says, ‘I pitied her so much.’

‘I don't want to speak of her.’ Sansa says and Rhaenys is glad to follow that command.

‘Oh look, that's Lady busken, she was married to the much older Lord Holden, when he died she ran off, with his third son, that is.’

‘Honestly?’

‘They married not so long ago in a far too extravagant ceremony, or so I've heard. The new lord Holden was not happy. ’

Sansa gives Lady Busken a warm smile when the woman approaches, ‘Lady Busken! You look ever so lovely.’

‘Thank you, your grace.’ Lady Busken curtseys.

‘My congratulations on your wedding, the king and I were sorry to miss it.’

It’s when the dancing begins that Sansa’s face is all pale. She leaves the hall early, everyone staring after her and when Rhaenys goes to check on her before she leaves for the night herself, she looks even worse.

‘It hurts.’ Sansa says, ‘Just… in my abdomen.’

‘What does the maester say?’

Sansa can only shake her head, ‘Nothing much, he says it’s strain and worry, he says it’ll pass.’

‘Do you think it will?’

Sansa hides her face behind a hand and Rhaenys notices how it shakes, ‘It stings.’ Is all she says and Rhaenys grabs her hand.

‘You’ll feel better in the morrow, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll feel worse.’ Sansa says, she doesn’t look scared when she says it, only angry.

Rhaenys doesn’t quite know what to say but as she listens to Sansa give septa Aurestyne clear instructions on how to make Freia’s bed and what fluffy animals to place near the girl’s pillow, Rhaenys can’t help but feel fear.

‘You don’t look good.’ She concludes.

‘I don’t feel good.’ Sansa closes her eyes, sighs, then leans back, ‘I must sleep. Please apologize for me to all these important people.’

Rhaenys nods and squeezes Sansa’s clammy and heavy hand before she stands up and departs the room.

The next morning Sansa’s not much better, and Rhaenys decides to keep her good company, as much as she can, ‘Jon is on his way, Casterly Rock is back in our hands, he brings the Kingslayer.’

‘How exciting.’

Rhaenys decides to ignore the sarcasm, ‘He’ll be here soon enough.’

‘Soon enough.’ Sansa huffs, staring ahead of herself, ‘He never is.’

Rhaenys can only sigh, ‘You really ought to forgive him.’

‘What is there to forgive? He had no choice, he never does. Not when he leaves me, yet he always regrets it. Death befalls us each and every time.’

‘Not _every time_ … last time Mylaena was born!’

Sansa doesn’t respond and when Catelyn comes in she places a cold cloth to her dauhter’s forehead, ‘Pains in your lower back?’

Sansa nods and she looks at her mother as the two share a look Rhaenys cannot quite name. She means to ask what it is they think, but then Freia bursts in the room.

‘Mama! Mama! Mama it is is Ny-pheria! You come! Come! Now!’ Freia drops down on the big bed, screaming in all her enthusiasm.

‘What on earth…’ Sansa curses under her breath, ‘Freia you cannot… _calm down_! What is wrong?’

‘Freia…’ Catelyn grabs the girl’s arm and drags her off the bed, ‘Mama is not feeling well, calm down and be careful.’

‘Uncle Bobb is asking… Uncle Bobb is saying… aunt Arba was crying but now they say it is good!’

‘Good?’

‘All good! Uncle Bobb was first… and aunt Arba was crying?’

‘Why was she crying?’ Sansa accepts a glass of water from Catelyn, ‘Calm down, Freia… where is aunt Arya?’

‘Sansa, are you… oh, here you are!’ Robb’s head peaks into the bedchamber and he seems relieved to find Freia, ‘Hey you…’ he says and he lifts Freia up in his arms, ‘I couldn't find you. You shouldn't run off. You promised not to chase off again, remember?’

‘I tell mama.’ Freia explains, ‘Mama is here.’

‘What is going on?’ Sansa gives her brother some stern and demanding look while Rhaenys turns around and moves her arms to stretch the fabric of her new dress.

‘It's Ny-pheria.’ Freia says again, ‘Uncle Bobb saying she has babies in her belly! It was all Sum-pher or… or! It it was Shaggydog.’

‘No one knows.’ Robb says with a grin and Freia holds her hands up as if this is some intriguing mystery that will never be solved.

‘Nooooo one. No one knows.’

‘It certainly wasn't Greywind. Greywind managed to keep it all in his breaches.’

‘Babies in…’ Sansa stammers, ‘Puppies?’

‘A litter of direwolves.’

‘Baby Ghost!’ Freia claps, ‘Uncle Bobb saying I have one!’

‘Oh sweet seven…’ Sansa whispers and she looks around, at Rhaenys, who can do little be shrug.

‘How come we didn't know?’

‘Because it never crossed anyone's mind that they should've kept the animals apart. Which seems rather foolish now I think of it… am I right?’

‘Yes. Foolish indeed.’ Sansa shakes her head some more.

‘In any case. I thought the thing was ill. She was bleeding and lay down, wouldn't move, wouldn't stop howling, then whimpered... I told Arya she must've been poisoned by some plant.’

‘Aunt Arba was all crying.’ Freia says and the memory still visibly pains hers.

‘Yes, and you comforted her, didn’t you?’

‘I tell aunt Arba the sun is still shiny and I hug and kiss!’

‘Yes, you were so sweet…’ the memory of Freia comforting Arya in her grief makes Robb grin and he pecks Freia's beaming face, ‘-but then the kennel master looked at her and… remember what he said Freia?’

‘He was saying… he said… not sick at all! The gods are sending sooo many babies!’

‘How many?’

‘He saying four! Four babies!’ Freia holds up a hand and shows her mother four fingers, her thumb turned in, ‘One is mine!’

Sansa shakes her head at her brother’s madness, ‘Dear gods…’ is all she says.

‘That is one nice present for your nameday, is it not, Freia?’

‘I get wolf!’

‘Yes, big, big wolf!’

‘Four, four, four! Four wolves and I am…’ she looks at Rhaenys and grins proudly, ‘I am four years, _four_!’

‘Heavens.’ Rhaenys breathes and wipes her sweaty forehead with her sleeve, ‘What an age… I wish I were four.’

‘You’re not _yet_ four, Freia, only in a day.’ Catelyn reminds her.

‘Ny-pheria is being a mama! She is having all the babies in her tummy!’

‘So… how long will this all last?’ Rhaenys asks, ‘When are the puppies here?’

‘The night.’ Robb says, ‘The kennelmaster promises us the pups will be here in the morrow.’

Rhaenys sighs. She has learned to accept the presence of the beasts, but fond of them she’ll never be. Greywind has killed more men than Robb and Jon together, and Ghost was so big… he's bigger than the ponies Jon uses to teach Freia how to ride. The black one is always angry, it seems, and the one with the yellow eyes watches her always, as if she's guilty of treason or worse and then there's the one that belongs to Arya… the grey one. Well, she's not sure if it belongs to Arya, Rhaenys can hardly keep them apart, but it was the least bad of them all. It was not the biggest but certainly the slowest, the calmest… the fattest. Obviously now, that seems logical.

Arya’s direwolf Nymeria gives life to four puppies that night, two hounds, two bitches, all of them grey, their eyes closed, whimpering as they look for a nipple to drink from. Their bellies are pink with spots, their ears so small, their pawns reach for what they cannot see.

Rhaenys didn't plan on watching it, but for some reason, she felt intrigued. So, as Catelyn stayed with Sansa, Rhaenys sat down on a stray chair, hugging her knees as she watched the beast struggle.

Arya held the head in her hands, gently stroking the fur, whispering to the animals as if she is her dearest, oldest friend. The wolf closed its eyes in her pain, stared up at her owner with something close to fear in her big, dark eyes. She groaned and her pawns trembled and Rhaenys couldn't help but stare at all the blood everywhere.

_A battlefield_ , she thought, _A woman’s sort of fight_. She had witnessed it before, the birth of a human, when Freia came into the world. She saw Sansa's pain, her fear, heard her cries and her screams. Sansa sank to unconsciousness and cried silent tears as they took Freia away from her, the moment her terror filled the room.

They don't take the pups away and the wolf licks them clean. The fear is gone from the grey eyes as she nudges her litter with her nose. The puppies squeak and there's an unusual, unexpected gentleness in the way Nymeria touches them with her pawn, a natural love, a certain protective instinct that brings tears to Rhaenys’ eyes. She never expected to find the sight so beautiful.

‘Look at that…’ Robb grins at her, ‘I bet you never expected to ever witness the birth of direwolves!’

Rhaenys can only smile, though it hurts her jaw.

As she drags herself up the stairs her limbs feel weak and the world spins around her. She’s barely lying in her bed when there’s a knock on the door. Robb jumps up, and she hears him speak to Catelyn in the hallway, their voices too soft to understand their words, their tones too scared for Rhaenys not to worry.

She pushes herself from the bed and when she sees Catelyn’s eyes, she knows something is all wrong.

‘She lost it.’

‘She told me she was not carrying a child?’

‘She was.’

‘She said she bled…’

‘She should not have.’

‘ _Seven hells_ …’ Robb curses and he looks at Rhaenys, worry in his eyes, panic too.

‘I must go back to her.’ Catelyn says, ‘Can you stay with the girls when they wake up?’

Rhaenys nods before she realizes what a request that is, so she puts a robe over her nightdress and runs after her mother by law, to only be refused into the bedchamber when she reaches it.

‘But I-‘

‘No.’ Catelyn shakes her head, ‘Please do not take this the wrong way Rhaenys dear, but she doesn’t want to see you now. She’s in pain.’

Rhaenys blinks as Catelyn disappears into the room and stands there, nailed to the floor beneath her, finding her voice lost in her throat. It’s so dry she can barely breathe and she digs her nails in her handpalm.

‘Why?’ She asks Robb, though not with words, only with her eyes.

‘Because the baby in your womb moves.’ Robb simply says, ‘And Sansa is in pain.’

Rhaenys nods then and closes her eyes to use all the curse words she knows inside of her head, ‘ _How_?’ she asks then.

‘I think Sansa knew.’ Robb says, ‘I think she’s known for a few days now.’

‘Why didn’t she _say_?’

‘You’re not the only one who struggles with the truth every now and then.’

Rhaenys allows Robb to tuck her back in the bed but her muscles tingle, so restless does she feel and as she watches the light of the rising sun appear at the sky, enlighten Oldtown with the day, she wishes she could cry, but no tears come.

She allows a maid, whom she has never seen before, to dress her, and then, as she was commanded, walks over to the nursery, where she hears Freia whimper, almost like a wolf. She’s crying and softly begging for her mother.

‘I wa-hant m-my m-mamaaa-haa…’

Rhaenys opens the door and walks in, to find Mylaena sitting upright in a chair especially made for children her age, and Freia, big fat tears on her cheeks as the septa attempts to tame the brown Stark curls.

‘That’s quite enough.’ Rhaenys can’t help but make her voice sound the way it does, ‘Stop that, the child’s upset.’

Freia’s sobbing softens as the septa, not Freia’s own, removes the comb from the curls.

‘Leave.’

The septa curtseys and does as she’s told.

Freia quietly continues her sobs, wipes her face with her silvery grey sleeve and then turns to stand next to Mylaena’s chair, who’s holding a rattle but doesn’t move it.

Rhaenys closes her eyes for a moment to find her breath, then sighs and walks over to Freia. She kneels and takes the small hands in hers, ‘Freia…’ Rhaenys says, ‘Look at me, please?’

Freia bats her eyelashes and turns her gaze to Rhaenys, she seems almost angry, the way she glares, though Rhaenys knows she's not.

‘I’m sorry about that septa, we won’t brush your hair today, okay?’

Freia nods once.

‘Mama is not feeling so well, she wasn’t the day before, and she won’t be tomorrow. She is feeling pains in her belly, but she will be perfectly fine, she’s very tired and needs rest but… I will bring you to her the moment I can, I promise.’

‘Mama is having pain?’ Freia's eyes widen, all worried and scared.

Rhaenys nods, ‘Yes, but she will be perfectly fine.’

Freia’s bottom lip trembles, ‘Where’s papa?

‘He’ll be here soon, in a moonturns or so. You know what a moonturns is, don't you?’

Freia nods, ‘You pro-wise?’

‘I swear.’

Freia frowns, ‘Pro-wise?’

Rhaenys nods again.

‘Papa?’

‘Will be here.’

‘I want my gran-mama.’

‘Grandmama is with your mama, she shouldn’t be alone when she’s having pains, hmm?’

‘I go to mama.’

‘When she’s feeling better.’

‘ _Now_.’ Freia glares again.

‘You can't, Freia, I'm sorry.’

‘No sorry!’ Freia says, her angry face would be funny wasn't it so terribly sad, ‘Today I am four! And mama pro-wise me we go see the big horseys!’

‘Yes, I'm… I'm sure she did, and I'm sure she wishes she could, but not-‘ in her high chair Mylaena makes her shrill, high-pitched sounds.

‘Fleee-heeebaa!’ She screeches, Rhaenys can imagine she’s calling for her sister. Freia seems to think the same, for she pulls her hand from Rhaenys’ and takes her little sister’s baby hand in hers.

‘Mama is having pains My-phaela,’ she whispers, ‘But she is being fine soon.’

‘Yes.’ Rhaenys breathes, ‘Exactly.’

Freia doesn’t look up from her little sister, only moves up to place a sloppy kiss to the baby’s cheek. Mylaena moves her hand and places it to Freia’s face, ‘Fleba meh! Meh fleba…’ she says.

‘She is saying I have to play with her.’ Freia decides.

‘Well, then let’s.’ Rhaenys decides, she stands up to pull the baby from her chair and sits the child down on the floor.

‘I can read.’ Freia decides, she opens a book and starts reading the words that are not on the paper, but they match the drawings all the same. Mylaena listens breathlessly, sticking her fingers in her mouth, and Rhaenys sits down in a chair to watch them.

Catelyn comes to check and Freia loses her newfound strength and cries a little more when she sees her, ‘Mama is perfectly fine, truly, she is sleeping now.’ Catelyn promises her granddaughter, stroking her hair as the girl sits in her lap, ‘We can got to her when she wakes.’

‘ _Now_?’

‘When she wakes, after you’ve had your supper.’

Freia is not content with that at all, she crosses her arms and gives Catelyn a displeased frown, ‘I want my mama.’

‘Tonight.’ Catelyn promises.

‘But… I am four.’ Freia says and big tears appear in the corner of her eyes.

‘Oh sweetling…’ Catelyn sighs and hugs the girl, ‘I promise we'll eat cake tonight, okay?’

‘I want no cake! I want mama!’

‘Yes… mama wants to see you too, and she will, I promise.’

‘It is… it is the nameday.’ Freia mutters, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.

‘I know… I know.’ Catelyn kisses Freia's curly hair and stands up, ‘I’ll bring Mylaena to her crib for a nap.’

Before she does she gives Rhaenys a summary of things Rhaenys doesn’t truly want to hear.

It wasn’t old. Not at all. Barely two moonturns, as big as an ant. Because of the worries, the maester said, a lack of sleep, too much travel, too many strains and pressures, bad food, horrible weather, too soon after her last carrying… all of that. It happens. Sometimes it happens. Especially this early.

‘I lost babes too, this early. It can happen, it oft happens. She could not take proper care of herself, it is no shock it went all wrong.’

‘No shock…’

‘I lost three. Such things happen. The Gods took the child away long before it could be a child, it’s sad and it hurts, but there’s nothing to be done.’

‘Is there… Is there something we might’ve-‘

Catelyn shakes her head, ‘It happens.’ Is all she says.

‘They told her this before.’ Rhaenys says, ‘But then there _were_ people to blame.’

Catelyn warningly looks at Rhaenys, ‘Sansa has not had the best of times lately, the weight on her shoulders was too much.’

‘I’m partly to blame, then.’

‘You are.’ Catelyn agrees, ‘And so am I. So is Jon. Jon will blame himself, we must pray to the Gods Sansa won’t blame him too.’

‘Do you think she might?’

Catelyn does not answer that question, all she says is, ‘The child was not the first to die because of this war.’

Rhaenys feels a headache creep in when she walks back into the nursery, where she finds Freia brush Ghost’s head, she sings to him, a song Rhaenys does not recognize.

‘Are you hungry?’

Freia doesn’t respond, she gives her aunt a challenging look instead, her mother’s challenging look.

‘Mama will want you to eat well.’

That does the trick and Freia gets up, ‘I don’t like the oatmeal.’

‘Apple cakes?’

Freia nods eagerly and not much later Rhaenys watches Freia eat her apple cakes.

‘Did you see the puppies?’ the girl asks.

‘I did, last night, when they were born.’

Freia looks up from her plate, her eyes wide and curious, ‘Four puppies?’

Rhaenys grins to herself, ‘Four.’ She says, ‘Four direwolves, _so big_ ,’ she holds her hands apart to show Freia their seize, ‘Their eyes are still closed and they're all grey, so your uncle Robb thinks Summer is the papa, not Shaggydog.’

‘All grey?’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Two boys, two girls.’

The excitement that glitters in Freia's beautiful eyes somehow manages to excite Rhaenys too and she holds out a hand that Freia eyes suspiciously.

‘You want to go and meet them?’

Freia glances over her shoulder, no doubt at her grandmother, who they can hear singing to Mylaena.

‘Real quick, we'll be back before you know.’

‘Septa Aurestyne says no.’

‘Does she?’

Freia nods, ‘Always. I cannot go out of the door. That.’ She points at the door of the nursery.

‘But you're four now, you're a big girl, and I'm a big girl too… we'll be big girls together.’

Freia seems to like the sound of that, ‘I am four.’ Freia says.

Rhaenys nods and holds up four fingers, ‘Four? That's so old.’

Freia grins and holds up four fingers too, ‘I am four and four puppies!’

‘We have to go and take a look.’

‘I can come.’ Freia decides, ‘See the puppies?’

‘Only if you want to.’

‘I want to!’

Rhaenys makes a head gesture to the door behind her, ‘Come, then.’

Freia steps out of the door hesitantly. She's wearing fluffy white slippers in the shape of a unicorn head, with the horn adorning her toes, but other than that she's dressed in a pretty day dress, soft pink, closed with silky ribbons and embroidered with shells, sea stars and mermaids.

Rhaenys lifts her little niece up. She can't recall the last time she did so and as she takes the girl with her down the stairs Freia plays with the ribbons on her own dress.

‘uncle Bobb is… down?’

‘Uncle Robb is being lord of Winterfell.’

Freia frowns and Rhaenys realizes she said something the girl probably doesn’t understand again.

‘Uncle Robb is an important person. Not as important as your papa is, your papa is the king, but still very important. People ask him questions and he needs to talk to all of them.’

‘Talking?’

‘Yes. So much talking, far too much talking. That’s what men always do, that’s why they drink every night.’

‘Drink?’

‘Get mortally drunk.’

‘Drunk?’

‘Drunk is when old people drink too much wine.’

Freia giggles and Rhaenys assumes she knows what _that_ means.

Freia gasps and her eyes bulge from her skull when they enter the kennel house and Rhaenys places her down in the straw, to get a proper look at the newborn puppies.

‘So small!’ She whispers, ‘Aunt Rhae-lys, look!’

Rhaenys can't help but smile at her enchantment, ‘I know.’

Freia is surprisingly gently as she pads Nymeria’s big head, the head is nearly as big as the child herself, ‘Sweet Ny-pheria… you have babies! Sweet, sweet wolf… sssshhh… you are a wolf mama.’

Nymeria licks Freia's hand and it makes Freia giggle. She moves her tiny forefinger to one of the puppies, and strokes the wrinkly grey skin of the tiny animal, ‘So soft…’

‘Careful.’ Rhaenys warns, ‘They're very small, you don't want to hurt them.’

Freia immediately pulls her hand away, ‘Is this one secret?’ she asks.

‘What?’

Freia holds her forefinger in front of her mouth and hushes, ‘Mama cannot know!’ She warns, ‘That I am here. She doesn't think… she is maybe angry?’

‘I'll tell her it was my idea.’ Rhaenys promises.

Freia nods in agreement.

‘Look Freia,’ Rhaenys says and she points at the nursing wolf pups, ‘These are the boys, and these two are the girls.’

‘How can you see?’ Freia asks and Rhaenys gulps.

‘I don't know.’ She admits, ‘The kennelmaster told me and I choose to believe him.’

Freia nods, the answer must appear logical to her, ‘So, so small…’ she whispers, ‘Puppies…’

‘You can pick one.’ Rhaenys says, ‘But you have to wait until they're a little older, before you can play with them. They're still blind and they need to stay with their mama. Remember when Mylaena was still super small?’

Freia nods, ‘She was always sleepy.’

‘Yes well, the puppies are always sleepy too.’

Freia smiles then, it's the sweetest smile Rhaenys has ever seen. It reminds her of Jon, of her father. Such a shy smile, as she looks through her eyelashes, then turns her gaze down to her hands, ‘You have a baby?’

‘Soon.’ Rhaenys breathes.

‘I'll be the big cousin.’ Freia says and it's almost as if she's promising, ‘I am four, so a big, big cousin.’

‘I'd like that.’

‘You can be a mama of the cousin and I sing to the baby and the baby sleeps and grows, the baby can play with My-phaela.’

Rhaenys is not so sure what it is Freia means to say, but it still brings tears to her eyes, ‘Sounds like a marvelous plan.’

‘You can sing?’

‘Not really.’ Rhaenys admits, ‘But people tell me I am a good storyteller. You like stories, don't you, Freia?’

‘Hhm-mmhh.’ Freia nods.

‘I'm sorry I'm always lecturing you.’ Rhaenys then hears herself says, ‘I don't mean to.’

Freia only frowns.

‘I'll try not to always ruin your fun.’

Freia smiles again, wider this time, and though the child doesn't say it, Rhaenys takes that for an acceptance.

‘I want this puppy.’ Freia says and she points at a puppy wolf, as grey as the rest, but with a white dot on the forehead.

‘You're the oldest.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I suppose you get to choose first.’

Freia nods, ‘Ghost is papa. I have a wolf too.’

‘Uhuh, yes.’

‘But Ghost is my _best friend_.’ Freia decides, ‘Aaaaalways my best friend, fro-ever and the ever until great wide some-there.’

‘That's nice.’

Rhaenys can't recall Freia ever talking so much, no to her, at least, ‘Ghost was always there. Aaaalways. When I was a baby. Papa was not there when I was a baby. But he was saying, he tells Ghost, he must aaalways protect me. Me and mama. So, Ghost always protecting me and mama. Fro-ever. Because papa is protecting me.’

‘I know.’

‘Then papa found us, and he is never leaving.’

‘Nope.’

‘And then Myllie came.’

‘I remember.’

‘And Ghost is protecting me and Myllie now. Myllie too. He is protecting papa's girls.’

‘Papa has two girls now.’

‘Three! Mama too.’

‘Oh yes, of course, silly me.’

‘So, Ghost is my best friend.’

‘I know, it's amazing.’ Rhaenys is not even saying that just because she feels she has to. The bond between the albino beast and Freia has always been fascinating, by lack of better words.

‘Do you have a best friend?’

‘I have plenty of friends, though I don't like them all.’ Rhaenys has made that joke before, people always laughed, Freia doesn't, she only frowns, ‘I suppose… I suppose I don't really have a best friend. I think maybe… maybe, your uncle Robb is my best friend.’

‘I am sorry… Sorry, I call you stupid.’ Freia's face reddens then and she turns her gaze to her hands in her lap.

‘That's alright.’ Rhaenys finds it hard to breathe then, for some unknown reason, ‘I… I am stupid sometimes.’

‘Is not nice to say!’ Freia looks up, her childlike shock at the word ‘stupid’ is both endearing and funny.

‘No, it's not but… I can understand why you sometimes think I am.’

Freia shakes her head and visibly disagrees, ‘You cannot say it never. You can hurt feelings.’

‘That's true.’

‘Sorry.’ Freia says again.

‘You don't have to apologize.’

‘Look!’ Freia points at one puppy who wriggles a little and let’s go of his mother’s nipple, ‘Puppy is saying hello.’ Freia leans over, ‘Hello puppy! I am Freia! You have no name… we give you a name! Soon, very, _very_ soon!’

‘When they're a little bigger you can hold them.’ Rhaenys promises.

‘You have a puppy?’

‘No… I am not a Stark.’

‘Stark?’

‘It's a… I’m not from the North, I'm a Targaryen.’ Freia only frowns but then she nods.

‘Tar-taryen! I am Freia Tar-taryen!’

‘Yes, and I am Rhaenys Targaryen.’

‘But I have the wolf?’

‘You’re half a Stark. A little more than that, really.’

Freia frowns and Rhaenys can imagine why, ‘I'll explain it to you one day, if you like, but it's a long story and it can get a little boring.’

Freia nods, ‘Puppies are drinking…’

‘Yes they are, they're-‘ Rhaenys shuts up when she hears Catelyn’s voice. He walks in and spots them, relieve on his face.

‘I was looking for you!’

‘Gran-mama look! I see the puppies!’

‘Yes, that’s… I can see.’

‘Four baby wolves.’

Catelyn bites her lowerlip, ‘Mama is awake, she wants to see you, do you want to come?’

Freia's eyes widen and she looks at Rhaenys for non-existing answers, then quickly stands up on her wobbly, slippered feet and Rhaenys only manages to follow her example, the heavy weight of her belly a burden, before Catelyn lifts Freia off her feet, ‘I want to go to my mama.’ Freia sounds as if she’s about to cry again and Rhaenys feels that too, as she follows Cat at short distance.

Rhaenys makes carefully sure to stand near the door, at an appropriate distance, as Catelyn places Freia back to her feet by her mother’s bedside.

Sansa looks worse than she did last night, though her eyes are less big and scared. Her face is a white as the pillow beneath her head, her lips pale and the bags under her eyes are far too dark, she's weaker too, as it costs her too much effort to lift her hand.

‘Freia… my nameday girl!’

‘Mama…’ Freia whispers, ‘Mama, do you have pain?’

Rhaenys cannot hear Sansa’s response as she presses her back against the wall, praying for it to suck her in, away from this room, away from these words and feelings.

‘Mama, I saw the puppies.’ Freia says, ‘Four puppies, mama.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ Sansa says, her voice husky, croaky, as if an arrow was pressed through her lungs, ‘Do they have names?’

‘No! I give them names when they open the eyes.’

‘Yes, you should.’ Sansa combs through Freia’s hair, ‘Have you been eating lots and lots of cake?’

‘Apple cakes!’

‘That's good.’ Sansa lays her hand to the chubby cheek of Freia's baby face, ‘I'm sorry I wasn't there, I really wanted to, I have your nameday gift over there.’

Freia gasps as Catelyn hands her a wrapped package, shakes it to hear what might be in it and grins, ‘It is… they are… gift for me?’

‘Of course! For my four-year-old princess.’

I'm a four.’ Freia nods, she pulls on the wrapping then.

Have you taken care of Myllie today?’

“Hhhm-hhm! I read stories.’

‘That’s wonderful, I knew you’d take care of your little sister.’

Freia places her hand to her mother’s cheek and stops unwrapping her gift, ‘I take care of you?’

Rhaenys can see Sansa smile as she shakes her head, ‘No,’ she says, ‘That’s not your job. It’s my job to take care of _you_ , never the other way around.’

‘When papa is coming, he can take care, too.’ Freia says and Rhaenys gulps and turns around, sickness in her belly, as she grabs for the door. She opens it and takes a gasp of air the moment she stands in the doorway, yet she does not leave soon enough to not hear Sansa’s response, and hearing it is as if her lungs are filled with needles, all pricking in her guts every time she fills them with air.

‘When Papa is here, he’ll be too late.’ Sansa says, ‘As he always is.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and have this story wrapped up and finished within three weeks (have it all done with before the show starts ruining characters and I'll be too depressed to write/read/post/think). I believe I can totally do that. In any case, that means I'll update whenever I find the time, at least three chapters a week. I have summer holiday now, so it can basically be any day, whenever I'm not lazily doing nothing, drinking cocktails at the beach.  
> See you next saturday!  
> Please do let me know what you thinkXXx


	62. Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it _all_ lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?" - Sansa V, chapter 61, _A Storm of Swords_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for being late, I finally finished my last exams and I've lost so much track of time that I didn't realize it was actually saturday until I was too tired to actually upload and all, so I'm doing it now, sitting upright in my bed, having no obligations and all.

**Sansa**

* * *

 

‘Sansa…’ her mother speaks softly and sweetly, but her words are sour, ‘You must… you must come out and greet the King.’

Sansa wraps her fingers around her blanket, as if she means to hurt herself, but she doesn't put in the effort, for it would be unnecessary.

Hesitation is no option, she cannot refuse, she has no choice. The only choice she has, is that she must choose to accept, that there's little in her life that will be hers still, forever, not even the choice to stay in bed and watch the sun go up then down and up and down again.

Sansa turns to her back, closes her eyes, and chooses to accept, to acknowledge that she must get out of this bed. After three weeks, she must. So, Sansa gets up and looks down to watch her own hair fall over her shoulder.

‘Would you help me dress? I do not like my maid, her hands are too cold.’

‘Of course.’

Catelyn laces her up in a corset, ‘Tighter.’ Sansa says and as Catelyn hesitates she can't help but feel angry, ‘I want it tighter, I must look a damn Queen.’

‘You don't need a tight corset for such.’ Catelyn argues, but she pulls it tighter still.

‘Remember your curtsey, Freia?’ Sansa asks the little girl, four-years-old, her hair properly wrapped up in a ruby hairnet, her dress a cloth of gold and greens, ‘You must curtsey when papa’s here.’

‘Like Septa Aure-Lyne is teaching me?’

‘Yes, exactly like that.’

‘For papa?’

Freia doesn't understand, Sansa didn't expect her to, ‘Yes, I will too, and grandmamma and aunt Arya, everyone.’

‘My-phaela?’

‘No, Mylaena can't come, she stays with the Septa, but you are a big girl now, you are four, so you must come and greet papa.’

‘I am four!’

‘Yes!’

Sansa hears the heels of her shoes beneath her feet as she holds Freia’s hand tight in hers. The many faces around her observe her carefully with curiosity and pity. Her family's eyes are those of worry. Sansa prefers to only see the face of Freia, the only person who has not asked her the worst questions. Freia makes her forget reality and all, she makes Sansa smile and laugh. And when Freia falls asleep in one of her arms, and Mylaena in the other, Sansa stares up at the ceiling of her canopy bed and thinks she’ll be alright. So long as they do not get stolen away too.

 _Take my husband but do not ever grab my children and wrack them from my arms._ Sansa kneeled in the Starry Sept and vowed to burn all Gods if they ever dared rip her heart out, _Not again_.

‘Your grace,’ Rhaenys says, ‘it is good you're here.’

‘You look well.’ Catelyn lies.

‘You really do.’ Robb lies too, kissing her cheek.

‘Your grace…’ Sansa recognizes Ser Barristan’s face instantly when he kneels, ‘I have not had the honor to swear you my sword and loyalty.’

‘Now you do.’ Sansa curses herself, for it is possibly the worst answer, but Barristan only sinks deeper, offers her his sword, and Sansa feels Freia’s hand in hers tighten.

‘It is Ser Barristan the Bold, Freia.’ Sansa says, ‘Has father not told you heroic tales of his?’

Freia says nothing nor nods, only stares, and Barristan seems to accept this lack of regality for what it is, childish shyness.

‘It is good you are here, Ser,’ Sansa says, ‘To serve your King at last.’

‘I will do as I've sworn.’

‘Oh yes.’ Sansa can feel Rhaenys’ eyes prick in her back, ‘And you must keep your oaths, do not change a King as other men change their cloak, as yours is white, your loyalty must never waver.’

‘It shall not, your grace.’ Sansa spots the discomfort in his eyes, and she cannot help but add,

‘Even if it's four years late, better late, then live out your days in broken vows, griefs and sorrows.’

'I could never-‘

‘If you could forgive me, I am here to greet my lord husband. You ought to promise your sword to him, it is the king who asks for swords in this war.’

Before Barristan can say a thing, Sansa walks around him, her ladies shoveling right behind her, and with a last, ‘Your grace…’ and another bow of his head, Sansa can see the end to yet another uncomfortable conversation.

Not as uncomfortable as the one with Lord Hightower, far too uncomfortable, too exhausting, even more so terribly necessary.

‘’Your grace, you look absolutely marvelous.’ He lies and Sansa smiles, ‘And the little Princess, of course…’

Freia suspiciously glares at the man, but thankfully speaks no word.

‘It's a lovely day, is it not?’ Sansa asks.

‘Indeed it is, your grace. No rains in the clouds above us, good weather for the hunt.’

‘Yes… Unexpectedly so, it has been a real glare as of late.’

‘Oh no, the sun is just too kind this morrow.’

‘Colder, still.’

‘Yes, much colder, every day it seems.’

‘Winter is coming.’ Sansa says and as always, the person smirks as he hears a Stark speak these words, as if they ring truer from a wolf’s tongue.

‘Good of you to be here.’ Lord Hightower’s Florent wife says, a smile to her lips. She's the first not to tell Sansa she looks undoubtedly stunning, and it's a welcome change.

‘I must.’ Sansa says, people should not pretend she could've stayed away.

‘Are you well, your grace?’

‘Very much so.’ Sansa says, and she's not very sure if it’s the truth, she has not allowed herself to wonder.

‘I'm ever so glad.’

‘I'm sure.’ Sansa hopes so terribly much her words didn't come out as sarcastically as she felt it in her fingers.

Freia curtseys perfectly along with the other women that gathered in the courtyard of the High Tower, only until she realizes who she's curtseying to.

‘PAPA!’ Sansa tries to pull on her hand but Freia’s quick as she lifts her heavy skirts, too heavy for a girl, a child, and runs down the slippery steps, into her father’s arms.

Jon lifts her up, ‘Freia.’ He says, as if he must prove the world he knows the name of his daughter.

Freia wraps her arms around his neck, locks them up as if she'll never let go, and buries her face in the crook of his neck, ‘Papa…’ she says and for some oddest reason, the word brings tears to Sansa’s eyes.

Just like that, Freia in his arms, Jon makes the arm gesture to tell the world that they must rise and Sansa follows all those around her. It's only then that their eyes meet, and she makes perfectly sure to never rip away, to stare right through his soul.

 _Can he see and read it_? She wonders, she cannot see if he sees. She sees nothing, only dread. He has never looked at her with such dread.

Jon places Freia back down, takes her hand and holds it tight as he walks up the steps. Sansa clasps her hands together and digs her nails in her own skin as she wishes he'd end their eye contact. She won't do it, but she needs the tension to fade, or she'll collapse right there on these steps.

Jon looks only away when he lays his free hand to her cheek and kisses her forehead. The way Sansa's father may have kissed her once, or Robb.

It is not the way Jon kisses Sansa, but it is how Kings kiss Queens.

He says nothing. Sansa is not sure what he could say. Jon might whisper his sorrys, sink down on his knees and beg for forgiveness, he would grab her hands, hug her body, lay his ear to her heart, swear to never let her go again.

Jon would ask her how she's feeling, if she's hurt, in pain. He'd promise her he'll make it better, he'll bring her to bed, hold her, whisper in her hair, the touch of his fingers would tickle and tingle and she’d feel her heart swell.

The King only nods, let’s go of Freia’s hand and walks past her, to greet the people he kept waiting.

Sansa blinks and she feels tears prick, her throat tighten and she gulps in the hope of keeping herself together.

Sansa is not confused, but Freia is. She stands there, her hands fists, her doe eyes big and angry, as she watches her father, away for so long, ignoring her in sight of all of Westeros.

Rhaenys takes a step forward, grabs Freia's hand, sinks through her knees and whispers words in her niece’s ear, words that make Freia nod. Sansa doesn't know what it is Rhaenys says, but it helps.

‘You must want a change, a rest? We are hunting today, did they inform you, your grace?’

Jon does not look at Lord Hightower when the man speaks, and Sansa feels his eyes burn. Now she ripped her gaze from his, she cannot have it all tangle up, she’ll sink down like a straw doll in heavy rainfall if she’ll look upon his face. So, she moves her stare over all these people who watch her, watched her before, in a throne room, when she was on her knees, her breasts bare, her own milk in her hands, begging Joffrey to forgive her for her many sins.

She challenges them then, as if she means to tell them to speak up.

 _I was your queen then as much as I am today_ , she tells them with all but words, _Does it please you more than it pleases me_?

Rhaenys, not at all on purpose Sansa’s sure, makes it worse, ‘Jon.’ Sansa hears her say, using that serious voice of hers, ‘We must speak, so many things we have to discuss. I’m very sorry to deprive you of well-deserved rest, but it cannot wait, we must summon a council.’

‘The capital?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘The sparrows again?’

‘The sparrows still.’

Jon nods and Sansa turns her back on him for she cannot hear his words, she doesn't want to hear Jon’s voice speak things he'd never say. That simply hurts too much.

Sansa is left there, on these steps, in her beautiful dress, her hair like molten copper over her shoulders, shiny and thick, the stones of the tiara in her hair are so heavy they make her neck ache, but it is nothing compared to the deep ache she feels, from her heart to her bleeding womb.

‘Come Freia.’ Sansa says, ‘We’ll go to your sister.’

Freia nods and says no word as Sansa pulls her along with her, back to the Queen’s rooms.

There, Sansa allows her maid, the one with the cold hands, to help her out of her dress, the heavy layers of brocade and silk fall to the floor in hoops of unasked for wealth. The beauty of the south in cloth, embroidered with golden primroses.

Freia holds Mylaena’s hands and tries to teach her how to walk. Mylaena's a quick walker, quicker than Freia, but her speech is less so. She calls Freia Fleba, but other than that, the only word she babbles is Sansa's name.

‘Mamsaa!’ She screams as she falls backwards on her bum and cries with no tears.

‘Teach her how to walk with falling and standing up.’ Sansa tells Freia and Freia pats her sister's head.

‘Myllie! _Stand_!’ She pulls on the chubby hands and Mylaena, determined as a babe always is, helps Freia lift her on her wobbly feet.

Sansa feels her lips smile as she watches them. What a perfect little sight. So blessed she is… it makes her happy enough. It's all she'll ever need. These two little girls, they make her happier than all and everyone else together ever did.

Sansa puts the girls in bed for a nap, takes a bath and by the time she’s out, brushing her hair, wearing smallclothes and a robe she hears Mylaena cry at the top of her lungs to let them all know she’s wide awake. Sansa doesn’t put on much else, pushes a stranger septa away and takes the child with her to her own bedchamber where she dresses the baby in a light ocean blue dress with ribbons and myrish lace.

When Freia wakes up too she finds her own way to Sansa’s bedchamber and, still dressed in her nightgown, she drags a fluffy stuffed rabbit with her as she walkes in, rubbing her still sleepy eyes. He ears are so long that when she holds these in her fist, the body of the toy is dragged across the floor.

‘That one is new?’

‘I get it from the Edrip lord.’

‘Oh… Edric Storm? That is the man your aunt Arya will wed in a couple of days.’ For all Sansa has seen of the usurper’s bastard, Edric is charming and courteous, but as much he is fierce and proud. Rhaenys compared his manners to her own brother’s lover, Renly, and she did not seem to mean it as a compliment.

 

Freia looks at the bunny in her hand and frowns, ‘Aunt Arba is going wedded?’

‘Yes.’ Sansa nods and she places Mylaena down on the rug amidst her baby toys before she pulls Freia in her lap, ‘And your uncle Bran too.’

‘ _Why_?’

‘Because… that is what lords and ladies do, they are wedded to the people their family tells them they must be wedded to. I was a lady married to a lord too, once.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I was.’

‘When?’

‘A long time ago, before you were here.’

‘Before Freia?’

‘And before Mylaena… Do you know to whom I was wedded?’

Freia shakes her head and seems almost scared.

‘Papa of course! My papa said I had to marry your papa, so I did, and then you came.’

‘I come?’

‘Yes, I’m so happy you did.’ Sansa says, she presses a kiss to Freia’s still confused face.

Freia frowns some more, ‘I am no lady, I am Princess.’

‘Yes, Princesses too, they… you are a Princess. It is very nice of Lord Edric to gift you, do you not think so?’

‘Can I go be wedded?’

‘What? No, I mean, you’ll be there at the wedding, in the sept. If that is what you want?’

‘I can go be wedded, yes!’

‘Not you.’ Sansa says, ‘Aunt Arya and uncle Bran.’

‘But I can see?’

‘Yes.’

Freia nods excitedly, then looks depressed again when she remembers, ‘Mama, where is papa?’

‘Killing beasts.’

'He is always killing! Killing is stupid!’

Sansa feels an urge to laugh and she makes a mental note to stop telling Freia Jon is always off killing evil men, ‘I know, I agree. Probably because we’re women, Freia.’

Freia purses her lips. The last time Jon left them he was away for half a year, he came back and Sansa could present him a baby. He spent days teaching Freia how to ride her pony, singing songs with her, telling her stories, tales of the age of heroes.

Now, he is here, ready to play the part of King, walk around in black boiled leather, a three-headed dragon on his breastplate, his hair not messy as always, his face perfectly trimmed, to attend council meetings, sit on a high chair and hear complains and battle plans. Jon did not come here to be Freia's father, Jon is not here to be Sansa’s Jon, he's here to be the Jon Rhaegar knew he'd be, the Jon Rhaenys needs to end their enemies.

This Jon does not need Sansa, not the way Sansa's Jon does. This Jon needs a Queen, and as Sansa steps out of her corset, she feels that Queen is a cloak she can wear, and choose to take off, whenever needed.

'Let's play chess, hmm? You like that?’

Freia sits down, moping and sulking like only four-year-olds can, grabbing her chess game and throwing it down into the floor, angrily placing the pieces on the wrong spot, the way she always purposely does, and Sansa always just let’s her. She was too much of a cheat herself once to complain.

‘You hold this.’ Freia says, handing her the piece of the Queen, ‘I am the horsey.’

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon jumps off his horse and hands the steers to Trystane. He sighs and looks at the dark-haired boy. The sight of him still makes him feel like he lost a bet. Rhaenys went on and on to him to make her cousin his new square, and after long consideration, ignoring and refusal he bailed. There was simply not enough reason to keep denying and he has been happy to realize Trystane Martell is little like his uncle nor much like his sister. He’s nothing like Rhaenys either, really. Perfect to be Jon’s squire.

He looks around and catches Robb jumps off his horse as well, he looks flushed but excited and turns around immediately to watch the dead deer be carried through the gates.

‘A successful hunt, your grace, my congratulation.’ The high septon bows his head to Jon, something he can only do because of the absence of his crystal crown. The man has been newly declared high septon, and he will oil Jon with the holy oils of the Seven in the morrow of his coronation, along with both Freia and Mylaena, to have the royal family be true and loyal followers of the Faith of the Seven, true to the Seven-Pointed Star. Sansa angered herself more over it than Jon did. He’ll always be true to the Old Gods, his mother’s gods, and he will teach Freia and Mylaena the same, some oil touching his forehead will not change that.

‘Yes, very, thank you, your honor.’ Jon nods his head and pats Everglow’s neck as around him the high Lords of the realm jump or slide off their horses.

‘Serve it at the wedding feast your grace?’ Lord Hightower’s horse is bigger and prettier than Jon’s, and Jon raised his eyebrows at it at first, until he realized the beast was also much slower, younger, wilder, not trusting.

‘Why not?’ Jon moves his eyes from father to son when he studies Baelor Hightower. The man has blonde, slightly grayish hair, wide green eyes and some cheekbones that would be better suited on a women’s face. He’s old enough to be Jon’s father, but there’s certain youth in him that makes Jon wonder if it’s thanks to Rhonda. Baelor’s wife is not old enough to be Jon’s wife, he knows that for sure. Jon would suggest he grew a beard if he knew the man well enough to assume such advice is desired.

‘Would you wish to present it to your Queen?’

‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary, my Queen does not enjoy such a sight much.’ Jon decides as he takes a look at the dead head of the dead deer. The eyes are open and there’s blood coming out of places where blood should not come out off.

Jon pats then neck of his horse, realizes the nervousness he felt ever since leaving the Westerlands has returned with a dust of wind. The hunt helped him clear his mind, which may or may not be a good thing, but he no longer feels he can postpone it any longer. He’ll lose his mind.

‘Trystane!’

‘Your grace!’

‘Bring my horse to the stables.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

'And give him some carrot or apple, he did well.’

‘Of course, your grace.’

‘Thank you Trystane.’

Jon has not been on a proper hunt since his father passed away, nor has he been dressed in such fancy clothes, surrounded by snobbish, supercilious, grand, pompous, arrogant and haughty people, with high ladies dressed in embarrassingly expensive layers of silks, with thick powder and heavy perfume clinging to their skin, batting their eyelashes, old Lords smelling of sour drinking too much, giggling maidens hopping around with flapping skirts, important foreigners with odd accents and noteworthy customs, blushing, beaming squares, jumping, dancing jesters, rushing and scolding servants, and uncountable amounts of people who demand his attention for something other than strategy, war effort, war numbers and food supply.

Jon feels like he has fallen through some deep hole and ended up in the past, when his father was still alive and extravagant spending were not his problem nor did it make him feel so guilty. He sees the dragon banner wherever he looks, the sun shines as if it’s a day in the middle of summer, the sky is as blue as if it’s been years since the last storm and people gossip, chatter, rant and laugh at their own japes as if they have forgotten the war, that people have died and _are_ dying.

Just before this hunt, he tried to drag himself away from all these people, to follow Sansa to wherever she just went off to. He felt like running after her, grabbing the rims of her skirts, kissing her feet, begging her until his throat was dry. But, of course, it was not to be. As if this crown he does not wear yet, is already crushing him so much, he’s too small to reach out for her as she floats somewhere up in the sky, like a bird, flapping her wings, flying away from him.

King’s Landing is in uproar, there’s hunger and sickness and because the war has caused the despoiled of septs and many men and women sworn to the Faith of the Seven have been killed, mutilated, and injured, self-proclaimed sparrows and begging brothers marched to King's Landing with the bones of martyrs, hoping to lay them before King Tommen I Targaryen and plead for protection.

‘Numbers vary but most messenger all agree there are already two thousand sparrows in the capital, with the numbers rising each day.’ Robb said.

‘An utter disaster.’ Rhaenys called it, ‘We will need _years_ to clean up the total mess this joke of a woman has created.’

But there is nothing they can do now. Jon knows he has no power over the things Cersei chooses to do with King’s Landing, no power whatsoever. All he can do is try his best to keep the peace in the lands that have sworn their allegiance to him years ago or only just recently. It’s both frustrating and maddening as well as infuriating.

‘The faith… it is the backbone of society! Does she not realize… This is an utter catastrophe. She is laying the city in ruins with her lousy wits alone!’

The choice of words most high and low Lords both chose when they unleased their fury and displease over Jon’s mother-in-law was both embarrassing and showing. Jon listened to them and spoke of the matter with all sorts of men, until they declared it time to hunt.

Jon travelled from earlier than dawn to be here, was then dragged into a council hearing of hours, then pushed on a horse, and now, as he takes his gloves off, they’re all expecting him to appear at this lavish dinner they no doubt prepared after merely changing into the proper clothes.

‘I must see my Queen.’ Jon says, pushing his gloves in Trystane’s hands, ‘Tell Lord Hightower I wish to be excused and pass on the sincerest of apologies and all that.’

Trystane nods and the boy shows a certain understanding Jon can only expect to receive from someone who just _knows_. Usually that sort of look is left for Catelyn, but not now. Everyone knows. They all look at him and Jon knows they know. Jon is, always will be, a bastard born, and bastards learn to see things. Even more so, they learn to pretend not to see.

He knocks on the door, feeling a fool for doing so, it’s been years ago since she last told him to stop knocking on her door, but he knocks now.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, however, opens the door and shoves it in Ser Barristan’s face before the man can attempt to follow him in.

They’re not alone still. Sansa sits on the floor, on a carpet, dressed in her smallclothes and a thin robe, Mylaena in her lap, Freia opposite her, playing Freia’s favorite game of chess. In that moment, watching them sitting there, Jon feels like an outsider in his own family. That is, until Freia squeals, jumps up and runs towards him.

Jon has no energy to lift her up in his arms, instead, he chooses to kneel and take her small face in his, ‘I’m so sorry I did not come to see you.’ He says, speaking his words softly, for she looks like she needs that.

‘Papa, have you killed all evil men now?’ she asks, he hates she asks.

‘No.’ Jon says, ‘Not yet.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘You are going?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I’m staying here, for now.’

Freia nods, grins and sloppily kisses his cheek, ‘Papa, we miss you!’

‘I missed you too, sweetling.’ Jon pushes escaped curls behind her ears and presses a kiss to her forehead, ‘Tomorrow, we can go ride a pony, okay?’

‘Yes!’ Freia hugs him again and Jon’s eyes find Sansa over the child’s shoulder, she avoids to look at him, staring down at the forgotten game of chess.

Jon stands up and spots Septa Aurestyne, ‘The Princess should change for dinner.’ He decides, he playfully presses Freia’s nose which makes her giggle, ‘Will you go with the septa? I’ll see you soon, I promise.’

Freia touches her own hair, pulls on it a little and seems as resistant as ever, though she let’s go of him all the same and accepts the offered hand of her septa. With a wave, she leaves the room and with her absence comes the dread.

‘I’m sorry.’ Jon says, he says it instantly, the moment they’re alone, ‘I wanted to come to you sooner but-‘

‘I’ve heard.’ Sansa avoids his eyes still, ‘Uprising in the capital.’

‘Yes.’ Jon doesn’t know what to say but Sansa’s fills the silence when she stands up and walks over to him, Mylaena in her arms. She still does not look at him when she hands him their youngest and though Jon’s glad to feel the weight of the baby in his arms again, it also makes him unable to touch Sansa.

Sansa walk back to the window, stares out at the city and then asks, ‘So you took the Rock back?’

‘We did.’

‘Does that please you as much as you thought it would?’

‘It does.’ Jon admits, for he is, nor ever was, a liar.

‘Good.’ Is all Sansa says, she folds her hands and straightens her back, keeping her eyes on the sight in front of her.

‘Sansa…’ Jon whispers her name, not sure if she can hear, as Mylaena places her hand to his cheek. The wide blue eyes find Jon’s and the baby does not grin the way he remembers. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and Jon pulls them back out.

He stands there for a moment, simply hugging the baby, pulling her closer against him as she lays her head on his shoulder. It’s one person he seems to have not disappointed yet. Mylaena’s too young to be disappointed, she wouldn’t understand what that feels like. Jon cups her little head and rocks her a little and it’s only after too long that Sansa turns around and pierces her gaze right through his soul.

Sansa’s voice is husky and hoarse, as if she’s been ill for weeks, ‘I lost the baby.’

‘I know.’ Jon says it too quickly, he curses himself for it, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘ _Why_? Was it your fault?’

Jon feels like a fish on land when his throat fails him, he gulps then stammers, ‘I… No, I… _yes_ , but that’s not- I should have… I mean to say that-‘

‘You mean to apologize for not being here.’

‘Y-yes.’

‘For leaving me, _again_.’

Jon wishes he could gasp but he feels Mylaena’s body almost tighten again him and he reassuringly pulls his fingers through the auburn locks, ‘ _Yes_.’

‘I do not wish to hear it.’ Sansa confesses. Her hair is brushed, it’s as red as ever, so bright it nearly shines, it reminds him of nothing but Sansa herself. Nothing could ever compare to her. There’s only Sansa, her hair has only her color, it’s not as red as copper, it does not shine like molten gold. Nothing compares, nothing matches, competes, rivals her beauty. Not as beautiful as Targaryens, with silver hair and lilac eyes. She’s no magic creature, she’s real, she breathes, she’s human, perfect with all her imperfections.

Jon means to clear his throat but Mylaena looks up and touches his face with her hand, almost as if she means to stick her fingers in his mouth.

‘Sansa, I am-‘

‘Your grace? Lord Bolton is asking for a moment of council?’ Sansa’s chambermaid blushes when she spots them standing there, Sansa in that little amount of clothes. Jon did not even hear her approach.

'Not now.' Jon says, looking back at Sansa.

‘He urges you must-‘

‘I said _not now_!’

‘Just go!’ Sansa’s voice is not loud, but her face is screaming, ‘Just go speak to your lord Bolton.’

‘ _No_.’

‘ _Yes_ , if one more person must tell me I keep the king of all the Seven fucking Kingdoms from his duties I’ll _scream_.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘If I got a golden dragon for every time I heard it I could run off to Essos and built the most lavish palace the world has ever seen.’

Jon looks at the maid, her face red, her eyes bulging and her lips pressed together to keep herself from crying, behind her stands Ser Barristan, his face not equally flushed but embarrassed all the same, though he’s better at hiding it. Jon wonders how often the knight walked into Rhaegar and Cersei pulling each other’s hair out, ‘Tell lord Bolton I have a headache.’ Jon says.

‘Your grace,’ Ser Barristan starts, ‘he-‘

‘I said, _tell him_ I have a headache. You do know what a headache is?’

‘Yes, your grace I-‘

‘Repeating things give me headaches.’ Jon pushes Mylaena over to the girl’s arms, ‘Could you perhaps bring the Princess to the Queen’s Lady mother? The Queen has a headache too. We shall answer all demands during the feast, Lord Bolton can have his council then.’

He’s lucky Mylaena is such a friendly baby, because she only grins some more at the girl, who stares down at her in shock, and then takes the child with her when she departs the room.

Sansa watches the door close, ‘You were rude.’

‘I don’t care.’ Jon can remember those days when Sansa barely allowed for Freia to be out of her eyesight, this, he realizes, feels like a complete different world.

Sansa walks over towards a chair and sits down, almost as if she means to grab a book and read, pretend he’s not here, pretend they have not too much to talk about.

‘Sansa…’ He says again, then kneels down in front of her, as if he’s her ever-loyal servant, hers and hers alone, grabbing her hands which she does not pull away, laying his head in her lap, ‘Sansa…’

He feels her shiver but he finds solace in the way she does not push him away. When he looks up again there are tears on her cheeks, too many, one drops down after another and as they fall on her lips she licks them away with the tip of her tongue. She closes her eyes and sighs.

‘Sansa, I won’t ever-‘

‘Stop it.’ She breathes and when she opens her eyes he finally finds the anger he’s feared for so long, ‘Don’t you dare say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘Beg for forgiveness, promise to never let me down, to never leave me again. I don’t want your promises, I don’t want more of these seen broken.’ She stands up then and as he holds a piece of her dress in his hand, the silk slips through his fingers like water.

‘I… they told me and I… I didn’t know you still were- I didn’t understand.’

‘You didn’t understand?’ She looks down at him with her blue eyes as cold as hoarfrost.

‘You told me you were wrong.’

‘I wasn’t wrong.’ Sansa says, ‘I never was and I always knew.’

‘Why didn’t you tell?’

‘Because I wanted to be wrong, because I… Because I am a stupid woman.’

Jon shakes his head and stands up too, he feels his brows knit and he wants to grab her hands again, but he doesn’t dare, ‘You are not stupid.’

‘I have been.’ She says, ‘And I should’ve… I _should_ have told you. You should be angry with _me_. I have kept things from you, these past years, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to make all that right.’

‘Don’t be silly. This was not your fault.’

‘Was it yours?’ she raises her voice again, ‘ _Of course_ it was my fault. Whose fault was it if not mine? I spend my days only worrying, I was angry, and I was jealous.’

‘Jealous? Of _whom_?’

‘Of _what_ , you mean to ask.’ Sansa says and her anger is gone, all there is left Jon chooses to name sadness, but he’s not so sure that is all, ‘I missed you.’ She confesses and her voice changes instantly to something deeper, something piercing, something more honest and true than a mother’s love, ‘I spend two years apart from you, and then I found you back… I found you… and yet it wasn’t you.’

‘It _is_ me.’

‘Yes but… it’s not. You haven’t been you since we left Riverrun, not truly. You haven’t been _you_ since you left me behind in King’s Landing.’ Sansa’s bottom lip trembles and she digs her nails in his hand as if she means to hurt him, but not really, ‘SomYpu’re the King now. And to the King… I’m not Sansa, and the King does not treat me as if I’m Sansa, and that h-hurts.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘Don’t-‘ She moves away when he means to touch her and stands a few steps away from him, ‘You must let me speak, please.’

Jon nods once and he’s almost glad she demands him silent, for he has no idea what to say.

‘I have been who I was when you left me behind in King’s Landing. I expected you to have changed nothing or much less… but, you’re not that boy anymore. And I missed that boy. I _needed_ that boy.’

‘I am still me.’

‘Of course you are, but… you’re _not_. You’re Jon, but Jon’s no longer a bastard, he’s no longer my Jon, Jon’s the King now, the King is married to his people first and the King has no time to… to dedicate his life to Sansa Stark, I am not your only priority anymore. And I… I was jealous.’

‘I don’t believe you should call it jealousy.’ Jon says, ‘It was… It was normal to need time to adapt.’

‘I did not need time.’ Sansa says, ‘I needed the truth. People have always kept the truth from me, that includes you. They allowed me to live in a world of ignorant bliss but… That’s not good for me, not for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Or for the girls. I don’t want them to be the way I was, to live on dreams and songs, to believe these are real. Songs are not real. I will teach them how the world works, but if I wish to do that… I must let go of my own stubborn obliviousness.’

Jon can only nod, ‘You are no stupid woman.’

‘Jon…’ Sansa closes her eyes and it causes more tears to fall, ‘Songs are not real, they’re all lies, all of it, forever and ever, everyone and everything… but _we_ are true, aren’t we?’

‘ _Of course_ we are.' Jon says and he gulps before he adds, 'Perhaps it is because... Because there are no songs written about bastards.'

'There are _now_.' Sansa breathes a sad smile, ‘Tell me… tell me we’ll always be real?’

‘We’ll always be real.’ Jon moves up to bring his face closer to hers.

Sansa only nods.

‘Do not ever call yourself stupid, you are so clever.’

‘The cleverest of us make mistakes, and I’ve made plenty.’ Sansa says, she moves back to the chair and sits down again, ‘Judgement has never been my strongest suit.’

‘What ever do you mean?’

Sansa takes a piece of her dressrobe in her hands and lets the fabric slide between her fingers, ‘I judged you before I even met you.’

Jon sighs, ‘I do not want to hear that again.’

‘It’s true. Father he… he gave me you, and you are the best thing to ever happen to me.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘You are.’ Tears roll down like rivers now, though she does not sob nor hiccup, ‘I… I cried for weeks, and I did not even know you face.’

‘I never- I understood- I _understand_ why you felt as you did, I would have too. There’s nothing for women to- I was not what you deserved.’

‘I agree.’ Sansa says, smiling sadly now, ‘You really were not. I was such awfulness.’

Jon wishes he could groan, but he only rolls his eyes at her, again and kneels down in front of her once more, ‘I don’t want to talk about that anymore. We’ve talked about it plenty in the past five years, I’ve had enough of it. You say you realized we have changed, then let us move past things said and done these many years ago.’

‘But I have not… I have not changed as much as you have, can’t you see that? I am still that girl who’s living on dreams. I still stamp my feet when I do not get my way.’

‘That’s _not_ true.’ Jon says and he says it slowly, ‘You have been… you have been damaged, but that does not mean… that does not mean you are… you never stamp your feet. You get angry with me and I do need that.’

‘What I said to you about your father was unforgivable.’ Sansa turns her face away from him and looks out the window again.

‘If you needed to say that it is… the Gods know there was plenty of truth in it.’

‘That’s not… it was unnecessary.’

‘I want you to…’ Jon sighs and tightens his hands around hers, ‘I want you to _always_ be honest with me, to never not say things because you- you must say all you wish to say. I’ll go mad if you won’t. You need to keep me sharp Sans, I _need_ you for that.’

‘I have not supported you during this war.’ She goes on anyway, ‘Not the way I should have. You needed me, and all I did was protest and grumble.’

‘You have not…’ Jon wants to scream then because it’s true but it also is not and he cannot find to words to tell her what he feels and thinks.

Sansa finally she looks back at him when she says, ‘I used to think of you as someone who would _never_ hurt me, and somehow at one point I…’ her voice turns over and becomes high and hoarse, ‘I started doubting that, for no reason at all but all the wounds I carried. But I suppose I had to… I had to realize I was right, and it’s one of the only believes I have left.’

‘I-‘

‘I have had too long to think, or perhaps just enough, I have been angry, furiously angry, and I blamed you for losing… f-for losing this baby, I shall not deny it, I was angry with you, with the world, with the Gods, yours and mine… and most of all, I’ve been furious with myself.’

Jon has no breath left to protest, all he can do is listen.

‘I have been a child, and if there is anyone here who must ask the other for forgiveness, it is me, I ask you to forgive me.’

‘You do not-‘

‘I have not been to you what you needed me to be, I have let you done.’

‘You could never.’

‘But I could!’ she aggressively wipes her tears off her face as if she despises her own weakness, ‘You became a King, at some point, but I… You needed me to be a Queen, yet all I did was whine. Queens don’t wine.’

‘You are not just a Queen, you are Sansa, you are my wife.’

‘I am.’ She nods, ‘But I’m also your lady wife, I should always support you. You are _my_ King, and I am your servant.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Sansa shakes her head again and takes his face between her hands, he feels her fingers tremble, ‘You have made me a promise once, so long ago, when we married, do you recall?’

Jon nods, nodding is all he can do, ‘I have not kept these.’

‘You have.’ Sansa traces his lower lip with her thumb and more tears drops down her cheeks, to follow a line left behind by the others before it, right down to her chin.

‘I have-‘

‘Not once have I ever promised you a thing, and I am a horrible woman, because I never even realized, I never even considered promising you.’

‘You don’t have-‘

‘I want to do the same. I refuse to expect the world from you when I give you nothing in return.’

‘You do not expect the world from me.’

Sansa shakes her head, and she rubs his cheeks with her thumbs, she studies his face, then a smile appears. A sad smile, a sweet smile, bittersweet almost, yet pretty. She’s so pretty.

‘All I’ve ever wanted was to be a good Lord husband to you,’ Jon says, ‘Every time I disappoint you, I feel the Gods glare down at me and I have yet again failed in my life, I feel as if-‘

‘You have never failed me.’

‘Of course I have! Multiple times! Every time they hurt you, I have-‘

‘You have always taken care of me, _always_ , and now… now it’s time I start taking care of you, too.’

‘But you _do_.’

‘I have never promised it.’

Jon pulls her hands off his face and moves closer to her, bringing his nose nearly to touch hers, ‘I do not need you to make me promises, I need you to believe mine again, when I say them.’

‘I have always believed yours.’ Sansa says, she moves a hand through his hair, wraps a curl around a finger as she has done a thousand times before, staring at it, tugging on it, pulling his face closer to hers by doing so, she presses her lips to his and he tastes the salt of her tears, ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ He expected to feel like crying, but not at these words. He expected to say them and sound a beggar, but he does not need to, and it scares him far more than it makes him grateful.

‘I promise you…’ Sansa sighs again, closes her eyes to think and when she opens them she’s smiling once more, yet the sadness has faded and in that moment Jon wishes he went to the feast, ‘I’ll never hurt you. You are my responsibility, and I know I’m… I know I’m perhaps not always that what you need me to be, or what people hoped for, but you can always count on me. And I’ll trust you, of you’ll trust me, and I’ll be a good queen for you, I will… and I will protect you too, and I’ll take care of you.’

For some reason, Jon just really doesn’t want her to continue, for he feels like he failed her for giving her the feeling she must say it all. He wonders for the first time if he’d promised her anything if he’d been the future King then, and not a bastard boy.

‘I promise I shall never allow you to promise me again that you’ll never leave me. I promise to know you’ll come back. I promise to know that you only ever leave when duty calls, I promise to never make you feel guilty again for doing your duty. I promise to be only proud of you, when you do, for you are, you will be a _good_ King. I _am_ proud of you, and I shall never, not ever again make you feel guilty for doing what must be done. I promise I’ll be a good Queen, I’ll… I’ll sit by your side, hold your hand if I must, I’ll be always there for you, I’ll always support you, encourage you to do what is right, I shall have faith that you will…’

‘Sansa, it’s okay.’ Jon’s not even sure what it, he says it still, he whispers it as he strokes her hair, ‘It’s all going to be okay.’

‘Jon…’ Sansa says, as if she knows he’s feeling miserable, and she brings her face closer to his, ‘I shall never make you feel like you’re a horrible father, because you are _not_ , you are the most wonderful father and I _know_ how much you love them, I have never _ever_ doubted that and you must forgive me for pretending I did, only because I was angry.’

‘You need no such thing.’

‘We are equals. You may be my King, but we are one of the same, we are _one_. I’m your Queen. You and I… we belong together, remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘You don’t have to do this on your own.’

Jon’s throat has never before been so dry as when he stupidly admits, ‘I don’t want to do it without you.’

Sansa nods as if she’s always known that, ‘You don’t always have to be the shield, I can catch some of these rocks flying around too so you can… so you can take a moment to, come back to your senses or… take a nap.’

Jon wishes he could bring himself to smile, ‘I prefer to take a nap with you, though.’

Sansa refuses to let him be funny, ‘I won’t let you down again.’

‘You could _never_ let me down.’

Sansa smiles through her tears and he moves up to kiss her again. He feels her nails dig in his scalp and she sighs against him mouth. When they part, their foreheads are still pressed together and he tenderly rubs tears of her cheek.

‘You’re every inch a Queen.’

‘I am not.’ Sansa says, ‘But I will be. For you.’

Jon can’t help but grin finally, ‘You’ll do that for me?’

‘Anything.’ She whispers and he’s never believed anyone so much ever before.

Jon gets up, pulls her from that stupid chair, sits down in it himself and pulls her in his lap, ‘When I’m with you, I’ll always be Jon, and you need not ever be jealous.’

‘I know that.’ She says and she does not add that it does not simply always feel that way, though he still knows.

‘If you want me to be Jon the bastard of Winterfell, I’ll be the bastard of Winterfell.’

Sansa sobs a laugh and allows him to drag her close to his chest, arms wrapped around her, ‘Isn’t he dead and gone?’

‘Most of the time, thankfully.’ Jon says, ‘But I dare say he’s not gone when he’s with you.’

‘That boy did some things right, you now… I fell in love with him for some reason.’

‘ _Some_ reason, I’m sure.’

Sansa says nothing for a while as he just holds her in his arms. He knows she’s crying, and in that moment, he realizes for the first time that she must be feeling grief more than anything. His guilt consumed him as much as his fear and worry. All he has been thinking of was how much he needed to be there for her, and wasn’t, how much she must’ve hated him for it, how unforgivable it was.

It’s now, as he feels her shiver and shake in his arms, the warmth of her goosebumped skin through the thin layer of robe under his hands, the smell of her hair to his nose… now she’s here and all real, with all her thoughts and fears thrown down in front of him, glaring at him in all their honesty and all their painful existence… it’s now that he realizes she’s also grieving.

One more baby they lost. She could’ve been growing by now, he could’ve felt a press of a foot or hand as he laid his hand to her belly… but there’s nothing there but pain, pain he caused, pain this war caused.

‘I’ll never drag you across the country in a wheelhouse again, not when you are carrying.’

‘I’ll never let you again.’ Sansa says, ‘It was my own choice, you know.’

‘Not really, you had to come.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘You are and… I’m very happy you are.

‘Me too.’

Jon moves his hand to her neck and lifts her face so he can look at her her red eyes, ‘How are you? Are you in pain? Are you-‘

‘No pain.’ Sansa says, she wraps her fingers around his wrist, ‘Only guilt, but guilt shall fade. The Gods had to teach me a lesson the hard way.’

‘That’s not… that is not true.’

‘But it is.’ Sansa smiles, ‘You should sleep, you look horrible.’

‘You don’t look so good yourself.’ Jon admits, though Sansa’s haunting sadness could never make her look less beautiful, ‘But I cannot sleep. I have a feast to attend.’

‘You can very much be late.’ Sansa decides, ‘All they’ll do is pretend they were early, they’ll apologize to you for it.’

Jon can’t help but laugh, ‘Did Rhaenys teach you that?’

‘She’d never! No… that’s experience I learned all quickly.’ Sansa tugs on the boiled leather of his hunting attire, ‘we must get you out of these clothes, they do nothing for your complexion.’

‘I’ll wear Targaryen black tonight.’

‘You should, looks best on you.’

Jon nods, ‘It was always my color.’

Sansa smiles again, ‘Are you looking forward to it all?’

‘No.’ He admits, ‘But I’ll manage. You?’

Sansa nods, ‘I will, of course.’ She pulls a hand through his hair again, she’s done it so often now, he’s sure it’s a complete mess, just the way she likes it, ‘You missed the girls’ namedays, both of them, I expect you to make it up to them.’

‘Are they really four and one?’

‘Yes.’ Sansa grins and blinks as her tears do not yet stop to fall down, ‘They are really. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Mylaena can say mama.’ Sansa says, all proudly ‘And walking is going well.’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘And Freia’s writing is improving so quickly. Reading is especially much better. She likes it here, she likes the weather, and everyone’s together. She missed you, though, not as much as last time, but last time was much longer and I never knew when you’d come back. Now I could tell her it’d be soon.’

Jon nods. He places his hand to her belly, her empty belly, covered by silks and lace, ‘I’ll make it better.’ He promises, ‘I will.’

Sansa nods, places her hand over his, ‘We were not ready yet.’ She says, ‘I am only twenty and two years old, I was not ready for one more baby. I know… I know everyone needs me to give you a son, and I will Jon, I promise-‘

‘You don’t-‘

‘I will give you a son, but only when I’m ready.’

‘I understand.’

Sansa nods, ‘I knew it was coming and I was terrified. Perhaps, I’ve wondered, if that is why. Perhaps the Gods knew we weren’t ready.’

‘Perhaps.’ Jon pulls a hand through her hair and then lays his cheek to the top of her head as she rests it on his shoulder, ‘Have they been good to you? In Oldtown? Lord Leytin and his family? Rhaenys too?’

Sansa only shrugs, ‘I find myself dreaming of home, of Winterfell. The south is not anymore what I once thought it was. It never has been.’

‘No.’ Jon agrees, ‘That’s true. But… That doesn’t mean it has to be the seven hells together and combined, does it? There’s going to be a feast and all… you used to like that, did you not? And Oldtown is rather lovely, I could give you a tour?’

‘Gods, no tour, that will be exhausting with all the guards and all.’

‘You’ve been locked up in this tower for a moonturn and more?’

‘I was bedrest first and very moody after that.’ Sansa admits, though when Jon looks down, she seems to smile.

Jon stupidly smiles to himself to add up to his self-loathing and she leans up to kiss his cheek, ‘Remember when I gave you a tour of the capital? I showed you all the different places.’

Now he knows she’s smiling, ‘We can’t do that anymore. They won’t let you go, and all the smallfolk will know who you are and they’ll probably… they’ll do what smallfolk do.’

‘They love you.’ Jon says, ‘Robb says the smallfolk sing songs of your beauty and… all of you.’

‘All of me?’

‘Westeros has not had a very lovely Queen in a long while.’

Sansa only sighs, ‘I’m just tired. I spend too many days in bed, I have not been the pleasant visitor the Hightowers hoped for.’

‘Don’t be sorry, they’ll certainly understand.’

‘They do, they… they were very kind, truly.’

‘That’s good, that’s very, I… I’ll make sure to give our gratitude.’

Sansa sits up straight in his lap and attempts at opening the laces of his doublet, she opens the knots with ease and he’s happy to let her, ‘So the hunt was good?’ It’s such an empty question, so simply, airy, and he can’t imagine she cares.

‘Lord Hightower is one arrogant man.’ Is all Jon says and Sansa laughs.

‘Yes, tell me about it.’

‘I’d rather have you tell me about it?’

Sansa looks up, almost mischievously, ‘He has a big family,’ she says, ‘With many daughters. And daughters by law. Rhaenys tells me you enjoyed one’s company once?’

‘Really? I doubt it.’

Sansa pulls the doublet off and tugs him closer by grabbing the tunic underneath, ‘I don’t.’ she says, ‘Her name is Rhonda and she’s the slimmest woman I know.’

Jon laughs, ‘Rhonda? Rhaenys’ friend?’

‘ _Your_ friend.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I had no friends in the capital, I still don’t. A King never has friends, only kin, servants and enemies.’

Sansa raises one eyebrow, ‘Did you read that somewhere or are these Rhaegar’s words?’

‘I don’t know really, could be a bit of both.’

Sansa nods, shakes her head and smiles.

‘I forgot the mention!’ Sansa nearly loses her balance when Jon sits up straight, ‘I caught a deer!’

‘Did you now?’

‘Yes! It was so big, you should’ve seen it. We’ll serve it at the banquet of the wedding.’

‘Wedding _s_ , we’ve got _two_.’

‘That doubles the fun, does it not?’

‘It really does not.’

‘At least it will be over sooner.’ Jon decides.

Sansa bites her lowerlip, sighs and then stands up, holding her hand out for him, ‘You must sleep.’ She says.

Jon eyes her hand, ‘I can’t, the-‘

‘I said, must. It was no suggestion, you look like you skipped not one but two nights.’

‘I skipped no nights.’

Sansa says nothing and he accepts her hand then, allows her to help him out of the other layers of clothing before he drops down in this strange bed that feels familiar for it smells so much of her.

She lays down against him after closing the curtains of the bed around them and in the darkness which suddenly appears, he feels not only tired, but anxious and terrified too.

‘Sans, I thought you’d hate me.’

‘Of course not.’

‘You didn’t? Not for one moment?’

‘I’ve hated you for plenty of moments these past five years.’ Sansa says, ‘But they were only ever moments.’

‘Okay.’

Sansa traces her hand up his chest and Jon turns his head to find her eyes twinkling in the dark, ‘I don’t understand.’ He says, though he doesn’t know what it is he wants to understand. Perhaps it’s better to not always understand, not when it comes to this.

‘Let’s…’ Sansa stops and he can see her think, nearly hear her too, before she finished, ‘Let’s make love.’

Jon doesn’t have the energy to either protest or ask her if she’s sure. His head is so fuzzy he fears he’ll fall asleep but he knows he’s not tired enough. He might be exhausted, but he’s not tired enough, not at all, he’s sure.

She places her cold hands to his burning cheeks and when she kisses him her lips have never before felt so soft. The only good thing there is of leaving her, is always finding her back. In the end, she’s still that sixteen-year-old girl, in her grey dress, standing next to her big brother, giving Jon this challenging look.

That girl still exists as much as the bastard of Winterfell does. That girl just happens to be the mother of his children now, and more than that too.

 _Don’t you die on my, Jon Snow_ , she said once, she says it often, too often for Jon’s liking.

It takes him to long to find a way to open the damn robe and shoves it aside. Sansa bites his lower lip bloody after he pushes her robe away entirely, scans his hands over the soft skin of her body and pushes in. She moans his name in his mouth and he can’t help but grin. There’s always that feeling of content relieve, but when it’s been so long, as he was afraid of having ruined more than he could heal, it also feels like coming home, more than anything else.

Sansa bats her eyelashes and raises her eyebrows at him as if she means to tell him to stop feeling so full of himself, but she says nothing, nothing but his name once more, and then she hastily pulls on his tunic, to pull it off him.

She’s clinging to him as if it’s been years since they’ve been together like this, crumbles in his arms like sand, and she does nothing to speed up the lazy and gradually slow rotation of his hips. He presses his forehead to hers, and when she opens her eyes there’s a certain sadness again, and now, this time, he knows what it means.

‘You okay?’ he always asks her that, he always has, and once he asked because he was afraid of hurting her, now he asks because he needs her comfortable and pleased.

‘Yeah.’

It feels as if something inside of her, something particularly special, is slowly working its way through him, he feels, in that moment like a shuddering castle, with bricks falling down. Her flesh is warm and safe under the flat of his hand and the silk of the blankets around them caresses his back after she scratches it with her nails.

Jon feels more naked than he ever has before, no matter the layers of clothing or lack thereof. He promised her the truth so often, and he meant it nearly as much too. He always knew the danger of lies and the prospect of their danger, but never before he regretted them so badly.

‘The bed creaks.’ She whispers in his ear and the warmth of her breath makes him want to kiss her, so he does. Her mouth tastes of grapefruit and when she places light kisses to his collarbone, it tickles a little, as her tongue draws circles on the hard lines. Sansa’s hair smells of vanilla and something else he cannot name, musk perhaps, or jasmine, and when he grabs it in his fist, it catches the yellow lights of sundown and it makes it look like a mixture of fire and copper, burning as the crafter shapes it to dancing figures.

‘I missed you.’

‘It was not nearly three moonturns.’ She says, ‘Don’t say you missed me so often… it will feel like you have forgotten.’

 _Forgotten_. he’ll never forget. Sometimes he wakes up and he turns around to see her sleeping in the crook of his arm, her back to his side, and he wonders if she’s real, because the memory of sleeping alone, thinking he’d always sleep alone, for the rest of his life, would have nothing but only the memory of her curled around him, is still vivid in his memory, it clouds his mind, makes his fingers tremble with both gratitude and fear as they caress her goose bumped skin. He travels his hands down, gradually and tenderly, until it reaches that place where was once a baby. A baby gone now, and just like that, from one moment to the other, she’s crying again.

‘It could have been a boy.’ She mutters to his shoulder.

‘We have time Sansa.’

‘What if we d-don’t?’

‘We will.’ He knows they will, he just does. He needs to have faith in that, and he needs her to have faith too. It was all too much to lose it now. It’s too all-consuming. Jon presses a kiss to her cheek, scratching her smooth and young skin with his beard. She’s still so young, he too, they both are. Just children they were and perhaps they still are.

‘Jon-‘

‘We will.’ Jon says, ‘We will, we will be so old, you and I, together. Okay?’

Sansa nods and he kisses the tears of her cheeks, ‘Okay.’

Sansa whines in her pleasure, and it’s the best sound, her gasps, her moans, groans and whimpers and Jon wishes he could make her forget the way she can make him forget, it makes him feel anguished, in that moment, because he realizes that perhaps, he can’t. Perhaps there are parts of her that have been stained, hurt, broken, lost… she’ll never find them back, some wounds never heal, she’ll always remember. All he can do, is kiss the pain away and make her feel safe, protected, _sheltered_ as if such a thing exists.

Jon buries his face in the pillow to smother his cries when it’s over, in an elusive moment where he vaguely remembers where they are, who’s standing behind that big, thick wooden door, white cloak over their shoulders.

When she speaks, she speaks. Her words roll out and somehow, vaguely, he realizes he’s heard them before. Words of blood, of pain in her abdomen, descriptions of a certain feeling of hollowness, loneliness, emptiness.

‘I do not even know how big it was. Probably the seize of a seashell.’

‘That small?’

‘That small.’

‘Much smaller than… with the first.’

‘Yes, much smaller. It was no boy or girl yet, barely a thing, but it was life, I suppose, and it was lost.’

Jon rubs her cheek with the back of his fingers and she closes her eyes at his touch.

He watches her eyelashes flutter to her cheekbones as she slowly falls asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, tears falling down, drying on her cheeks, one arm wrapped around his torso as she moves her leg up to strangle him. Jon rests his cheek to the top of her head, her breathing brings him comfort, it’s the most peaceful sound and he wishes she wouldn’t fall asleep, so he could apologize to her, for ever allowing her to feel lonely, to make her feel guilty.

Jon knows he should wake her and get dressed for the feast, he knows they have no time for rest, for sleeping, for all this. But he also knows that what they are, the two of them together, that it’s of as much war and country interest as Lord Leytin’s self-worth and pride.

Jon can’t be strong without Sansa, she’s the source of nearly all the emotional power has, the Gods know how badly he has and will need it all. Jon can’t be king without his queen, and in the end, really, it is not always bad to choose this over duty, not when this is as much a duty of as much value as anything else.

So he doesn’t wake her, he just lays there, holding her, until his eyes sink down and he fades off to some place far away, knowing he’ll hate Rhaenys forever when she’ll knock on their door, demanding them to get their ass over to the great hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is probably wednesday or thursday, then probably friday and sunday or something. You'll see it appear eventually.  
> I want to wish you all a happy GOT day, but I won't cause, let's be honest, this season's gonna suck and we all know it.  
> See you next week, Byeexxxx


	63. Plan Oldtower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa married a bastard, Robb married a Targaryen angry woman, Bran will marry an incest bastard and Arya a Stormlander bastard, son of a traitor and usurper. All Catelyn can do is pray to the mother and all the other Gods that they might spare her children. Perhaps Rickon can have a proper marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii!! Arya and Bran are getting married, can you feel the love?

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon swifts in his seat and glances up at Trystane, wondering if there’s something he could say to give the boy something to do, something that could make him leave this office. Jon has tried having pleasant conversations with his squire, but he’s not been much good for some odd reason. He lived under the impression that he was good at small talk after years of it in King’s Landing, but he fears he has outlearned… or perhaps he’s getting old and Trystane is too impressed with him. He’s too much of a pleaser, Jon’s not and never was good with pleasers.

‘Is there something I can do for you, your grace?’ The boy asks, he always asks.

‘Err, no.’ He could tell the boy to go down and check if his horse is ready, Trystane clearly is hoping for that or else he wouldn’t be here, volunteering for cupbearer. Jon wonders then if he forgot to tell Rhaenys’ cousin that he won’t get to squire at the jousting, because Jon really won’t participate. Perhaps he should tell the boy again, in case it’s unclear.

Trystane opens his mouth to speak but he’s interrupted when the door opens again and Sansa walks in. She looks at the both of them and shakes her head, ‘Still here? You must get changed for the jousting, even Freia is dressed.’

Jon wishes he could groan, ‘I can’t participate.’ He admits and in the corner of his eye he sees Trystane’s face do funny things as Sansa walks over to him and places a cold hand to his cheek, ‘They know, don’t they?’

‘Yes, I said so. I told lord Leytin you don’t allow yourself the risk.’

‘Did you? I told him my horse is lame.’

‘Yes, well, that’s _why_ , he mentioned it to me and offered a destrier.’

‘I don’t ever ride destriers, only coursers.’

‘Well, I couldn’t tell him _that_.’

‘Bloody destriers, I hate these.’ _Of course_ lord Leytin offered a destier, the most expensive horse imaginable.

‘We can just watch.’ Sansa says and she moves him backwards a little so she can drop down in his lap, ‘Freia too, I told septa Aurestyne to bring her back in when the blood gets too much.’

‘She’ll love the horses.’ Jon says, pushing her hair to her back.

‘She will.’

Jon grins at her and wonders if he can kiss the queen in front of a Dornish squire when Rhaenys barks in with no knocking, because she wouldn’t know how to knock anyway.

‘Your grace.’ She glances at Sansa who pleasantly smiles, ‘Why are you not dressed for the jousting?’

‘I asked him first.’ Sansa says, ‘He will be soon, I promise.’

Rhaenys nods, smiles at her cousin and tells him, ‘Dear Trystane, why do you not go and prepare his grace’s clothes? He’ll join you soon.’

Trystane nods, bows with his face still in a grimace, and leaves.

Jon is just about to thank his sister for releasing him from the company of Doran’s youngest, when she gets on with why she came and explains without explaining why she needed Trystane out, ‘We must discuss my cousin Quintyn.’

Jon looks down at the piece of paper in front of him and swifts in his seat to make the weight of Sansa on his leg a little more comfortable, ‘What did he do?’

‘Nothing, not _yet_ , but he and I… we have decided he must travel to Essos.’

‘ _Why_?’ Jon rubs his eyes to stop the stinging.

‘To speak to Daenerys, of course.’

Sansa gets up and he can see a look of both panic and distrust on her face, ‘Why would we want to speak to Daenerys?’

‘Not _we_ , my cousin Quintyn!’

‘Wait… _what_?’ Jon shakes his head, ‘This is… Where does this come from?’

Rhaenys straightens her dress as it falls over the suddenly evident swell of her belly, ‘I believe it’s necessary for us to speak to her, but neither you nor I can afford to travel that far, for so long.’

‘But your cousin Quintyn can?’

‘I want them to marry.’ Rhaenys decides.

‘She’s not yours to marry off, she’s… she’s not one of us, she’s all the way at the other side of the Narrow Sea.’

‘Not all the way Jon… it’s called narrow for a reason.’ That piece of classic Rhaenys cleverness makes Sansa giggle.

‘I want her to _stay_ there.’

‘You have been going on to me about peace ever since she hatched dragons.’

‘I don’t want her to… I want these dragons to stay where they are. I want Daenerys to stay where she is.’ Jon looks up at Sansa, the blue of her dress seems nearly the color of the ocean now, with the sunlight, and as she hugs herself, he realizes there’s more than only the smallfolk he must protect from his aunt, ‘I want her to stay away from my family.’

‘Don’t worry about… I must set aside my anger, I know that, I have come to the conclusion that I must seek for the Daenerys I once knew.’

‘Are you feeling guilty?’

‘Hate only breaks, I wish to mend.’

‘Is it what _she_ wants?’

‘I wish to find out.’

‘So, you shall send your cousin to her, to politely ask?’

‘More or less.’ Rhaenys nods.

Jon bites his lower lip, ‘I would cheer your newfound forgiveness if it wasn’t concerning aunt Daenerys.’

Rhaenys shrugs, ‘You forbid it?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Do what you can’t keep yourself from doing, but don’t write my name at the end of the letters. If this is what you believe is right, do it, but I choose to be left uninvolved.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘Good.’

‘Can you go now? Close the door behind you, please.’

Rhaenys raises her eyebrows at him, as if she’s suspicious of something greatly unjust, ‘ _No_ ,’ she says, ‘Most knights are dressed in full armor, you’ll be late for the jousting, you can’t be late, a king is never late.’

‘I’ll be late.’ Jon says, playing with the fabric of Sansa’s skirt, ‘I’ll be late and no man shall say a thing… because they’ll all smile and apologize for being early.’

Sansa looks down on him with a knowing smile, ‘That is true.’

‘Is my crown ready?’ Jon decides to ask, firstly because he’s anxious it won’t be ready in time, secondly because he is scared out of his mind it will be hideous, too heavy and embarrassing and he’ll have to wear all that every day for the rest of his life.

‘No, but the queen’s is.’

‘Yes!’ Sansa looks almost excited then, ‘I’ve seen mine!’

‘How have you seen yours when I can’t see mine?’

‘Because you complain and nag and act all melodramatic.’ Rhaenys explains as if that is an obvious fact.

‘But I-‘

Rhaenys makes a hand gesture to the door, ‘Go get dressed.’ She shakes her head at him as if he’s being a child and crosses her arms to emphasis her lack of patience.

The mention of getting dressed makes him feel depressed, but he pushes himself up yet again and not without pecking to the top of Sansa’s head one more time, he finally leaves his office.

Jon notices how hungry he feels, as he stares at his own grey eyes through the perfectly clear mirror when he allows Trystane to help him dress. He hates it when other people help him dress. Even Freia can lace her own shoes, he taught her himself. Jon’s not a child nor an ancient man, he doesn’t need someone else to tie his doublet and fasten his cloak to his shoulders.

‘Leave that.’ He often says, or, ‘I can do it, don’t bother.’ When he grabs the pommel of Longclaw in his hand as he fastens the belt of his sword to his hip, he nods at Doran’s second-born son, ‘Don’t _you_ want to go with your older brother to visit the reptile queen?’

‘Pardon, your grace?’ Trystane seems almost afraid of him sometimes, and Jon’s wondered if that is because he’s so eager to do his best, or because he fears being a letdown. It’s probably a bit of both.

‘Never mind.’ Jon sighs, ‘Just… go get me some wine or something.’

Jon only realizes he should stay in the same room, wait for his wine, when it’s too late and he drops himself down one stair step after another in a towered stair house, until the figure of Freia appears around the corner.

Freia sits with her back to him on one stair, her head leans down, her back is bowed forward, and he needs no hourglass to see she’s upset.

‘Hey…’ He whispers as he sinks down beside her.

Freia looks up and moves her small hands from her face to show him her swollen red eyes, ‘Papa…’ She sobs once and as he moves an arm around her she drops against his side. Jon instantly lifts her in his lap and as he cups her head with his hand she sobs some more.

‘What is it? Tell me what’s wrong?’

Freia only shakes her head and sobs some more, until her tears have ruined the pitch-black color of his doublet. She aggressively wipes her nose with her flat hand and when he rubs her cheek and bats her eyes to presumably take way the pain of the stinging the salt of her tears caused.

‘Did something happen? Are you hurt?’ Jon feels, in that moment, an all-consuming desire to crush and kill whoever upset her so, no matter who it is.

‘Rickon says I cannot p-play because I am a g-girl.’ Freia admits, and the confession brings fresh tears to her wide, blue eyes.

‘What? _Why_?’

‘Because of Willas!’

‘Who is Willas?’

‘Willas is his friend! His new friend is all… they play with swords, papa, and I cannot play with the swords! They say I am a girl! Girls don’t play!’

‘Of course girls… They’re _wrong_.’ Jon wipes some curls from Freia’s damp face, then realizes her hair is all done, rubies decorate her braids and her dress is all pretty, of heavy red brocade, with golden fabrics, embroidered with black and silver Targaryen dragon motives. She’s the most beautiful four-year-old little girl he’s ever seen and the red color of her eyes only emphasizes the blue, it makes her look older, almost.

‘They say I am a girl!’

‘Yes, that’s true, but it’s not an excuse to be mean to anyone, ever, it’s never an excuse for anything.’

Freia only cries some more as she hides her face from view, ‘I want to go home… I want to go home, papa…’

‘We will…’ Jon is not sure what Freia means when she’s asking for home, so he doesn’t know whether he can promise it or not.

‘I only wanted to play, he said no and…’ Freia’s sobbing wracks her little chest as she finds the breath to go on, ‘He was looking at me, and he said I had to go away.’

‘He was looking at you?’

‘Willas! And… a-and Rodrik and the boys… the other boy, I am always forgetting the names!’ Freia seems extremely frustrated with herself for forgetting names.

‘Me too.’ Jon says, ‘If they’re mean to you, you shouldn’t care about their names.’ He tightens his grip around her, ‘They don’t deserve tears either, Freia. If they don’t want to play with you, they’re the stupidest boys that ever lived.’

‘But… I want to… They were…’

‘Shall I tell them to-‘

‘ _No_! You cannot tell!’

‘Okay! I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Not mama, too.’

‘I won’t tell mama.’ Jon promises. He pushes Freia off his lap so she stands in front of him, so he can look in her eyes and take her little hands in his, ‘You always have to tell me though, okay? When someone upsets you, I want to know, _always_.’

Freia nods, though she avoids his eyes.

‘So I can help you, I’ll always help you.’

‘You cannot help.’ Freia decides and she shakes her head, ‘Rickon does not like me, not anymore.’

‘How can anyone not like you?’

Freia shrugs and another tear rolls over her cheek. Her cheeks are not as chubby as they once were, and Jon wonders then how often he’ll have to comfort her because of the unpleasant behavior of fellows in the near and distant future. The thought alone makes him feel itchy.

Jon sighs, ‘Listen to me… you shouldn’t want to play with them, they don’t deserve that.’

Freia still stares at her feet and Jon notices the golden laces of her black leather shoes, she shovels them and a loud sob escapes her throat again.

Jon presses a kiss to her forehead, ‘Oh, Freia…’

‘Septa Au-lestyne says I have to go to the jous-ling. I don’t want to, papa, say I don’t have to, papa, please?’

Jon bites his lower-lip and sighs, ‘I’m sorry sweetling… I wish I could say that.’

Freia shakes her head again in all her rejection and misery, ‘I don’t w-want to…’

‘During the feast tonight, you can sit at the big table… because you’re a princess… remember what I told you about princesses?’

‘Princesses don’t let people make them feel like they are no-thing.’ Freia remembers.

‘Exactly. You’re a Princess, you’re a… a _Targaryen_ , Freia. We don’t let a couple of stupid boys make us afraid to go to a jousting, do we?’

'I don't like feasts.' Freia decides, and Jon knows for a fact that is not true.

‘Listen to me…’ He rubs her cheeks dry with the back of his fingers and then tells her, ‘We can’t choose when we are sad or afraid, but we _can_ choose-.’

‘I am not afraid!’

‘Of course not.’ Jon says, and he adds then what he never expected to add, ‘You’re a dragon, and dragons don’t care about bullying sheep.’

‘I am no dragon.’ Freia shakes her head.

‘Course you are, look!’ Jon points at the dragons embroidered on her skirt, then at the three-headed one on his own breastplate, ‘As am I.’

Freia’s watery eyes stare at the sigil of her house, then she gulps and drops down against him, her head on his shoulder.

‘If they ever will be knights they’ll have to kneel and beg for your forgiveness, because true knights don’t make princesses cry, they protect them.’

‘I need no protecting!’ Freia says confidently, pushing herself off him again.

‘Don’t you?’ Jon can’t help but grin, for in that moment, Freia reminds him far too much of Arya.

Freia nods.

‘You cannot waste tears on them.’ Jon decides and he wipes her moistly cheek with his thumb, ‘They don’t deserve it.’

Freia nods again.

Jon raises from the step of the stairs and lifts Freia up in his arms, with him, ‘Do you want to go and say hello to the horses of the jousting? Feed them apples?’

Freia’s little face brightens up and she nods enthusiastically, ‘The puppies too!’

He puts her back down, because she doesn’t like to be carried around much anymore, and follows her to the stables, a place she can find all on her own. Most horses are all down near the field, saddled for the tournament, but she can feed her own pony, a ginger one named Mylo, an apple like the experienced stablegirl she is.

‘I can make him jump when I am six years.’ Freia tells him, ‘Ser Malck-lom is going to teach me, he said it!’

‘I’m not sure if I agree.’

Freia grins at him cheekily, ‘When I am six, papa! Soooo many times in the future, soo many sleeping nights. I can jump and the horse can gallop.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Yes.’ Freia nods, and moves over to the bay of hay, there where Nymeria is laying down, with her four, blind wolf pups.

‘You’ve already chosen one?’

‘Yes. The one with the white spot. She is mine…’ Freia moves her hand to the pup’s head, ‘But I will always… Ghost will always be my best friend… not Rickon.’

‘You can have so many best friends,’ Jon argues, ‘I don’t think Ghost will mind, he just wants you to be happy.’

Freia cheekily smiles, ‘Friends are fro-ever, like you and uncle Bobb.’

Jon watches Freia gently pat the puppies and they sink away in a short silence that she breaks when she suddenly asks,

‘Papa? Are we going to the jous-ling _now_?’

‘We don’t have to hurry… They’ll all wait for me.’ Freia nods and Jon bites his lower lip as he watches her lay on her tummy in the hay, er fingers gently stroke a puppy forehead, ‘You are happy, aren’t you, Freia?’

‘Hhmmhh! Of course!’ She grins and he feels a relieve like never before.

Jon pulls on Freia’s skirt and notices some grass stain on the red fabric, ‘Mama is going to be angry with me when she sees your dress.’ Jon decides and Freia huffs like an adult.

‘Mama is always angry about the dresses.’

Jon laughs, ‘She wants you to look pretty.’

‘I don’t like pretty.’ Freia says as she gets up, her eyebrows knitted the way Sansa’s often are.

‘Don’t you? Well, that’s too bad… you always look pretty.’

Freia looks up at him with a suspicious frown, ‘It is when she brushes my hair and it _hurts_.’

Once upon a time Freia always called her pains _ow_ , he can’t remember the last time she did that.

‘I’m sorry I’m always so busy, Freia.’ Jon says.

Freia shrugs, ‘You are _kinging_.’ She explains.

‘I am.’

‘You’ll be a good king, papa? So the songs are right.’

‘Songs are… not always right, you know, sometimes they lie.’

‘Everyone lies.’ Freia says, ‘I too… _sometimes_.’

Jon laughs.

‘Sorry papa! Don’t tell mama?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘I never tell, I’ll always keep our secrets.’

Freia nods as if she knows that, Jon hopes she knows that.

‘Don’t ever lie to me, though?’

‘I don’t lie to you!’ Freia touches his cheek and then leans up to hug him, ‘Never ever.’

‘Good.’ He says and they both grin at each other like they always do when they come to some sort of agreement. Sansa always says they have their own language, Jon sometimes wonders if they perhaps do. He likes to think he’s her favorite person, he more than that likes to make the most of it, because he fears it may change when she grows older.

As he sits beside Sansa at the high table that night, during yet another feast, he tries to keep an eye on Freia from the corner of his eye. Freia is already good at pretending she’s listening to her aunt Rhaenys’ talking and it makes Jon grin. As Freia plays with her fork, which he’s sure she’d much rather cast aside, he leans sideways and tells Robb, ignoring Lord Hightower’s frown, ‘Rickon bullies Freia, it stops, or I’ll hunt him down.’

Robb frowns, ‘They always seem to get along so well.’

‘Rickon has new friends now.’ Jon moves his eyes over the hall.

‘Oh…’ Robb blinks a few times, ‘I’ll tell him to behave.’

‘He needs a father.’ Jon decides and as he glances at Rickon, who sits beside Bran and chatters without taking time to eat, ‘Ned can’t do it, but someone must.’

Robb looks sad then but nods, ‘Rhaenys… Rhaenys proposed to me the possibility of you… perhaps you could foster him?’

‘Rickon?’

Robb nods, ‘Bran will move to the Rock… If you take Rickon in, after the war, that is, perhaps mother can come to live with you too? I don’t want mother to grow lonely.’

‘Why would Cat grow lonely when she’s with you?’

‘It’s just that I think she would be far less lonely if she could be with Sansa and the girls and, well, Rickon, if you foster him. Rickon wants to be a knight and for that he needs a southron training.’

Jon nods, takes a sip from his wine which he almost spills when Robb adds,

‘Rhaenys actually wants Freia and Rickon to wed.’

‘She wants… they’re far too young.’

‘She doesn’t want them to wed _now_.’ Robb says, ‘Only… Well, it is perfectly normal, even among the Starks, to be wedded to an uncle or aunt.’

‘What’s the purpose? Freia is already half Stark and you are married to a Targaryen princess yourself… better come up with useful alliances, if we must, which we don’t.’ From the corner of his eye Jon can see Sansa’s glare and he knows she’s listening.

Robb pulls his shoulders up and sighs, ‘I suggested she’d discuss it with you… I can see why she waited. It was part of her plan before she carried my son.’ Robb says.

‘Aye, well, that changes things.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘I’ll foster him, if that is what you want.’

‘I think it would be a good idea.’

‘So, mother will come and live with us?’ Sansa’s voice is clear and she hides her enthusiasm well.

‘Would that please you?’ Jon turns his head to her and she smiles sweetly at him.

‘Only if it would please mother, too.’

‘I shall discuss it with my lady mother first, of course.’ Robb says.

Jon turns his gaze to Catelyn, who seems tortured by the company of prince Oberyn.

‘Would that mean the Arryn boy will come to the capital too? He’s fostered by mother.’

‘I can take the Arryn boy.’ Robb says.

‘For the years he still has left.’ Jon decides, ‘He won’t grow old, I’m afraid.’

Sansa looks down in her cup at that.

‘Are you nervous? For the ceremony?’ Robb asks and Jon can only huff and shake his head.

‘ _Nervous_? No, not nervous, though I don’t look forward to it.’

Robb nods, ‘The sooner all this nonsense it over, the sooner, we can continue the war and finish _that_.’

Jon grins, though his grin soon fades when he finds Lord Bolton’s eyes. He curses under his breath when he realizes he may or may not have rudely refused to see the man only mere days ago, and later promised him a council during the feast.

‘Sans?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Would you dance with me?’

The look on Sansa’s face then, is a face he’s never seen before, a mixture of shock, disbelieve, concern, worry, excitement and surprise, ‘W-what? Are you sure?’

Jon nods, ‘Aye, and hurry, please, Lord Bolton is far quicker than he looks, I swear that man is a spider.’

 

**Catelyn**

* * *

 

Catelyn must admit, that those days in Oldtown, are the best days she’s had in years. She loves having all her kin together. She loves watching Jon failing at trying to find new things to teach Freia as she rides her pony around the courtyard like a queen. She loves helping Sansa teach Mylaena how to walk, then cheer together as the baby makes her first confident and steady steps to independence. She loves watching Rickon gaze at all the knights in heavily painted armor carry their banner around, as Bran sits in his special saddle, as proud and confident as she’s ever seen him be. She loves how happy Robb is, as he drags Rhaenys in his lap, who, miraculously, let’s him too.

The only one who doesn’t seem happy at all, is Arya, who gives Catelyn not the easiest of times, as if it was Cat’s idea. It really was not, but there’s little Catelyn can do to change it all. Sansa married a bastard, Robb married a Targaryen angry woman, Bran will marry an incest bastard and Arya a Stormlander bastard, son of a traitor and usurper. All Catelyn can do is pray to the mother and all the other Gods that they might spare her children. Perhaps _Rickon_ can have a proper marriage, to a wellborn daughter, of not only good birth but good lineage too, not a bastard and in a proper sept as well, not in front of a tree, not in a hasty ceremony in the Riverrun sept and not in this lavish Starry sept, with all of the Seven Kingdoms there, in a combined service.

Catelyn desperately tries to comfort Arya in her anger and hopelessness, but there’s little she can say, and nothing she can do. It was Jon’s wish, and Jon’s wish is often the wish of his sister, and the wish of his sister is law. Or so it seems. Gods forbid it’s spoken aloud.

As Arya mopes and angrily refuses to greet never mind get to know her betrothed, Bran seems relatively pleased with his. Myrcella is a lovely girl, Catelyn cannot deny it. Her beauty is delicate and her personality courteous, a mixture of strong will and high intelligence that matches Bran’s well.

So, Bran spends his days playing cards and chess with Myrcella, and the surroundings they are in nearly make Catelyn forget that after Sansa married a bastard, two of Catelyn’s other five will too. Madness, truly. She wonders what Ned would say, if he’d be here. Would he agree with Robb, as he explained it all to his mother, as he went on and on about how this is too politically important to cast aside because of old traditions and expectations?

The schedule of, what Rhaenys calls ‘Plan Oldtower’ is full and demanding, and Catelyn can see Robb, Jon, Rhaenys and Sansa all struggle with it in their own way. Catelyn often feels like she’s running after them all, either holding up a plate with food or demanding them to lay down for a moment.

There are countless of feasts, one every night it seems, two joustings and three hunts. The second is as successful as the first, as they catch various pheasants.

‘My brother loved to hunt pheasants.’ Catelyn hears Jon tell a couple of squires, ‘He loved pretending he was good at it, too.’

The feasts are wonderfully grand and lavish, and even though Sansa is exhausted, she does seem to cheer up a little in the company of all these singers and musicians. She looks much better, and Catelyn didn’t expect it so soon.

Catelyn often finds herself feeling melodramatic, or just the least a little sad, as she watches the children. She once believed that, when they cut his head off, they killed her too, but she now knows that is not true, for he left her not alone.

Ned would have loved Freia, and Mylaena too, she can picture him telling them the stories of the age of heroes as they sit in his lap, the way Arya and Bran used to sit in his lap, with Jon, Sansa and Robb at his feet, listening breathlessly.

Freia spends most of her time with the puppies, holding them, cuddling them, nearly choking them accidentally… She picked out her own, and though the little pup is still blind and fully dependent, it never protests.

‘I call her Melia!’

‘Melia? Do you know who that was?’ Catelyn highly doubts it, Freia surprises her when she proudly nods.

‘She is a princess! From _Dorne_ , she was fighting all the dragons, and the dragons fly away to burn the ene-phies!’

‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ Catelyn puts in too much effort to not grimace.

‘No! But she was the princess, and people try to take what is belonging to her and then she said _unbowed, unbend, unbroken_ , so I call… I call my wolf Melia!’

‘Who told you all this?’

‘Aunt Rhae-lys!’

Catelyn can’t help but shake her head in disbelieve and smile.

Freia grows up so quickly, it is nearly terrifying, and as she hops around the garden, plucking flowers from every corner of it, Sansa hangs at her mother’s arm.

‘I was wondering… If you’ve already talked to Arya?’

‘About what?’

‘About… the _thing_.’

‘What thing?’

‘You know what I mean… the _thing_.’

‘The… oh! Yes, I mean, _no_ , I have not, not yet.’

Sansa nods, then finds the courage to suggest, ‘Perhaps I can do it?’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose I was wondering if perhaps it would be better, as I am younger and, well, my first time was not so many years ago.’

‘Sansa, if I did it all wrong with you I’d rather have you admit it.’

Sansa bites her lower lip some more, sighs and then explains, ‘I only wish you had not made it seem as bad as you did… You terrified me for nothing.’

‘I could not know, could I?’

‘What?’

‘It is simple Sansa, had I told you it might be nice you might have been gravely disappointed.’

‘Jon was gentle with me.’

‘He could not have.’

‘But when it happened, it was nothing like what I made it up to be in my head.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Catelyn shakes her head, ‘Wait until you send Freia to her marriage bed.’

Sansa looks out at Freia, who uses her full body weight as she pulls on a plant that refuses to let go of its roots, ‘Explain it to me?’

‘If I prepare you for the worst, at least I have you prepared for the worst, that way, it can only be a relieve, you see? If you’d have the worst night of your life… how would you have forgiven me?’

‘I…’ Sansa seems to think about that for a moment, ‘You told me to not be angry with him, even when he hurt me.’ She recalls, ‘That was unnecessary.’

‘Did it not hurt at all, then?’

‘It did a little.’ Sansa waits a moment until she admits, ‘A lot. It hurt… But he was so good to me, he _noticed_ , that made it better, he made me feel save.’

‘I suppose that is why you could not be angry with him?’

Sansa shakes her head.

‘You followed my advice then.’ Catelyn sighs, ‘Sansa sweetling, not all men are the same.’

‘But you _knew_ Jon, so how-‘

‘I _knew_ him when he was ten and two years old. How could I know these years in the capital had not changed him?’

‘That does not explain to me why I should forgive anyone who hurts me.’

‘You were going to be wedded to him, he could have made your life miserable.’

Sansa shakes her head as if the possibility of Jon making her life a misery is not imaginable.

‘It was all against my will, your marriage, I shall admit it now.’

‘Jon had no inheritance.’ Sansa says and Catelyn assumes that is her way of telling her mother she understands.

‘He was a bastard boy with no name nor title.’

‘But he was the _king’s_ son.’

‘With no name, no title and no inheritance.’

‘But would you not rather wed your daughter to a lord who's good to her, not one who’ll make her rich?’

‘I always hoped for a bit of both, preferably a lot of both.’

‘Well… I suppose I have that now.’

‘So long as he is _still_ good to you?’

‘You _know_ he is.’

‘Even after all what happened? You seemed to be so angry with him.’

Sansa shrugs, ‘I and Jon needed two years to move past these other two years. We need to do this together, and we will.’

‘Good.’

Sansa looks away when she adds, ‘I’m very happy with him still.’

‘That is more than most women can hope for, you know that, don't you? I loved your father very much, but I was never too blind to see how lucky I was.’

The idea of Jon being a cruel and terrible husband seems to pain Sansa, as she clearly chooses to say nothing at the mention of the prospect.

‘I did not even bleed.’ Sansa goes on then, ‘And you did not tell me how it worked, you said he would know.’

‘I assume he did?’

‘But I did not. I spend torturous hours trying to imagine. You must tell Arya.’

‘I need not tell Arya, she spent a year with that mad man dog, she knows perfectly well.’ Catelyn then she sighs, ‘We are women, Sansa, we belong to men, we’re bought and sold and traded and you were sold to a bastard boy with the name Snow, it was insulting. It mattered little if he was kind or gentle… you were too good for him.’

Sansa opens her mouth to speak but then quickly closes it again, as if she feels ashamed of her own thoughts.

‘I spent seventeen years preparing you for something they snatched away from you. Instead you got a lifetime of being seated next to Rhaegar’s shame. I did not want that for you.’

‘And now I am queen? Are you pleased?’

‘Pleased… I want you to be happy and you say you are. After all we've been through…’ Catelyn stops, looks at Sansa's pretty face and strokes a pale cheek with her fingers, ‘These years I've spend apart from you, you and Arya both, they were the worst of my life.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’ Catelyn looks at Freia, all beaming and bright, ‘I remember when I first saw Freia... I never thought I'd ever see her but I did. I brought her to bed and she'd ask me where you were, if you missed her and I looked in her sad and lonely eyes and saw you. Knowing you were so far away, not being able to comfort you, to see you, hold you… all the while your child was in the same castle, and every day I saw her she looked more like you.’

‘Freia is all Jon.’

Catelyn can't help but laugh, ‘Oh no… she's all Lyanna. But she reminds me of you, from time to time.’

‘That is only because you want to see it.’

‘I'm sorry if I… no mother is perfect. I have always tried… I have always wanted what would be best for you and in our world… it is sometimes difficult to see what that may be.’

‘I _know_ that.’

‘You, your sister and brothers, you're all I have left now that your father is gone, I love you always with all my heart.’

‘Mother…’ Sansa whispers and she moves closer, ‘We love you too.’

Catelyn sees pity in her daughter's eyes then, and it's an emotion she refuses, ‘My job was to prepare you and Arya both for what would be expected of you.’

Sansa suddenly seems almost angry then, ‘But you failed to teach me about the real world, as if you believed I would never encounter it.’

‘Oh Sansa… you may be right but… I often found that you did not _want_ to know. There is no shame in naivety, I wanted you to be young for as long as you could possibly be.’

‘But you kept me stupid.’

‘You were never stupid. You always had such faith in goodness, I admired you for it, always, with Jon too.’

‘With Jon?’

‘The way you chose to love him, despite what he was… he was the personification of all your dreams crushing down and yet you loved him, because he was good to you and undeserving of your despair.’

‘That was no choice.’ Sansa claims and Catelyn sees no point in disagreeing, ‘I didn't understand what it means to be queen. If I'd known, I never would've wanted it.’

‘Of course you didn't know, how could you have?’

Sansa doesn't respond, only stares ahead at the ships.

‘I am the last to claim I enjoy the ways, women are cattle, they're broodmares, we deserve better than that, are capable of more than that, but... I’ll be the first to know nothing will change.’

‘Some things change.’

‘Not fast enough for Arya.’ Catelyn squeezes Sansa’s hand as it lays in the crook of her arm.

Sansa looks at Freia again, ‘I hope… I want my daughters to be wedded to good men.’

‘It’s not so simple.’

‘Jon won’t want to marry them off, he loves them so.’

‘He loves his sister too… it was for the greater good. Sometimes women are sold for the greater good.’

‘Not Freia and Mylaena.’

‘let’s pray they shall not.’ Is all Catelyn says.

They walk side by side for some more, watching the ships enter the port as they see them sail along the High Tower.

The ships are big, with wide and colorful sails, the main top sail decorated with sigils or other images, the masts are high with a crow’s nest and a proud flag on top. The sailors look like tiny dolls from such distance and Catelyn tries to watch them walk as they sit down on a bench, ‘I have spoken to Jon…’ Sansa starts suddenly, ‘Robb suggested we might foster Rickon, when the war is over.’

‘Foster Rickon? Why?’

‘We could give him a good and proper education, and Jon might knight him when the time comes. We thought that perhaps… perhaps you could come and live with us too, if that pleases you?’

‘Live with you? Are you sure?’

‘I think you’d like life in the capital, and you could see the girls grow up.’

‘I don’t know, Sansa, I have lived in the North for many years.’

‘You need time to think of it, of course, I can understand.’

‘Won’t Jon mind?’

‘No!’ Sansa smiles, ‘Why ever would he mind?’

Catelyn feels a need to shrug, ‘Winterfell is my home.’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘Home is not a place, mother… home is the people you love.’ She says before she gets up to take Mylaena from septa Aurestyne’s arms as the woman appears through the door.

Sansa's words follow Catelyn up until the moment she stands in the Starry sept, and watches Bran place a white Stark cloak, with the grey embroidered direwolf growling, over the shoulders of Myrcella Lannister.

She leans down for him so Bran can reach her, and she smiles at him shyly when the High Septon, that dreadful man with no name, declares them wedded.

Arya can only glare at her husband, who has his father’s dark hair and broad shoulders. Catelyn can remember Robert Baratheon vaguely, as last she saw him was during the tournament of Harrenhall, all these years ago, when her name was still Catelyn Tully. When he stands in a certain light, he makes Catelyn feel like time has turned back. She can only dream it has, as she watches Arya, with her dark hair perfectly washed and brushed, cloaked in black and gold of the Baratheon stag. A Stark girl, finally cloaked in the colors of Storm’s End, the way Robert once so desperately wanted.

Jon looks like a king, dressed in Targaryen black, with little extravagance around him, the way his father used to look. Sansa, however, looks just perfectly stunning, in a dark-pink, nearly red dress of brocade and silks. Pearls decorate her hair as it’s held up with a pearl and ruby tiara, and a certain see-through fabric shapes around her arms in wing-like sleeves.

Sansa holds Freia’s hand, who’s dressed in a sky-blue lacy dress, nearly the color of her eyes, a little too dark, Catelyn decides. It’s long, nearly as long as the length of a dress a woman-grown would wear, but it still shows her ankles, and the silvery leather shoes on her feet. Her hair is loose and the bouncy chestnut curls fall over her shoulders, half-way to her back, so long has it grown. It’s pulled from her face with silky blue ribbons and tinkling bells, and Catelyn suspects that’s Rhaenys’ doing.

Every now and then Freia pulls on her father’s cloak and he leans down every time to listen to her questions and patiently answers them in whispers.

At Catelyn’s left, stands Rhaenys, who looks as Dornish as she’s ever looked in her dark yellow dress, the color of the sun. A beautiful scarf, with bells and other adornments covers the back of her blonde head, but the bells tinkle still, every time she lifts a hand and straightens it with her fingers. Her arms are so full with bracelets Catelyn cannot imagine they’re not too heavy to move.

Her uncles Doran and Oberyn stand behind her, dressed in yellow too, their hawked viper eyes follow everything that happens and it’s a stark contrast with the wide blue eyes of their niece, who seems both pleased and careful in every move she makes.

Robb places his hand to the shoulder of his wife and Rhaenys places her hand over his. Robb looks like a northerner, as he should, as Rhaenys should but never does. He’s dressed in grey, with the proud wolf of house Stark on the boiled leather of his doublet.

The feasts after the service is as grand as the service itself. Catelyn is happy to find that Robb and Jon are both seemingly having a good time. They’re getting a little drunk together as they laugh at the same jokes they used to laugh at when they were only boys. In a certain light, they still look like these boys, if only they could shave off these beards and Catelyn could truly pretend.

Sansa leans back in her chair and sometimes glares disapprovingly at her lord husband, then turns to Rhaenys to clearly complain about it, who always nods in agreement.

The deer caught at the first hunt is served, along with the pheasants and any other beasts all brought to slaughter for this lavish celebration. The singers sing, the jesters jump and the night moves on like a slow and hard to carry wheelhouse.

Catelyn sighs and moves her hand through Rickon’s red curls. The sight of him makes her feel old, it won’t be long and he’ll be a man grown too, he’ll be married, or knighted, or both, and he’ll grow a beard and get drunk too.

‘Why don’t you dance?’

‘I don’t like dancing.’ Rickon says instantly.

‘You won’t mind when you find the right girl.’ Catelyn promises but her smile is left unanswered, ‘I spoke to Sansa today and she told me your brother and her husband the king have discussed a possible foster for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Would you like the be fostered in the capital, Rickon?’

‘By Jon?’

Catelyn nods and excitement nearly blows up the boy’s face, ‘Won’t you miss the North?’

Rickon shakes his head, ‘I want to be a knight!’

‘Yes, but _still_.’ Catelyn grabs her cup and takes a sip of her wine.

Then Rickon removes his beam and asks, ‘Will you not be lonely, lady mother?’

‘Lonely? Oh no, I’ll have your oldest brother, and his lady wife.’

‘But Robb’s princess wife will be Hand of the king, Bran told me, and the Hand of the king follows the king wherever he goes.’

‘Don’t you think the lord of Winterfell must live at Winterfell?’

Rickon shrugs, ‘If I live with Jon and Sansa, why can you not come and live with us too?’

‘Because Winterfell is my home.’ Catelyn decides, ‘I cannot leave your brother.’ Catelyn attempts to comb through Rickon’s hair again but the boy pulls his head away, ‘Rickon, why don’t you ask Freia to dance?’ Catelyn points at Freia, who’s jumping up and down and hopping around Arya, her skirts flapping around her legs.

Rickon shakes his head and grimaces, ‘Freia is a baby.’

‘ _Mylaena_ is a baby.’

‘Did she cry?’ Rickon asks and Catelyn raises her eyebrows.

‘No?’

‘I can’t dance with Freia… Willas says she is a baby.’ Rickon states.

‘Who is Willas?’

‘Willas is the son of Ser Baelor Brightsmile, he’ll be lord after his father and his grandfather.’

‘Oh, I see, and what does he say?’

Rickon’s face turns a little red in his shame and Catelyn realizes he’s done something that rightfully shames him, ‘Nothing! I mean… Freia is young, and she always… she can’t play with us! Not when we’re playing with swords, she’s a _girl_.’

‘A girl?’

‘I tried to tell her but she got angry.’

‘Did she now?’

‘She cried.’ Rickon avoids his mother’s eyes when he says it, and then plays with the fork in his hand.

‘Because you were mean to her?’

‘I wasn't _mean_.’

‘You should never make a girl cry, not ever.’

‘Girls play with dolls.’

‘Don't let Arya hear you.’

‘But Freia’s not Arya.’

‘Shall I tell you what Freia is, hmm? Because it’s important to remember when you and that friend of yours, this son of the son of someone, ever want to be knights… Freia is the daughter of your king, she is a princess, and knights protect princesses, they don’t make them cry.’

Rickon’s face is as red as she’s ever seen it be, ‘I know that.’

‘Do you?’

‘She is angry with me!’ Rickon declares, ‘First she cried and now… Now she’s angry!’

‘As would I be!’ Catelyn takes a sip of her wine to hide her smile, ‘If I was treated so unacceptably rude.’

Rickon bites his lower lip the same way Sansa always does and in that moment, he reminds her of the way Robb used to be, when he was little. At the high table the real Robb bursts out laughing and Rhaenys slaps his shoulder to tell him to not be so loud.

‘If I were you, I would go apologize, as a true knight would.’

‘B-but… she’s angry.’

‘Jon may not like to hear it.’

‘You really think so?’

Catelyn nods and Rickon shoves his chair aside. From her seat, Catelyn watches in amusement how Rickon runs in his niece’s way, taps her shoulder and then seems to give her a heartfelt apology. Freia suspiciously frowns at him, then nods and instead of accepting her knight’s efforts, she decides to make him pay a little longer by forgiving but not forgetting, as she turns his back to him, and walks away, her head held high.

Catelyn finishes her wine then, as she watches her youngest stand in the middle of the dancefloor, alone and rightfully punished, and closes her eyes. The wine makes her feel a little lightheaded and she wishes she did not drink so much of it.

Then, she shoves her chair backwards too, raises from it and makes herself ready to prepare her youngest daughter for what hopefully will be not the worst night of her life.

 

**Arya**

* * *

 

When the door opens, Arya wants to jump up and throw a vase in the face of the person who appears, but as far as she knows, her betrothed- her _husband_ has no auburn red hair nor wears a dress.

‘Your grace.’ Arya has made it her new thing to mockingly call Sansa just that, only to annoy her.

Sansa folds her hands in front of her and plasters on a pleasant and kind smile, ‘Has mother helped you out of your dress?’

Arya nods.

Sansa nods too and walks over to sit down on the bed, ‘If you have questions you can ask me anything.’

Arya wishes she could say something rude, but Sansa’s too kind and this visit too unexpected, ‘I have no questions.’

‘What did mother say?’

Arya drops down too and fidgets with her nightdress the way she’s been doing ever since Catelyn left her, ‘Nothing much.’

Sansa nods and smiles still, a knowing smile, as if she _knows_ , and it annoys Arya a little, because she doesn’t know. Sansa married Jon. Arya married a very arrogant, very full of himself usurper’s son. She doesn’t like him one bit. What she’s seen of him, does not please her in the slightest.

‘Any advice?’ Arya figures Sansa may have, she managed to turn her marriage to her hand.

Sansa takes a deep breath, seems to think about it, then says, ‘If you really don’t… just pretend you’re sleeping.’

‘Pretend?’

Sansa nods.

‘He’ll wake me.’

Sansa shakes her head once, ‘He won’t.’ She says, ‘I pretended with Jon too.’

‘Did you?’

Sansa nods, ‘Yes. I knew how to fake it, because Septa Mordane always… well it doesn’t matter.’

‘What happened?’

Sansa grins, ‘I’ve never confessed this to anyone… not even him but… I’d been iceberging through my room, terrified out of my mind, and then he… he knocked and came in, gave me just enough time to drop down on the bed. I didn’t cover myself with the furs so…’ Sansa looks like this is one of her fondest memories and she shakes her head at it, ‘Well, he pulled the blanket over me, it was very sweet… and he climbed over the footend of the bed- I didn’t dare open my eyes to see but he must’ve looked ridiculous… he laid down beside me and fell asleep instantly.’

Arya shakes her head at Jon’s stupidity, ‘How didn’t he notice?’

Sansa shrugs, ‘I think he didn’t mind. He was very nervous too.’

‘Was he?’

Sansa nods, ‘Of course, it was his first time too.’

‘But… then you slept and… wasn’t he disappointed?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘No he… He was scared I think, to hurt me.’

‘I think Edric has been with women.’

‘Maybe that’s good.’ Sansa says, ‘He’ll know what to do.’

‘Didn’t Jon know?’

‘He did but… he was constantly afraid of hurting me.’

‘Did he?’ Arya wants to slap herself for asking, but she needs an answer all the same.

Sansa only nods.

‘Very much?’

Sansa bites her lower lip, then looks into the room, at the fire burning, ‘Yes, very much. You might bleed… if he’s a good man he’ll be very gentle with you.’

‘What if he’s not?’

Sansa smirks and looks back at Arya’s face, ‘If he’s not… I’ll forge you a new Needle.’

‘Will you?’

Sansa leans forward and presses a kiss to Arya’s cheek, ‘Oh yes.’

Arya breathes a smile and feels some of her worries fade away, ‘It can be good, can’t it? I know it can, men always joke about it.’

‘Women do too, trust me, we’re just not so much allowed to like it, but we do… I promise you we do.’

‘Like it?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Y-you too?’

‘What do you think? Freia and Mylaena were… they were made with love.’

Arya feels like shivering. She doesn’t love this boy. He’s no man, he looks nothing like the men Arya has met. He’s too haughty, too bigheaded.

‘He’s your lord husband now.’ Sansa says, ‘You may not like him much but… you must try and love him all the same and if you won’t, you must love his children.’

Arya wants to scream then. She doesn’t want children, she doesn’t want _his_ children, she wants to go to sleep in a bed all her own.

‘I’m proud of you.’ Sansa says then.

‘ _Why_?’

‘You could’ve run away, you could’ve killed the boy in his sleep, threw food his way, wine in his face, you could’ve locked the door I just walked through-‘

‘I still might.’

‘But you won’t, will you?’ Sansa takes her hand then and squeezes it, ‘You did your duty today, as every woman should. I’m proud.’

‘D-don’t be.’

‘I am.’ Sansa nods and kisses Arya’s cheek again before she combs through her hair, ‘And you looked so beautiful today. You _still_ do.’

Arya gulps. Only her father ever called her pretty. He so often said she looked like his sister Lyanna, and Arya never believed it. Until people constantly said Freia is all Lyanna, and Arya recognized herself in Freia. In the fidgeting, the squirming, the restlessness and wildness. Looking at Freia always makes Arya feel sad, for she feels sorry for Freia and all that will be expected of her. Arya was only a lord’s daughter, Freia is a princess.

‘We haven’t talked much since you… since I came back.’

‘We haven’t.’

‘I’m sorry if I mayhaps should have eased it all more, I have… I have not made my life easy as of late.’

‘I wasn’t much there for you when you lost the baby, I-‘

‘Please don’t worry about that.’ Sansa nearly grimaces then, if she were not too perfect to do that, ‘I didn’t want anyone, really.’

‘I… Just Jon?’

‘what?’

‘You just wanted Jon?’

Sansa breathes an unhappy smile then, ‘I don’t enjoy being queen as much as I once anticipated.’

‘Yeah well, I could’ve told you that.’

Sansa’s smile disappears and she licks her lips before she sits up straight some more, ‘I dropped out of the bed.’ She says.

‘What?’

‘During my wedding night I… I dropped from the bed, to the floor. He rolled towards me in his sleep and I just… The panic was just… and I tried to move away from him and ended up on the floor.’

‘Did that wake him?’

‘Unfortunately. He thought he pushed me out.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘I… Well, he asked if I wanted food or water, I said no, he told me I’d have a headache if I wouldn’t but I didn’t listen and… well, It’s a long time ago. He told me then to not be scared, he said he’d take care of me, that he’d be a good lord husband… and he made love to me like a… well, like it was the first time for the both of us.’ For some reason that makes Sansa laugh and shake her head, ‘He was so kind and nervous.’

‘Edric won’t be kind and nervous.’

‘Just pretend you’re sleeping.’ Sansa says again, ‘This bed is far bigger than mine, and… well, the chances of him rolling on top of you are smaller. He might actually decide to sleep on the sofa.’

‘Why didn’t Jon?’

‘He would’ve frozen to death!’ Sansa shakes her head at the silliness of the past, ‘I mean it though…’ she says, leaning forward and grabbing Arya’s hand again, ‘If he hurts you… he’ll regret it.’

‘He’s my lord husband now.’ Arya says, ‘He can-‘

‘And I’m the queen.’ Sansa squeezes Arya’s hand, ‘He won’t be your lord husband for long if the Queen asks the King to solve a problem for her, because the King does anything to help out his Queen… his Queen’s _sister_.’

Arya smiles a small smile then, ‘Really?’

‘ _Yes_. I may not like it much, but it has its perks, and I’ll use them, I assure you.’

‘But Jon needs the alliance.’

‘Not as much as Edric needs his legitimization.’

‘Once legitimized, they cannot be-‘

‘I’m sure Jon and Rhaenys can juggle something.’

Arya feels nervous again, ‘You don’t have to promise me such things.’

‘No but I can so I will…’ Sansa looks serious then, ‘You’re wolf, Arya, a _Stark wolf_ , and wolves do not fear _stags_.’

‘I am not afraid.’

‘ _Good_ , because you must remember who you are, remember you’re a woman… and women-‘

‘Do not stamp their feet on the ground when they do not get their way, they wait and listen and they… they allow the men to _think_ they’re in charge.’ Sansa seems a little stunned for a moment, then Arya shrugs and says, ‘You once told me. When we were in King’s Landing together.’

‘Did I?’

‘I regretted leaving you behind every single day I was on the road.’

‘Was Clegane-‘

‘I told Jon you told the Hound he’d kill him, that is why he did.’

‘Yes I-‘

‘Every time he got drunk he rambled about how he should’ve raped you, how it would’ve been the sweetest revenge for all the times he… well, he didn’t like Jon much and I suppose he wanted to rape you badly, so-‘

‘He ever-‘

‘ _No_. He never did. I suppose he knew he’d… well, he wanted the reward for bringing me back, he knew that wasn’t going to happen if he raped me.’

‘But he knew Jon would chop his head of anyway.’

‘I don’t know what he was thinking. He said he should’ve stayed behind. Sometimes he said he should’ve stayed to protect you.’

‘He didn’t protect me.’ Sansa says, ‘If he had, he’d have helped me escape.’

‘But he… He wanted to?’

‘ _Me_ , not you, nor Freia.’

Arya wants to repeat how he probably just wanted to rape her but she doesn’t believe Sansa would like to hear that much.

‘Some men are cruel, Arya.’ Sansa says, ‘Heavens, _most_ men are cruel but… Jon and Robb would never wed you to a man cruel or insane or both. He is… He shall be lord of the Stormlands, and you his lady. I do know that’s not what you envisioned for yourself, but Gods, none of us get what we hoped for.’

Arya cannot deny that to be true, ‘Jon’s sister has-‘

‘You should never listen to what Rhaenys says. She’s too honest, and hard truths can often be lies.’ Sansa stands up and fills herself a glass of wine, then hands it to Arya, ‘Before you know it, it is the morrow and you shall have a headache and all will look at you and laugh if you have trouble walking.’

‘Will I?’

Sansa nods and sits back down, ‘It will be sour but…’

‘But what?’

‘You’ll like the pain eventually.’

‘ _Like_ the pain?’

Sansa grins, ‘Oh yes, you’ll enjoy the ache.’

‘ _How_?’

Sansa shrugs.

‘It all… the idea seems so disgusting to me. I do not want him to touch me… _there_.’ Arya never expected to admit that, but then, she never expected to discuss any of this with Sansa of all people. For some odd reason, she rolls into the conversation with much ease. There’s so much she could never ask her mother, she realizes now, that she _can_ ask Sansa.

‘I _know_ , but it is as normal as life itself. All men and women do it.’

‘That’s disgusting to me, too.’

Sansa laughs, ‘You’ll change your mind!’

‘What if _he_ doesn’t like _me_?’

‘How can he not like you?’

Arya wants to name a long list of reasons. Her not being the lady of a knight’s dream, with her boring hair, grey eyes and long face… she can’t sing nor embroider or needle pretty things. She can’t be a lady wife as Sansa is, with gentle hands, a soft voice and the beautiful high Tully cheekbones, fire in her hair…

‘If he won’t like you… he is the stupidest boy who ever lived.’

‘Did mother say the same to you?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘I was not bothered with Jon liking me. I shed many tears on the idea of him alone.’

‘I remember.’ Arya says, then admits what she never expected to ever admit, ‘I told him.’

Sansa doesn’t seem too shocked, she looks as if it all makes sense and that makes Arya feel more than a little guilty, ‘Well… I knew he found out but… it could’ve been anyone.’

‘But it was _me_ … I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Sansa takes the glass from Arya’s hands and sips from it, ‘It… it gave me the opportunity to tell him things I never would have found to courage for elsewise.’

Arya wants to ask what things, but knows the answer won’t be satisfying, ‘I was jealous.’ She admits then, ‘Because-‘

‘You were in love with him?’

‘ _No!_ ’ Arya says and she says it too quickly, ‘I was not.’

Sansa grins sheepishly, ‘I was.’ She says and she hands the glass back, ‘Don’t worry about it now, it is so long ago… it did no lasting harm.’

‘But it was a mean thing to do, you should’ve seen his face. I told him, ‘Sansa cried for a full turn when they told her she was to wed you, she feels too good for you’, and well… he looked as if I pressed a dagger in his heart.’

Sansa smiles to herself then, ‘It was true.’

‘But you already loved him then, I knew you did. And he loved you too. You seemed so happy and… it made me jealous because you always… well, you always had everything and all but… even _this_ became a good thing for you. It felt as if you had it all.’

‘For a time, I felt that too.’ Sansa admits, ‘It did not last long.’

Arya can only nod, ‘I’m sorry.’ She says again.

‘I’m sorry too.’ Sansa says, ‘For all those times they bullied you and I said nothing. For… For being so haughty and rude and… _high-headed_.’

‘You were high-headed.’

‘I know.’

‘So is _Edric_.’

‘Yes, well… One can be high-headed and love you, as do _I_ , I always loved you. Perhaps he shall grow to love you too. Edric was raised by the same man who raised our father. There must be some good in there. And as I said… I’ll forge you a new Needle.’

‘Jon gave Needle to me.’

That is new information that somehow makes Sansa far more furious then the news of Arya telling Jon she cried about him for over a moonturn, ‘He did _not_.’

Arya can only nod and there’s a fire in Sansa’s eyes then.

‘If he ever dares gift Freia the same I shall-‘

‘Needle was the best gift anyone ever gave me.’

‘I’m very happy for you.’ Sansa huffs, ‘Jon is a mad man.’

Arya laughs, ‘You can’t insult the king, that’s treason.’

‘Not if it’s the _truth_.’

Arya laughs some more, ‘You’ll be angry with him? Please don’t he… I made him promise not to tell! We called it Needle because I promised not to tell.’

‘ _How_?’

‘Well… he said you’d tell and I said… I said you could keep your sewing needles… I’d have my own.’

Sansa crosses her arms and shakes her head, ‘I’ll make him pay for that.’

‘Please don’t I… I promised not to tell.’

‘You told anyway.’

‘I’ll tell him you faked your sleep during your wedding night if you tell him!’

‘That’s not fair! It is not the same!’

‘It is a little bit!’

‘ _No_! It will-‘

The door opens and Arya jumps up the same way she jumped up when Sansa appeared. It’s another auburn-haired woman now.

‘Sansa? Jon is looking for you, no one can find you and he’s scared you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere.’ Catelyn says it all very calmly.

‘What sort of ditch does he have in mind?’ Sansa asks with a roll of her eye; her husband’s concern seems to both annoy and amuse her.

‘I do not know, but you better go to him, Freia demands your bedtime song, too.’

Sansa nods, sighs as she gets up as if she’s an old lady, and turns around to kiss Arya’s forehead, ‘I’ll see you in the morrow.’ She says and it sounds like a promise, then.

‘Thank you.’ Arya says, and she’s not sure what she says thanks for, until she lays down in the bed, learning from Sansa’s mistakes, covering herself with all the blankets before she prepares herself to fake a sleep with a fear in her throat much less suffocating than the one she felt before her sister knocked upon her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should start telling you, 'this was the last', so I think I will. This was the last Catelyn and the last Arya pov. btw, last chapter was also Jonsa's last actual sex scene. Looking back, they've had surprisingly many for the amount of times I claim I hate writing it. Some characters just write themselves you know, and I suppose they like having sex a lot.  
> Next update is probably Friday, and then after that Saturday/Sunday whatever I'll manage.  
> please let me know what you think and have a nice two days :D


	64. Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘How else do you think all these dragons died after the Doom? They _burned_ , and the rest of Old Valyria with them. Fire killing fire… how about that?’

**Rhaenys**

* * *

 

Rhaenys sits by her lord husband’s side to watch the second tourney, in name of the wedding and the King, for no longer than two matches before she requests to be excused. The smell of the horses and the sight of blood has never before had such an impact on her. She doesn’t sleep enough because her baby keeps her awake at night, forces her to lie on her side, which she hates, and therefore, she drags herself to her bedchamber and falls asleep instantly.

She misses a council meeting, for which she barely forgives herself, mostly because all these men around her don’t seem to understand how little a big belly changes her mental abilities. She’d rather not give them extra reason to presume her unfit to be involved in matters of state.

She regrets not asking Robb to come with her, though she doesn’t want to ruin the tournament for him, to spoil his fun as he seems to enjoy all these grand festivities more than she initially expected he would. She’s grateful when he walks into her room still, smelling of spices and wine, before the feast starts in the tent they built outside the city gates in the fields. He drops down in the bed to join her in her nap and afterwards sleepily asks if she wants him to stay. It takes all her self-restrain to tell him no, to go back and enjoy himself. She doesn’t kick him out before pulling all the clothes of his body first, to allow him to give her some temporary release. At night, his hands messaging her back, shoulder blades and neck are the only thing that can somewhat make her relax.

She can’t wait until she’ll be able to make love to him properly again, to have him inside _and_ look into his eyes at the same time. _That_ is what she longs for. For him to kiss her body, every part of it, without her being able to lean up and guide him in. She wants to wrap her limbs around him and lay her head on his chest, hear his heartbeat below her ear, instead of always allowing him to drag her back to his front.

Rhaenys feels like crying sometimes, but then she finds she has no time to cry, so the morning of the coronation, she rolls out of bed, after pressing a kiss to Robb’s lips, who moves a little, smiles in his sleep and wakes up just enough to mutter her name before he sinks away in oblivion again.

Her body hurts everywhere, her head turns and she’s hardly ever before been so tired, but still she makes her way to the Starry Sept, to inspect and keep an eye on all the last touches before the ceremony will start.

Rhaenys has been carefully calculating, organizing, arranging, preparing and waiting for this day since the day her father died. Now that it’s here, she’s happy to find it’s all going as planned.

The Starry sept is not as big as the great sept of Baelor, the sept that took away the title of home to the Faith, but is still an impressive marble domed structure, with the usual seven towers, each of which has bells. It seems a little brighter, than the sept Rhaenys was used to all her lifelong, not as big but still, less crowded. The statues of the Seven are smaller, but whiter, their faces kinder, less lavish, simpler in their beauty.

When the High Septon leaves her for a moment, Rhaenys finds the time to ignore the sounds of workhands in the back readying the sept and sinks down on her knees to pray to the mother, to give her a living child.

When Aegon I Targaryen landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, the High Septon in Oldtown locked himself inside the Starry Sept and prayed for seven whole days while refusing to eat or drink... He may have kneeled right where Rhaenys is kneeling at this very moment. She wonders what he was thinking… What might have all been different had that man changed his mind, made the wrong decision… did he make the right decision?

At the end of the seventh day, of course, the High Septon then emerged from his fast and declared that the Faith of the Seven would not fight Aegon's Conquest, proclaiming that if they did, Oldtown would burn and the Starry Sept would be destroyed. He pretended to have predicted that… but the whole world was already set aflame at the very moment. _Fire and Blood_. The whole of Westeros but Dorne, Rhaenys’ strong female ancestors took care of that. _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken_.

Lord Manfred Hightower welcomed Aegon when he appeared before his gates. Aegon was then anointed in the Faith when he became Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Today, Rhaenys’ brother will accept the holy oil of the Seven and succeed their father, and their ancestors before him, as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. It is what Rhaenys wants, but she cannot help but wonder in that moment, how different it might’ve been if it had not been what she wanted.

She lays her hand to her swollen belly and realizes, in that moment, that she no longer truly knows what it is she wants. _A living child_ she thinks, and as if it means to comfort his mother, the baby presses a foot to the womb that houses him and Rhaenys rubs the press away with her thumb, _I want the strength I’ll need to be a mother_.

Rhaenys looks up at the face of the mother, made of stone, a kind smile is crafted on her face. Her hair is not made of gold, her eyes are no glittering rubies and her gown is made of rock… yet, she’s kind, she’s gentle and warm, _I must be too_.

Rhaenys prays to the Mother to give her strength to be that, and she cannot help but weep for her own mother then, the kindest, warmest and gentlest of all. Elia Martell’s body is miles away, as it rests in the Sept of Baelor, alongside the body of her king husband, the one who betrayed and insulted her so. Often Rhaenys wondered if her mother would ever forgive her for forgiving her father, but then she always remembered… She remembered her mother’s soft hands, her comforting smile, her warm embrace, her protective arms… and she knew.

Rhaenys hopes her brother Aegon is with their mother, for it means she no longer will be alone, they can hold each other, look down on Rhaenys now and give her strength and guidance.

 _Justice is in short supply this side of the mountains,_ Her uncle Oberyn often told her, _There has been none for Elia._ Rhaenys closes her eyes as her uncle’s words wash over her, _They raped her. They murdered her_.

 _Yes_ … Rhaenys thinks, _they did, but they could not kill her children. Aegon and I lived._

Has Rhaenys revenged her mother? She is not so sure. Whose heads should she have chopped off? Will it feel like she’ll know justice when Cersei’s head will be on a spike? _No_ , Rhaenys is not stupid enough to believe that, for she knows, better than most, that revenge is not what brings the rest you seek.

Aegon died and Rhaenys has spent so many years believing her womb would never grow, that her children had been murdered long before they could ever be born, but she was wrong, the maester were wrong. Rhaenys wants this child and she shall have what she wants. Perhaps _that_ is her revenge, perhaps this is how she shall honor her mother… by never forgetting, wearing a gemstone sun of her house in her hair and by being _happy_ , for that is, Rhaenys believes, what Elia would have wanted most.

Rhaenys nearly falls asleep in the wheelhouse as it carries her back to the High Tower, the see-through yellow curtains that cover the windows to shield her away from the peeking eyes of smallfolk color the world golden, it bathes her hair in a honey color, makes it shine and as she leans her head backwards she wishes she could float in the pools at the Water Gardens, her uncle Doran’s favorite place in the world.

Then, cramps in her lower abdomen start and she groans as she glares through the window again, frustrated with the speed of the horses. She tries to massage her baby to calmness, but it helps little to nothing.

Back in the High Tower she allows the Blackfish, proud in his white cloak, to escort her back to her bedchamber, where she orders her chambermaid to ready a bath for her.

As she lies in her heavily perfumed bath, she tries to allow her muscles to relax, as the baby protests against the heavy scent. Rhaenys attempts to ignore it, for she must get the smell of sweat off her flesh before it’s too late. She’s so warm all day and it’s not only because of the hot autumn sun. Rhaenys was never good with heat, unlike most Targaryens and most Martells, she prefers to sit inside or under the shadow of a tree.

Rhaenys amuses herself with counting her toes as she raises her legs up just enough to be able to see when Robb marches in, ignoring the blushing chambermaid who seems to find it terribly inappropriate that he fails to respect his wife’s privacy.

‘Rhaenys!’

‘That’s me.’

‘Winter is no longer coming!’

‘I suppose all your ancestors are at this very moment turning in their graves at these words, sweetling.’

Robb kneels down by the side of her tub and grins down, ‘Winter is _here_.’

‘Oh.’ She wants to tell him he could have instantly told her that, but that would cost far too much effort.

‘Don’t you want to see the white ravens fly out?’

The Rhaenys without a difficult, curling, twisting and twirling human being inside of her womb would have jumped up and climbed out of this tub as soon as she could… this Rhaenys shakes her head and sighs, ‘No… I don’t think I should.’

Robb nods once, ‘They’ll present the white raven to Jon, I have seen most of them, they are rather beautiful.’

‘Oh yes… White ravens.’ Rhaenys rubs over a spot somewhere in her lower abdomen where a foot is kicking her.

Robb moves his hand to touch the spot of her wet skin, ‘Is he being difficult?’

Rhaenys smiles and moves her hand to cup his cheek, ‘I think he feels a little trapped, that’s all.’

‘He’s growing big and strong, is he not?’

Rhaenys nods.

‘How much longer? You don’t seem _that_ big, Sansa had twice the size of your belly.’

Rhaenys has to agree, her belly is very small, though evident, it doesn’t appear as if she’s as far ahead as the maester claims, but Rhaenys can count by herself thankfully, and she’s capable enough to know he is right still, ‘One more moonturn only, maybe a little less.’

‘That’s so exciting, is it not?’ Robb’s face beams as he looks forward to the prospect.

‘Uhuh.’ Rhaenys can’t help but lean her head back and close her eyes.

‘Are you sure you’re alright? You seem so tired.’

‘I _am_ tired.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Go to Jon and help him, represent your house, dress properly and _behave_.’

‘I asked if there’s something I can do for _you_.’

‘These things. I need you to do these things for me.’

Though her eyes are closed she knows he shakes his head in disbelieve, ‘Mother says you mustn’t forget to drink.’

Every time she drinks she must use the garderobe instantly, it’s because the baby fights her bladder and it wakes Rhaenys up at least three times every night, ‘I do, don’t worry.’

‘I don’t mind worrying, I _want_ to worry.’

‘Well, please do it somewhere else, so I won’t notice.’

Robb shakes his head again and she can see it now because she looks up and finds his eyes watching her both in adoration and amusement, ‘Are you sure you want to miss the white ravens fly out?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘There might not be a second chance, ever, you know, in your whole lifetime.’

‘I don’t have to see it.’

‘I could drag you there, in my arms, I’m strong enough to carry you both.’

‘Robb, get out before I hit you.’

He laughs loudly and kisses her hair multiple times after which she tries to push him away, she laughs for the first time that day as she splashes water in his face and then allows him to kiss her, for far too long, grabbing his hair with both her hands, with her chambermaid in the corner, her rosy and flushed face down to the floor.

When he leaves, she feels lonely suddenly, and she instantly hates herself for making the decision to not go with him, if only so he could hold her hand and make her feel a little better. He could rub her back, surely, as they stood at the top of the High Tower, watching birds fly away.

As soon as the water has grown cold she climbs out with far too much effort and then tries and fails at drying herself, but instead of feeling like an old and ancient woman she prefers to allow the air to dry her as she refuses to let the maid help her.

Dressed in nothing but a dark-orange robe she sits in front of her dressing table. Her chambermaid, a different one again, brushes her hair as they together stare out through the window, watching the hundreds of white ravens fly out into the world, to all the castles, cities and holdvasts, to let Westeros know, that winter is here.

‘Does it ever snow in the Reach?’ Rhaenys asks.

‘Only the coldest days of winter my Princess, and only all up in the north.’

Rhaenys nods, ‘So only sun? Have you ever even seen snow?’

The maid shakes her head, ‘Never, not one flake.’

Rhaenys smiles to herself, ‘When I was in the North… at the home of the Starks, there were days that there was so much snow that my brother his grace the King did not allow my niece the Princess to go outside and play because the layers of snow were higher than she was.’

The maid doesn’t seem to know what to say in response and Rhaenys decides to fill the silence with more details.

‘In the North, the winters are the coldest, we southroners know nothing about that. Winter protects the Starks, did you know that? Fire cannot kill ice.’

‘I thought… forgive me my princess, but the saying goes that fire cannot kill a dragon, or so I’ve been told.’

‘That saying is utter nonsense.’

The maid seems a little shocked at the harsh and cruel truth and Rhaenys nods.

‘How else do you think all these dragons died after the Doom? They _burned_ , and the rest of Old Valyria with them. Fire killing fire… how about that?’

The maid says nothing, and she’s probably wise not to.

‘Fire and ice are two extremes and the Starks choose to wear it like a pale-white cloak, and they protect themselves with it. Winter protects them, you see? Winters are cruel, but the Starks always endure. The South doesn’t know what it means to survive such a test.’

‘But… you are a Stark too, are you not, my Princess?’

Rhaenys looks at the girl through the mirror, allows the words to sink in, then smiles and nods, ‘I suppose I am, yes.’ Her baby agrees along when he kicks some more.

A knock on the door announces the entrance of the true lady Stark, and as Catelyn walks in she raises her eyebrows, ‘I did not expect you to be in merely the first phases of preparation, have you seen the sun?’

‘I spend my morning in the sept to overlook the preparations.’ Rhaenys says, ‘And I needed a bath.’

‘Usually you don’t have so much faith in time.’ Catelyn moves over towards her daughter-in-law and makes a head gesture to the girl to tell her to leave them be.

‘I must have faith in something…’ Rhaenys runs her eyes over Catelyn’s light grey dress, it’s simple, but the embroidery looks difficult and expensive, as does the little pearl tiara holding the auburn locks up. There are some streams of grey in the red, and the blue Tully eyes are less fierce than they once were, yet Catelyn Stark is not losing her beauty.

‘I didn’t think you’d want to miss the fly-out of the white ravens?’

‘I was too tired.’ Rhaenys confesses.

‘Pains in your back?’

Rhaenys stands up, ‘Pains everywhere. I shall take my rest once this day is over.’

‘You should take your rest always.’ There’s worry in Catelyn’s eyes when she grabs Rhaenys’ hand, ‘You’re warm… do you have a fever?’ She moves her fingers to feel Rhaenys’ forehead but Rhaenys turns her face away.

‘I feel perfectly fine, only exhausted, that is all.’

‘Shall I help you in your dress then?’

Rhaenys wants to weep at the mention of wearing a dress alone, she rubs her bare legs together, then nods. She only wears one of her stockings when she can’t help but curl forward and grab her belly.

‘Is it pain?’ Catelyn looks up with these worried eyes again.

Rhaenys nods, ‘I can handle it.’ She says.

‘I do not doubt it.’

Catelyn suspiciously eyes Rhaenys’ bump when she places her hands to it, as if she believes she can feel the answer to whatever it is she wants to know. Rhaenys hates it when people, no matter who really, touch her belly without asking, so she turns around and pushes her robe off, and puts her smalllothes on, then hands Catelyn the corset she’s planning to wear.

‘We must hurry up.’

The ache gets worse the moment Catelyn wraps the corset around Rhaenys’ belly and she closes her eyes and tries to focus on her exhaling as Catelyn starts to pull on the leaches.

‘He’s kicking.’ Rhaenys mutters, ‘He’s trying to kill my organs.’

‘Kicking or pushing?’

‘What in the name of the Seven do you mean?’

‘What does it feel like?’ Catelyn demands to know, ‘Kicking or pushing?’

‘I don’t know… kicking? He’s been doing it for quite some time.’

‘Kicking…’ Catelyn pulls on another lease then, harder, to push the air from Rhaenys’ lungs and the baby actively disagrees, up until a point where the pain of his movements becomes so painful Rhaenys can’t help but lean forward, as if her back snaps, and she groans.

‘ _Fuck_!’ Catelyn raises her eyebrows at the choice of words and Rhaenys shakes her head, tears of pain appearing in her eyes, ‘I’m sorry, I… that hurts it’s… I don’t know what it is.’

Catelyn still frowns, ‘Really, Rhaenys… Is it like a pressure? In your lower abdomen?’

‘Cat, I…’ She can’t help but feel worried too, when she sees Catelyn’s face, ‘I only have some cramps, nothing serious I… You don’t think something’s wrong, do you?’

‘No, I… cramps? Has the measter looked at you, today?’

‘No, only two day ago, he said everything was fine, Catelyn I… the baby is moving! I can feel him, please don’t scare me!’

Catelyn then seems to realize what she thinks and she breathes a smile, ‘No, I don’t mean to… I only think you can’t go to the ceremony, that is all.’

‘What? No, no, I absolutely _cannot_ miss the ceremony! That’s impossible!’ Catelyn starts to unlace the corset again and Rhaenys enjoys the feeling of breathing too much to protest, though she wishes she could.

‘You better lay down in the bed, as I get a maester and some septas.’

‘No! Have you lost your mind? I have been waiting for this day, I cannot miss it because of some stomach cramps!’

‘You won’t miss it because of some stomach cramps.’

‘Then help me put on that damn corset!’

‘Rhaenys, sweetling, the baby is coming and it’s coming today, you can’t wear a corset when you give birth.’

‘W-what? No! no, no, that is far too soon!’

‘It happens.’ Is all Catelyn says.

‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Labor is always dangerous, which is why you must _lie down_.’

Rhaenys feels like breaking down in sobs then, ‘I can’t give birth _now_! It will have to wait! I’ve been waiting for this for _five years_!’

‘Rhaenys, I really don’t think the child cares about that.’

Rhaenys wants to scream about how much she hates her child for it, but then another stab of pain in her abdomen washes all through her body, and it’s worse than all the other cramps before, this is not a cramp, this is indescribably excruciating and she absolutely did not deserve it.

‘ _Fuck_! Fuck, fuck, fuck, nooo! No Cat, no, I can’t, I really, really can’t, please!’

‘Come here…’ Catelyn pulls her up on her arms, the lady is remarkably strong as she helps Rhaenys towards the bed, rubs her back when Rhaenys succumbs before reaching it and wipes her hair from her face, ‘You can do this Rhaenys, I know you can.’

Rhaenys feels her eyes water and in that moment, she realizes she has never before felt so scared, ‘I don’t want to, you have to make it stop.’

‘If only I could.’ Rhaenys curses the woman for smiling, then swears some more as the pain fades away and manages to climb in the bed all on her own.

‘Stay here, don’t get off the bed, I shall get a maester.’

‘No!’ Rhaenys wants to pull her hair from her head, ‘No, please, please just… don’t leave me alone?’

‘I’ll be back ever so quickly.’

Rhaenys can no longer keep her tears in, ‘No! I don’t understand, I was perfectly fine this morning!’

‘You were only in the early stages then.’

‘The… _Seven hells_ , I don’t want this!’

Catelyn laughs some more, ‘I’ll tell the guard to get the maester, and to inform Robb, so you can-‘

‘No! Don’t you dare tell Robb!’

‘What? How can you-‘

‘He’ll behave like the fool his is! I need him to be there during the damn ceremony! He must swear his fealty in sight of the Seven! Don’t you dare tell him, he’ll come here and I don’t-‘ Rhaenys groans and grabs her belly when her baby kicks once more, ‘I don’t want him to see me like this!’

‘He doesn’t have to, he can wait outside.’

‘I’d rather have him wait in that damned sept!’

Catelyn seems to count to ten to control herself before she nods and then walks over to the door, ‘Don’t move!’ She repeats with a yell, which Rhaenys answers with a roar of unbearable pain.

‘Go get Sansa! Tell them to find Sansa!’

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

Sansa’s heels make a hollow sound on the stone floor of the hall. Her many layers of skirts are heavy as the end is dragged across the floor. Her sleeves are made of brocade and soft white silk, embroidered with golden and silver tiny stars. There are no dragons nor wolves in her dress, there are a hundred little pearls and white diamonds scattered over her bodice and the rim of her upper skirt and they’re connected with silver threat, shaped in the tiniest little stars, stars of the starry sept, and little snowflakes, snowflakes of the North, of the name she once wedded.

Sansa’s dress reminds her of her wedding dress, was it not that that dress was so light, so flowy and young. This dress is as heavy as the burden she will accept today, in sight of both Gods and men. Her head suffers under the heavy weight of her diamond tiara, as it keeps her red hair from her face, loose curls falling over her shoulders.

When Sansa wore her wedding dress, she married a person, today, she shall marry the Seven Kingdoms.

When Sansa married a person, she married a bastard boy, that boy is now dead, and when she finds her husband she finds a King.

He looks Targaryen enough for the both of them, in his black armor, the three-headed dragon proud and fierce on his breastplate. He smiles sweetly at her when he sees her look around to make sure they are all alone, then stretches his hand out for her to take it.

‘You’re so beautiful.’ He says.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’ She says and she places a kiss to his cheek.

Jon nods to the wall he was staring at, a wall of tens of mirrors and Sansa’s Tully eyes stare back at her when she spots her own face.

‘I was trying to convince myself that is me.’ Jon says with a head gesture to his own reflection.

Sansa smiles, ‘It _is_ you.’

‘I _know_ that.’ He sighs and turns back to face her, ‘Where’s Freia?’

‘Septa Aurestyne is readying her… she’ll travel in a wheelhouse.’

Jon nods, ‘Are they waiting for us?’

Sansa shakes her head, ‘No we… we have some time.’ He seems relieved by that and she takes his hand, squeezes it to comfort him, ‘You’ll blink twice and it’s over.’

Jon only nods, then places his hand over the dragons on his breastplate, ‘I feel like a peacock.’

‘You won't when you'll see what everyone else looks like.’

Jon smiles a little smile and Sansa rubs his cheek before she moves her hand to strengthen the three-headed dragon clasp which holds his cloak in place.

‘All these dragons… what a terrifying sight they are.’

‘They're supposed to look terrifying… at the least they're meant to impress.’

‘Was that the idea once?’

‘No… no, I think the idea was always to remind everyone where the Targaryens come from, and that they have dragons and dragons are scary and can kill.’

‘But you retook most of Westeros without a dragon.’ Sansa reminds him, ‘Daenerys is at the other edge of this world, burning her enemies with her three dragons yet all she has known is uprising and resistance.’

‘You can't compare that-‘

‘I can and I will. You’re a leader, you were born to be a king and today should have happened year ago.’

‘Aegon was born to be a king, I was born because… I don't know why, really.’ Jon shakes his head then sighs, ‘What's the comparison to Daenerys? I have my claim, is that not-‘

‘People don't follow you because of your cloak, or because they fear you, you do not need fire and blood to rule, nor did your father. You’re good at all this.’

‘At what?’

‘Ruling.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Father always preferred to call it _kinging_.’

‘You are as good at kinging as he was then.’

‘We had _some_ things in common.’

‘Loads of things in common… so terribly melancholic.’

That makes him laugh and he kisses her temple, then lays his head on her shoulder as if he wants to go back to sleep.

Sansa moves her hands to his hair, presses her nose in there to smell it. It used to smell of grass, soap and wine, now it smells of soap, musk and pomegranate, ‘You shouldn't eat pomegranate in the morrow, that is not enough.’

‘I don't like bread in the Reach.’ Jon says and his beard scratches her face when he leans up, ‘And I hate to eat meat in the morrow.’

Sansa places her hands to his shoulders, straightens his collar, engraved with dragons again, as is most about him, and he takes a piece of her long sleeve between his fingers.

‘Who’s idea was it to embroider this with my bastard name?’

‘Same as my wedding dress, I hope it might bring luck.’

‘You made it yourself?’

Sansa nods, ‘Though I'm not much good with Myrish lace, or so I found out.’

‘You shouldn't have done that… there's no need to put in all that effort.’

‘I wanted to, I enjoyed it… most of the time.’

Jon drops the silk and places his hand to her hip, ‘Have I… Have I ever told you that I wished to cloak you in a Stark cloak, before we married?’

Sansa shakes her head.

‘My father and I… we fought over it for hours. It was horrible really, we… he asked me why I wished to cloak you a Stark and I asked him why he cared so much, it was impossible.’

‘How could you… cloak me a _Stark_?’

‘I couldn’t, of course, I could only cloak you in a grey cloak with a white direwolf. I’d cloak you in my bastard colors.’

‘You wanted to cloak a trueborn daughter of house Stark in Stark bastard colors?’ Sansa raises her eyebrows in her amusement and he grins.

‘That is what Rhaenys said, really… she said it would be insulting to you.’

‘I think she was right.’

‘Of course, she was.’ Jon moves his hand over her bodice, the heavy decorations make it impossible for his fingers to slide over the fabric, and he touches the pearls with both care and attention.

‘So… what did your father say?’

‘He told me he would never allow me to cloak any bride in the colors of house Stark, he would not let me insult you so.’

‘Rhaegar had no right to speak of insulting me.’ Sansa decides, ‘He was the one who decided I would be wedded to a bastard, no one else.’

‘I suppose that is true… I screamed and yelled and I can still see Ned stand in the corner of the room, his face red and uncomfortable, he had no idea where he just ended up in, what was going on.’

‘He must’ve been a little shocked to realize you disobeyed your father so easily.’

‘I never disobeyed him, and Rhaegar knew that. I disrespected him by only bringing it up, that I know. He felt insulted, that I preferred to use my mother’s house over his. I was too stupid to understand how that must have made him feel.’

‘You cloaked me in Targaryen colors.’ Sansa realizes, ‘A red three-headed dragon on a black field, these were no bastard colors.’

‘No, they were not.’ Jon remembers too, ‘I can still hear him scream to me, he said, _You will cloak that girl a Targaryen and you will like it too_.’

‘Did you?’

‘What?’

‘ _like it_?’

Jon grins, ‘No! It was so cold, I didn’t want to take the cloak off.’

Sansa laughs, ‘It _was_ snowing, yes.’

‘I was a stupid boy.’ Jon only shakes his head.

‘Not stupid… Just young.’

‘I sometimes look into a mirror and I don’t even recognize myself, I feel that perhaps that person, the one who was always angry with his father, even when he couldn’t even tell himself why he was so angry, is perhaps gone.’

‘So… the boy who screamed at his father is dead?’

‘Most of the time.’ Jon says, ‘He’s not gone when he’s with you.’

Sansa smiles, leans forward and presses her lips to his cheek, ‘That boy did some things right, you now… I fell in love with him for some reason.’

‘ _Some_ reason, I’m sure.’ Jon grins, offers her his arms and escorts her outside.

Midnight Ink brings Sansa to the Starry Sept, which looks nothing like the Great Sept of Baelor, and yet, looks exactly like it at the same time. It all goes by her without giving her the time to process, without giving her a moment to take it in, to realize.

She wishes she could hold Freia, as the girl stands there in black and red, her ruby tiara on her little head, too heavy, even with that size. She looks like a princess, proud and gratified, her big eyes find her mother’s and Sansa hopes she can smile reassuringly, for she sees insecurity and a bit of fear in the sea of blue.

Sansa closes her eyes the moment the High Septon places her crown atop of her red hair.

 _I thought the color better not be yellow of gold, so it would not clash with the auburn_ , Rhaenys said.

It’s of pale spun gold, slim, slender and set with small gemstones and the tiniest diamonds and when Sansa turns her head, she knows they sparkle. It’s not heavy, she can lift her head and barely notice, and as she looks around, into the many staring faces that fill the sept, she hopes that her life will be the same. A heavy burden atop her head, but with a weight she’ll barely notice.

Jon’s crown is as unornamented as he would have liked, had he ordered it made himself. He did not, because he didn’t believe he had the time to concern himself with such things, so it was Rhaenys who created a crown for him the way only she could have done, as she is wise enough to understand the importance of unimportant things.

 _Made of Valyrian steel_ , Rhaenys said.

A warlike crown with sharp black points in a band of steel with gold. Not the red of fire, nor the color of blood, a softer red, a less dangerous red. It’s crusted with fire opals, some rubies and black diamonds, but they’re so few of these that one would barely notice they’re there.

It’s not elaborate, nor set with many rubies or other stones… but Sansa knows for sure that his _is_ heavy, she can imagine the weight if it must make his neck ache, and when she she sees him raise his head, it is for the first time, since all these years that she has been by his side now, that she sees his father in him.

 _No one who wears a crown is ever safe._ Cersei Lannister once told her, she cannot recall when or why. She remembers most of what that woman told her, and she wishes she did not, she wishes she could forget, push it out of her head, to never recall, never reminisce.

There's an obvious lack of two women in the sept and Sansa feels angry, at first, because she had made such a clear agreement with her mother that she would hold Freia's hand, look after her and make sure she was alright. Catelyn is nowhere to be seen, nor is Rhaenys, and that's even worse, because, as Sansa looks sideways at her brother, in his iron Stark armor, she sees his brows creased in the most extreme of worry, of all the possibilities that went through Sansa’s mind… The absence of Rhaenys was not among them.  
Sansa sits in that chair, wearing a crown, a tight dress with a high neckline, with hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces staring up at her, thinking what ever could possibly be reason enough for Rhaenys to miss this important day.

And as that question goes through her mind, over and over again, she finds Freia’s eyes. Sansa wondered if she might grow bored, might cry, or run away, or have a tantrum, but none of that’s true. Freia stands as still as a girl her age could possibly ever do, and Catelyn may not hold her hand, yet both her hands are held tight, one by Robb, the other by Rickon and there’s no misunderstanding on her face, no confusion nor bewilderment, only a great deal of true fright, not so much panic as it is anxiety, as her wide blue eyes watch her parents and Sansa knows, that Freia understands. Even at the age of four, she is perfectly capable of realizing the weight they just placed on her father’s head. Freia may not entirely comprehend, but she knows, because she can feel it. She can probably see it too, Sansa thinks, because when she glances sideways at Jon, she can see fear in his eyes as well.

 _Power is a heavy burden of great responsibility which one should only accept out of duty, never greed_ , Eddard Stark told her often, so often Sansa knows it must be true.

Sansa reassuringly smiles at Freia, and Freia smiles back, and in that smile Sansa finds the answer she’s looking for. She inwardly curses and in that moment, she wishes she could speak to her brother without words, to talk to him with a look only.

She kept telling Jon it would all be over after a simple blink of the eye, but she was wrong. It lasts too long and every bannerman kneeling at their feet is one too many. It has always made her feel uncomfortable, to have others kneel at her feet as if she were a God, but now it not only brings her discomfort, but a great deal of apprehension too.

Rhaenys told Sansa to keep her face straight, and at one point Sansa catches herself trying to pretend she’s her sister-in-law, intimidating the way she sits, the way she holds her head up, the look in her eyes. She wishes she was as defiant as Rhaenys, as fearless too, the moment Jaime Lannister kneels.

 _Is that what these men want of her? To be made of stone? Cold as ice and as unforgiving as a butcher dragging a pig with him to slaughter?_ They want her to be a goddess, she realizes, as much as they want Jon to be a God. He must be their God of justice, peace, duty, honor and strength, and she must be a goddess of fertility, generosity and pliability.

Sansa closes her eyes and wishes she was lying in her bed, not even with Jon, just all alone. Nobody watching her, nobody expecting her to be a statue.

Sansa wishes she could tell Freia that it will all be over soon. That it's not real. But Sansa cannot tell her daughter any such thing, she can’t tell Myleana either, though she's still a baby and perfectly ignorant. Freia is not ignorant anymore, and she’s only four, she’s only so young, she cannot even write letters, eat without spilling soup all over her dress, nor curtsey without falling flat on her face. She’s only four and the only things that should concern her are her ponies, dolls and songs. Freia did not deserve this and nor did Sansa. Nor did _Jon_ , yet there he sits.

Every time Sansa told Rhaenys how Jon does not want to be king, never will want it, Rhaenys answered, _That is why he must be_. Because power does not belong in the hands of those who want it most.

 _For the greater good_ , Rheanys said, and Jon always tells her to stop parroting their father when she says it. They are both Rhaegar’s masterpiece, carefully crafted to become what they became, with instructions, guidelines, orders, commands and clear directions.

, Sansa thinks as her eyes meet a set of purple eyes. Lord Valeryon, she thinks, and in her head, she sums up all she knows of the man, his heir, his castle, his lady wife and the father before him. He received a royal pardon, after supportting Viserys.

 _Viserys is dead_ , his desire for a throne that was never his in the first place and that, along with his madness, killed him.

 _Old Valyria_ , with their dragons and their pale white hair and purple eyes. They were always inhumanly beautiful, extraordinary in both appearance and fate.

Jon is no Valyrian in his looks. His hair is dark, his eyes grey, nor is he inhumanly beautiful. He looks like a person, made of flesh, bones and blood, the weight of his crown leans heavy on him. He is not mad nor great, and Sansa wonders how right her father was, when he constantly said that Jon was a Stark, with the Stark blood.

 _He's more Stark than I am_ , she thinks, _But they call him a Targaryen_. He cloaked her in the red and black of his father's house and it is the name he carries when he is declared king, by all lords of Westeros.

Dorne, the Reach, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Riverlands,, The Iron Island, the Crownlands, the Vale and the North.

Sansa knows, that what she will hate the most, is the screaming of smallfolk. If there’s anything she learned, it is that these are the people one should always fight for, they are the absolute and total majority… but they also believe that when a pregnant woman eats rabbit, the baby will come out with floppy ears.

The seven bells of the sept ring in Sansa’s ears and when she takes Freia’s hand in hers, Freia waves with the other, at all these strangers, for she’s too young to understand why they’re screaming in the first place.

Sansa has to make sure not to close her eyes, for when she closes her eyes, she’ll hear these people call Cersei a brotherfucker, Joffrey a bastard, and Tyrion a dwarf. These people dragged her off her horse, threw rocks at her, pressed her to the ground, pushed her skirts up and wanted to hurt her. These people were malnourished and angry…These people are not the same as the once who cheer now.

Oldtown is not starving, nor is it kneeling under the heavy burden of illness, a boy king, a corrupt council and a faith uprising. They’re not throwing rocks, they’re throwing flowers and nobody calls anyone a bastard, least of all Jon. Jon is no bastard is anyone’s eyes, he is Rhaegar’s son and with all these friendly, smiling faces, Sansa suddenly finds the dragon banners less frightening, less threatening and it is then, that she realizes it is all in the eyes of the beholder.

The moment Sansa finds herself back in the High Tower and the doors close behind them to shield them from peeking eyes, she sees Jon kneel down and hug Freia.

‘I love you.’ He tells her. He took his crown off the moment he could and Freia pats his head as if he's Ghost.

‘Papa…’ she whispers, ‘Your crown is _big_!’

Sansa takes her own off by herself, hands it to her maid, ‘Take this thing away.’ She orders and as much as she wishes she could go to her husband, find Myleana and take both the girls with them outside, to the garden, away from everyone, to be alone finally, she knows she absolutely cannot.

‘Where is-‘

‘Your lady mother asked me to escort you to the Princess Rhaenys’ chambers, your grace.’ Sansa's great uncle Bryden Tully tells her.

‘It's time?’

The Blackfish nods, Sansa turns to Jon, grabs his arms and tells him with as little words possibly, ‘Rhaenys is in labor, bring Freia to the nursery, find Robb, tell him he'll be a father today, stay with him and make sure he won't go mad. I shall go to her.’

‘W-what? But I… where's Rhaenys?’

‘In her rooms, of course.’ Sansa kisses the top of Freia's head, then turns to run away, with a flabbergasted Jon staring after her.

Sansa pulls her upper dress off, layer after layer, as she rushes to Rhaenys’ bedchamber.

The door opens and as the measter loudly informs her of the process Sansa drops down by the side of the bed.

Catelyn gives Sansa a meaningful look as Sansa grabs Rhaenys’ hand, who's face is red, covered in tears, and terrified. For one moment Sansa feels the urge to roll her eyes for, despite being in labor, Rhaenys still manages to look absolutely beautiful.

‘Sansa…’

‘Rhaenys, I'm here.’

‘Sansa, I'm so sorry I wasn't there, I'm so sorry, tell Jon I'm s-so sorry…’

‘Don't be ridiculous, I'm sorry _I_ wasn't _here_.’

A sob escapes Rhaenys’ throat and she shakes her head, ‘Sans… Sansa, I can't do it.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘I don't think so, honestly I-‘ she groans then and her nails dig into Sansa's palm, ‘It hu-hurts.’

Sansa moves her free hand to the sweaty forehead of her sister-in-law and moves a little closer, ‘If I can do it, so can you… you're the strongest person I know.’

‘Where's Robb? I don't want him here, I don't want him to see me like this.’

‘He's still outside, he'll wait, don't worry about him.’

‘Sansa, I’m so sorry… about everything I m-mean, I-‘

Sansa squeezes Rhaenys’ hand, ‘You have _nothing_ to apologize for.’

Rhaenys shakily nods once, drops her head back in the pillow and groans again and loudly swears.

‘That's right, you swear all you like.’ Catelyn tells her.

‘For fuck’s sake this child hates me!’

‘No, he doesn't, Catelyn lays a cold and wet cloth to Rhaenys’ forehead, ‘He's eager to come out and meet his lovely mother.’

Rhaenys groans again and Sansa's not sure if it's out of pain or frustration.

‘If the princess is ready to push, the princess can push.’

Sansa moves her head to peek and asks the measter, ‘Is the baby correctly positioned?’

‘Perfectly.’ The measter is far too kind, which Sansa knows will annoy Rhaenys some more, yet still, it's a good sign.

‘Don't look between my legs!’

Sansa ignores that, squeezes her hand some more and tries to look excited, ‘You're going to have a baby!’

Some more tears roll down and Rhaenys can only shake her head, ‘What did I do…’

Sansa ignores that again and finds Catelyn’s eyes who only smiles and looks back at Rhaenys and pushes blonde hair from her sweaty face.

‘It'll be over before you know it.’ Catelyn says and Sansa can remember telling Jon the same… that was a lie too.

‘You've forgotten all about it once the baby's here.’ Sansa says and she knows that is the truth.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

‘Stop letting me win!’ Robb bellows when he pushes Jon down into the muck.

Jon crawls up, ‘I’m not!’

‘Yes you are!’ Robb pushes Jon back down again, groans and clumsily swings his sword in his direction, ‘Fight me!’

‘I am fighting!’

Jon can only laugh when he avoids a blow and rolls away from the move, ‘Stop laughing!’

Jon grabs the sword tight in his hand, backs away again and defensively holds it in front of his face to protect it from the rough edge of Robb's practice sword.

‘ _Jon_! It doesn't help when you don't fight back!’

‘I am fighting-‘ Jon allows himself to be pushed into the dirt again and in the corner of his eye he can see Rickon and his friends watch them with wide and excited eyes.

Robb leans on his sword with all his weight as he presses the end of it into the gravel. He wipes the dust of his face with his sleeve and sighs, glares at Jon who jumps back to his feet and straightens his clothes.

‘I'm losing my mind.’ He decides, and Jon laughs again.

‘Rhaenys is fighting a woman’s battle. Men have no place on their field.’ Jon says.

‘Sansa wanted you to be there!’

Jon shrugs.

‘It's not fair.’ Robb decides.

‘Don't tell Rhaenys, she'll have a hard time forgiving you for feeling sorry for yourself when she's the one who's pushing a human being from her womb.’

Robb frowns, then wonders, 'Do you think she's in pain?'

Jon can’t help but shrug, ‘A lot of it.’

That’s not the right answer at all because Robb loudly groans, ‘How much longer?’

‘Until sundown… until the morrow, perhaps tomorrow midday… I do not know.’

‘Tomorrow _midday_? That is cruel!’

‘For you?’

‘Rhaenys! Me too! I can’t stand this.’

Jon only laughs some more, ‘Remember when Nymeria had her puppies? Sansa told me it’s a bit like that.’

‘Sansa told you about that?’

‘Yes… she said she couldn’t stop bleeding, that she split-‘

‘ _Don’t!_ ’ Robb’s weight causes his sword to sink deeper in the sand as Jon unlaces his tunic at his throat to give himself some air, ‘I don’t need to hear that, I’m paranoid enough as it is.’

‘Nymeria had _four_ babies, at least Rhaenys is only squeezing out one.’ Jon says. Robb glares and Jon wipes the grin off his face. and Jon taps Robb’s sword with his own, ‘Sorry.’

‘We men should be the one to do such things, aren’t our bodies stronger?’

‘I’m not sure if it is a strong body that one needs to have a child.’ Jon says, ‘I think it’s something up here.’ He takes his glove off and points at his forehead with his bare finger.

Robb shakes his head, ‘It’s not fair.’ He says again.

‘You would like to do it for her?’

Robb nods once, ‘Wouldn’t you want to do such things for Sansa?’

Jon bites his lower-lip, ‘Of course I would but… I wouldn’t be able to do it.’ He decides, ‘The Gods gave us the bodies to match our wits. A man is not strong enough to bear a child, only women are fit, and it’s not about physical strength. They wage pain like a ship wages a storm.’

Robb blinks a couple of times, then leans some more on his sword.

Jon taps Robb’s sword with his own and Robb loses his balance when his sword slides away, ‘It's not a stick to help you stand, hold it up in your hands or the children will think you're an old man.’

Robb lifts his sword up again and points it at Jon’s face, ‘Call me an old man again and I'll slay you, Snow.’

Jon can only laugh some more when he pushes the point of the sword away from his face with his ungloved hands, ‘Robb… you're an old man.’

He can only hold his sword up again just in time for the soft iron to clash again and as he feels his muscles ache, his face heat up under the winter sun of the south and his headache increase thanks to the heavy weight of his new crown, he finds the strength to fight his cousin with as much passion and enthusiasm as he did when they were just boys.

Their swords were made of wood back then, their faces as bare as a maiden’s, their arms weak, their laughter loud. Sometimes they cried, when they believed no one else could see or hear, and they screamed at each other, pretending to be heroes from the dawn age, dragon knights or Dornish princes in the south, shooting their enemies from the sky.

‘Yield?’ He asks as he presses the point of his sword close to Robb’s nose as his cousin lays on his back, his own sword a few feet away where he cannot reach it.

Robb kicks against his shin, ‘ _Never_.’ He says and they run after each other, their swords too light for a man’s strong arms as they dance through the sky, the sound of iron smashing against iron filling the air like music to a man’s ears.

Jon's about to knock Robb down into the muck again when he recognizes the Tully auburn hair from a far distance. It's not Catelyn, he knows that, because Sansa’s hair is lifted up by the wind and moves around her face to make her look so young, as young as she is.

She changed out of her white dress, into the simplest one, made of a dark blue color, light weighted, simple and easy to move in and it reminds Jon of their first few turns of marriage, when they were still living at Winterfell. She holds Freia's hand and Freia waves at him.

Jon drops his sword into the grass, waves back and then points at them to show Robb news is coming for him.

Robb doesn't drop his sword but throws it away, then rushes towards his sister.

‘Uncle Bobb!’ Freia tells him, ‘I am a big, big cousin!’

Robb can't help but cry in relieve when the reassuring and wide smile of Sansa comforts him. She lets go of Freia's hand and moves to take Robb’s face between her hands, ‘They're both as healthy as the day is long.’ She tells him and Robb’s hands shake when they grab her shoulders to shake her a little and it only makes Sansa grin.

He breathes out shakily, hides his face behind his trembling hands, then, without saying another word, moves around her and runs away, back to the Tower, inside, to meet his child.

Jon stares after him and grins, then shakes his head and lifts Freia up in his arms as she pulls on his breaches and jumps up and down, ‘I wish I could have known what to say, but you have never left me in such a state.’

‘I will, one day, I promise.’ Sansa says and she pushes Freia's hair from her face.

‘Baby is reaaaaly small!’ Freia tells Jon, excitement in her eyes.

‘Have you seen the baby?’

Freia shakes her head, ‘No! But all babies are small.’

‘Oh yes, that's true.’

‘Then they grow and they learn how to walk… I am teaching My-pheala!’

‘I know you are… why don't we find Myleana and teach her together?’

‘Yes!’

Jon moves Freia over to his other hip so he can grab Sansa's hand and escort her back inside.

‘I hope he had the decency to change out of his clothes.’ Sansa thinks, ‘He really should.’

‘He really won't, though.’ Jon says, ‘I’m quite sure of that.’

Sansa only sighs and smiles, ‘Once she found the strength it was over with the blink of an eye.’

‘Was she happy? Rhaenys, I means… How is she?’

‘You should've seen her… all her fear washed away. Rhaenys is a remarkable woman.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Jon says as he feels relieve wash over him, and he's glad he didn't have to see, he'll take Sansa's word for it.


	65. Eddard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Taking King’s Landing’s really just a formality, right?’ Sansa’s obviously looking for reassurance and she grabs Jon’s hand, ‘It’s only a necessity.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoi guys!  
> This chapter is coming from somewhere in Europe not my country. I know I promised a shitload of updates, I want everyone to know I sincerely meant it when I promised that. it's just that, I thought summer would give me a shitload of time, it turned out to be the absolute oppsite. I've lost so much time on school and work that I forget good times and fun demand just as much energy.  
> In any case, this story has a written ending, I'm finishing it, don't worry. the only struggle I have left is the freaking prologue (I have written three and can't choose which one to go with), and whether I'm gonna kill one specific person or not (no, not Rhaenys, Rhaenys will live).  
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Jon spends the eve of his own crowning not at a great feast, but with both Freia and Mylaena, still half dressed in his expensive silk and heavy clothing. He reads to them, then he puts them both in a bath, and the sight of the two of them in a tub together is honestly the most adorable thing. 

‘You _and_ me!’ Freia points at herself as she explains to Mylaena what a cousin is, ‘Together!’ And claps in her enthusiasm and then blinks when Mylaena slams the small layer of water with her fists and splashes it in her sister’s face. 

‘Laena!’ Freia squeals, ‘Say _Freia_!’ 

Mylaena babbles a little, splashes some more with the water, sings the baby song of ‘la la la!’ and grins up at Jon, who sweetly smiles back as he fills a cup and throws water over her head. 

The baby shivers and she rubs her eyes with flat hands. 

‘ _Freia_ ,’ Freia says again, ‘Freeey-ah!’ 

Myleana only giggles, ‘Babaaa!’ she says as she waves with her hands at Jon. 

Freia pouts as Myleana tries to grab Jon’s cup, a frown on her face when she doesn't manage.

 _Papa_.’ Freia says, she forms a cup with her hands, fills it with water and throws it over her own head, ‘Papa and mama and Freia and My-pheala and _Ghost_!’

‘Mama, mama, mama…’ Mylaena sings and she decides to try and grab Jon’s thumb and refuses to let go. He hands her the cup instead and she excitedly starts throwing water around, splashing it all on the floor. Mylaena squeals, grins her toothy grin and grabs her sister's face between both her little fat hands, ‘BEYAAH!’ 

‘ _Freia!_ ’

‘Ble-yaah…’ Mylaena squeezes Freia’s fat cheeks with her short and tiny fingers and Freia only giggles. 

‘She cannot say Freia… only mama.’ 

‘Mama, mama, mama…’ Mylaena goes on and she grabs the cup again and manages to throw water in her own eye, which makes her cry. 

‘That hurts.’ Freia bites her lower-lip as Myleana points at her eye and starts wailing when she sees Jon's not about to do anything to her discomfort. 

Jon rubs Myleana’s little face with his sleeve, then pulls her out of the tub and wraps her in some blankets. She stops crying instantly and only sobs softly as he rocks her gently. 

Freia climbs out of the tub by herself and laughs when Myleana’s cries grow louder again when Jon moves to hand her over to a Septa. 

‘Laena doesn't like Septa Barnhart.’ She says, pointing at the Septa herself, who turns bright red and walks around the tub to empty it again.

‘Can you be a big girl and dry yourself?’ Is all Jon says when he nods at the tower of blankets in the corner. 

‘Yes!’ Freia clumsily wraps a towel around herself, ‘All by myself.’ She decides and she jumps up and down in excitement when Sansa walks it. 

‘Mama!’ Mylaena stretches her arms out to her mother who takes her from Jon. 

‘Can I see my cousin?’ 

Sansa shakes her head, ‘Your cousin is very tired.’ 

Freia thinks about that for a moment, ‘Tired? I was not tired when I was born.’ 

‘Yes you were.’ Jon insists. 

‘You don't know, you were gone.’ Freia says as Jon kneels to dry her hair. 

‘Mama tells me all… tomorrow I'll take you with me and we'll meet the baby, okay?’

‘You h-have s-seen the baby?’ Freia's voice trembles when Jon roughly dries her hair. 

‘Nope… we’ll go there together in the morrow, I promise.’ 

‘Can I see uncle Bobb?’

‘Uncle Robb is with aunt Rhaenys and the baby.’ 

‘But uncle Bobb promised we were seeing the white birds fly and he’s gone today!’

‘I'm sure he'll take you there tomorrow.’ Sansa turns around, ‘You'll bring that one to bed, I'll do this one?’ She suggests and Jon agrees with a nod. 

Sansa smiles, kisses his lips, which makes Freia grimace in disgust, and then leaves Jon and Freia alone. 

‘Can I have a brother?’ Freia asks. 

‘that's not for me to decide.’ 

‘Gods?’ 

‘Perhaps.’ Jon nods, handing Freia her nightgown. She steps in it and struggles to squeeze her arms through the holes of her sleeves. Jon knows better than to help her, so he patiently waits. 

‘I want a brother.’ Freia decides. 

‘Don't you like a sister?’

‘I do!’ Freia quickly says, ‘But when I have a brother, boys can maybe play with me.’ 

Jon sighs, moves Freia's damp hair over her shoulders and takes her chubby cheeks in his hands, ‘I am a boy, and there's no one in the world I'd rather spend time with than you.’ 

‘But you are papa.’ Freia says, ‘It is not the same.’ 

Jon kisses her nose and Freia roughly rubs it with a flat hand.

‘Rickon says princesses don't play with swords.’ 

‘What does Rickon know about princesses, he's a _boy_!’

Freia giggles and her smile returns, ‘Septa Aure-phine says swords are dange-trous. She’s always saying _no_.’ Freia moves her hand to lay it to her father's cheek, ‘But I want a brother. Can I?’

‘One days, if the Gods wish it, perhaps.’ 

‘Wait and see?’

Jon nods, then lifts her up in his arms to bring her to her own bedchamber. 

Freia climbs in her bed all by herself, grabs her stuffed wolf and allows Jon to tuck her in. 

‘When I have won the war,’ he starts, ‘We are going to live in a castle that has a red color and we’ll stay there, and you can have your own room, every night the same one.’ 

‘Forever?’

Jon nods, ‘If you like.’ 

‘And you and mama stay?’

‘And Mylaena, Ghost, grandmama and Rickon.’

‘In the red castle?’

‘Yes, it’s in King’s Landing, they named it after Aegon the conqueror… it's where you were born.’ 

‘I was born in the red castle?’

‘Aye, you were. The Iron Throne is there.’ 

‘With all the swords!’

‘Yes, that one, surrounded by dragon skulls.’ 

‘ _Dragons_?’

‘The biggest one belonged to a dragon named Balerion.’ 

‘Like Merexes?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Merexes was the dragon of queen Rhaenys.’ 

‘Aunt Rhae-lys is queen?’ 

‘No, but there was this other woman with the name Rhaenys, and she rode her own dragon.’ 

‘Merexes?’ 

‘Exactly… who told you?’

‘Aunt Rhae-lys! Is she mama now?’

‘Yup.’ 

‘I will meet baby cousin tomorrow?’

‘Yes, and… he's a boy, so he can be a bit like a brother.’ 

‘He is my cousin!’ 

‘Do you know the story of two brothers… ser Meryn and ser Meryn?’

Freia shakes her head and listens breathlessly until she falls asleep suddenly, half-way through. Jon decides not to take it too personally. He pulls the thumb from her mouth and kisses the top of her head before he leaves. 

Sansa told him to leave both Rhaenys and Robb alone for the night, to give them their time to get used to the baby, to get to know him, to spend time together as a new family. 

Yet, as Jon’s feet bring him in a different direction than the one his head is guiding them to, he can’t help but decide that he _knows_ Rhaenys. 

The guards he meets all bow their heads and call him _your grace_. Jon finds it hard to read what it is he’s supposed to see in their eyes. Perhaps it’s not proper for a king to visit his sister and her new baby at this time of the day, but Jon doesn’t care about people’s displease, not now. 

He knocks on the door before opening it, and as he takes a quick peek around the corner, he feels his heart beat in his throat when he wonders if she’s perhaps sleeping. She’s not, she’s sitting upright in her bed, the baby in the crook of her arm, her back leaning against the headboard, her hair braided properly.

She looks up, and her eyes exhausted though full of bliss and tell him more than a thousand voices ever could. Jon smiles weakly when she holds her hand out for him to take it, and so he does, feeling oddly emotional. Her hand is warm and as he sinks down by her bedside, he blinks to keep himself from crying. 

‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’ She asks as he presses his nose in her hair after kissing it. 

‘Sansa told me not to ruin your moment.’

Rhaenys only smiles to herself when he looks down at the bundle of life in her arms. 

He’s so small, smaller than anything Jon has ever seen, wrapped up in swaddling clothes, sleeping in his mother’s arms. 

‘Look at that…’ 

‘He’s perfect, isn’t he?’ Rhaenys asks, her voice as husky as ever, yet soft, with a pride in there that cannot be matched. 

‘hmm-hmm.’ Jon agrees, ‘He looks like Rhaegar.’ 

Rhaenys’ smile widens. The baby’s hair is very light blonde, though not silver, he looks bald, and as his eyes are closed it makes Jon wonder what their color is.

‘Are you happy?’

Rhaenys nods and as a tear drops down her cheek Jon leans forward to kiss it away, ‘I didn’t quite believe happiness such as this exists.’ 

‘It does.’ Jon moves his forefinger to gently rub a fat baby cheek.

‘Do you… do you want to hold him?’

‘Only if you think you can let go.’ 

Rhaenys breathes a smile and wipes a tear from her cheek by lifting her shoulder up, ‘I’ll manage for only a small moment.’ She raises the baby up and places him in Jon’s hands without waking him. 

‘I’m relatively experienced, you know.’ Jon reminds her, ‘Except… I suppose this is the first baby of only a day old that I’ve held since my cousin Bran.’ That realization makes him a little sad, but not for long because the way Rhaenys moves her hand to carefully lift the cloth of the swaddling up to cover the baby’s bare head makes him feel so proud.

‘You will be one amazing uncle.’ Rhaenys decides. 

Jon grins, ‘Of course I will, I’ll beat Robb to it. Where _is_ Robb?’

‘With the lords of the North… all getting drunk to celebrate the birth of my son.’ 

Jon grins, ‘Robb’s getting drunk?’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I presume he'll be back soon… I told him to go, show his face… you should go to.’ 

‘Toast to your son? As crowned king? By the high septon in the Starry sept with the seven oils?’

Rhaenys’ smile disappears, ‘Please forgive me for my absence, I-‘

‘Don’t you dare apologize.’ Jon says, thankfully, she decides to leave it at that. 

‘I'm sorry we took the Eddard name, I know you wanted it.’

Jon shrugs, ‘He was Robb’s father, not mine.’

‘But he was.’

Jon gulps that comment away. Talking about Ned too much might actually make him cry. The tragedy of the man never meeting his grandchildren feels more unfair than ever. He would’ve been so proud. Jon wanted him to be able to feel that pride, he deserved to be the grandfather. Jon leans forward some more, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t look like Rhaegar… He looks like an Eddard.’

‘He doesn’t. He's a baby and Eddard Stark was a man grown.’

Jon chuckles and kisses her temple before he hands her baby back, ‘I'm proud of you.’

‘I did what all these other women did before me.’

‘Don't be modest, sister, that's not you.’ Jon moves to sit a little closer to her on the rim of the bed so he can wrap an arm around her shoulder, ‘He's so small.’

‘Freia was smaller.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Or so Sansa claims. I dare say she says that with every babe she lays eyes on.’

Jon shrugs, ‘I won't be able to make a comparison. Robb’s a lucky man.’

‘Was he very awful? As you waited together?’

‘Awful enough for me to let him win every sparring contest.’

Rhaenys breathes a laugh at that, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That was my task as cousin and brother and _uncle_.’ It feels a little odd to say it, ‘Freia's very excited.’

‘I think she likes it, to be the eldest. Aside from Rickon of course but… he doesn't really count, he's not of the same generation.’

‘Generation… they're all so little and you act as if they're next in line.’

‘They _are_.’ Rhaenys argues and he ignores that.

‘I expected you to call him Aegon, really.’

‘Oh no.’ Rhaenys moves her arms tighter around the child, ‘There are too many Aegons already.’

‘There have been quite a few Eddards as well.’

‘Hardly as memorable… I like to name a son of mine after someone he can look up to.’

‘I never believed you admired Ned much?’

‘More than I ever admired Aegon… Ned Stark raised two of my three favorite men to be good and brave and gentle, as honorable as he was. This is my thanks.’

They grin at each other like that again for a moment until she closes her eyes and sighs.

‘I miss father too, but… I miss mother most.’

Jon nods, ‘I can see why.’

‘I feel like she's with me now more than ever.’ Rhaenys lays her forefinger to the baby’s light hair, ‘I’ll make her proud.’

Jon sighs, ‘You cannot imagine how often I look at the girls and feel saddened when I realize Rhaegar and Ned will never get to see them.’ 

‘I think father could've made a surprisingly good grandfather.’ Rhaenys says and Jon can't help but agree. 

‘He would've spoiled them silly.’ 

Rhaenys breathes a short laugh, ‘I suppose… I suppose Freia might've reminded him of Lyanna.’

‘Would that have been a good thing?’

‘Yes.’ Rhaenys says, and she says it fiercely, ‘It made him love you most, too.’ 

‘He didn't, Rhaenys…’ Jon sighs, ‘Despite his flaws he did one thing right, that he loved us all equally. Even Aegon.’

‘ _Even_ Aegon?’ Rhaenys raises her eyebrows but he can tell she's not offended.

‘I'm a father, I would know.’ Jon tells her, ‘And if he's somewhere right now, where he can see us, he's writing a song for little Eddard at this very moment, so beautiful it would bring tears to your eyes, that's how proud he'd be.’ 

Rhaenys looks up and grabs his hand then, as she needs only one arm to steady the bundle of life, ‘Thank you, Jon.’ She says.

‘For what?’

‘you gave me a family when I had no one left.’

‘You willingly married Robb, I tried to stop you, really…’

Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘I don't mean Robb. I have… my own family now but… I wasn’t meant to, I didn’t think I'd ever. You and Sansa-‘

‘We will always be your family, you're my _favorite_ sister.’ Jon tightens his arms around her as she lays her head on his shoulder. 

Rhaenys says nothing but he can feel her pulse as he wraps his hand around her wrist and it comforts him, ‘I feel guilty at times, for I was a better sister to Aegon, even though you were the better brother.’

‘I would not want anyone else for sister, I'd be dead without you.’

‘I'd be dead without you, too.’

‘I highly doubt that… you always take care of yourself.’

‘Don't overestimate me,’ Rhaenys warns him, ‘I have the Targaryen wits, I easily lose my senses.’

Jon laughs, ‘Aye… you are a little mad.’

Rhaenys grins too and looks up, ‘Thank you Jon.’ She says again.

Jon shrugs, ‘Don't thank me, you owe me nothing. I’m king because you stepped down.’

‘I stepped down because it's what father wanted and he was right. You are a good leader, a just ruler, you shall be as good a king as he was.’

Jon bites his lip, realizing that’s as good as compliments from Rhaenys will ever get, before he says, ‘I’m sorry if lately I was there for you as much as I should’ve. I know my focus has been with Sansa and the girls, but-‘

Rhaenys grabs his hand tighter, ‘Don't apologize for that.’

‘Still…’ he tries, ‘I should have realized how hard it was for you, to suddenly have all this when you never thought you ever would. I assumed you would be happy but of course, it's not so simple.’

‘It rarely ever is.’ Rhaenys smiles and leans her head back down on his shoulder.

‘He's very handsome.’ Jon looks down at the baby, ‘Sansa says Robb believes he has purple eyes.’

‘Robb would like that, I think.’

‘Sansa says eye colors change when babies are little.’

‘Jon?’ Rhaenys sighs.

‘Yes?’ He feels almost worried at the ring in her voice, as if she's about to tell him something he won't like to hear.

‘I don't think I can be your Hand, once the war is over.’

Jon can't help but knit his brows, ‘Are you sure? I mean… it used to be your dream, is it not all you've ever wanted?’

Rhaenys shrugs and looks at her baby, ‘I have new dreams now.’ She says with a certain simplicity.

‘Did Robb-‘

‘No.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘He’d never, but… I don't think he'd like the capital much, and I think the lord of Winterfell belongs in Winterfell, and I belong with him.’

‘But you don't like Winterfell.’ 

‘I don't like the Red Keep either. Don't love places, they don't love you back, remember? Robb loves me back.’

Jon nods, ‘If that is… if that is what you want.’

‘You don't need me.’ Rhaenys grins, ‘Though you can always… send me a raven, if there's anything, ever.’

‘Don't worry, I will.’ Jon says, a sneaky smirk on her face appears that makes him feel warm and fuzzy.

They sit there like that for a while, until the baby starts crying and Rhaenys hands him over to the wetnurse and then pulls the blankets up.

‘Are you tired? I’ll leave you if-‘

‘No I'm fine, I like the company. I understand now why Sansa always complains about wetnurses.’

‘Sansa never really had one. Both of them lay at her breast.’

‘I remember.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I saw it and counted myself lucky, that I'd never have to do such a thing.’

Jon can only shake his head, ‘So you think you'll be happy… as lady of Winterfell? Up in the North?’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘I am.’ 

‘You can always come visit us.’ 

‘I will.’ Jon promises, ‘Often and without proper invite.’ 

‘Bring the girls too, and Sansa of course.’

‘Shan't go anywhere without them.’ Jon vows and Rhaenys gives him a look of both pride and amusement before she leans back on his shoulder. 

‘I'll miss you, little brother.’ 

‘You're not locked up in the middle of an ice storm just yet.’ 

Rhaenys laughs, ‘Just say it back you cursed bastard.’ 

‘I'll miss you too.’ 

When he moves up, a long while later, he ruffles her hair as if she's only ten and he seven, as if they are still children of a certain age, almost as if that brings them their lost shared childhood, that time together they'll never get back, of growing up together, playing, fighting, backstabbing and being young. Rhaenys has been Jon’s blood all his life, yet she only became his kin, his sister, when they were twenty and twenty-three years of age. Far too late, but not _too_ late.

Rhaenys only smiles and he smiles back before he turns and leaves her there, so she can sleep and rest, as he can find the great hall, many stairs down, and drink to this new Eddard Stark, Ned and Rhaegar’s third shared grandchild, a son of ice and fire, half Stark, half Targaryen… and as Jon cheers to that, sitting in his King’s seat, looking at all these cheerful, hopeful faces… he realizes he’s no longer the only one.

He hugs Robb tight, who seems still in a state of disbelieve which is somehow extremely endearing, then finds Catelyn, who looks as if she’s been crying all day with tears of joy, and then ends up keeping Rickon from drinking his first sip of wine at the age of nine. 

He hands Rickon over to his Septa, carefully manages not to get drunk and eventually, after too many hours of wine, laughter, loud talking, false music and unfunny fools, he finds himself escaping. 

He drags his body up the stairs with heavy legs, all these damn stairs in this far too high tower, followed by his king’s guard to his bedchamber, where he’s greeted by some more King’s Guard. He drops down in a bed that's already warmed up by the heat of his wife’s body, and though she groans and pushes him off her when he accidentally wakes her, he still manages to wrap an arm around her middle and tell her, ‘The baby has father’s eyes.’

Sansa turns around then to look at him and he expects her to grin or smile, but all she does is hide her face in the crook of his neck, ‘I’ve never heard you call him father before.’ 

 

**Rhaenys**

Rhaenys sits by the widow, dressed in nothing but a silk robe, hair loose, feet bare, skin tickled with goosebumps and hands filled with something so extraordinarily beautiful, that she cannot help but stare. 

Her baby barely cries, he only looks up, making the most perfect sounds as he bats his eyelashes and one set of lilac eyes find a set of indigo ones. 

He's so small, that his head fits perfectly in the palm of her hand, the most vulnerable and softest thing she’s ever held. Mesmerizing, all-consuming, warm, cuddly and perfect. 

_Mine_. Rhaenys thinks, _you’re mine_ , and she cannot believe it, for it still feels as if her world tries to take her for a fool, to play a jest on her, to ruin her there where no one could ever reach her. 

Rhaenys is as weak as she's ever been, as strong as she'll ever be. The urge to protect her son, is far greater, far stronger than any hate any woman could ever feel. Worth every sacrifice. 

_Infinite_. 

Catelyn calls him a bouncing baby, and Sansa said he's as healthy as the day is long. _My son_ , Robb said, he says it all the time with possessiveness in his words. 

The baby moves his head, her breasts ache and Catelyn helps her nurse him, ‘Hold his head… yes, that’s right.’ Her soft hands are the gentlest of touches, her smile is as reassuring as a rainstorm after years of drought, ‘You’re doing wonderfully, Rhaenys.’ 

Nursing her baby, is truly, the most intimate feeling, as she’s just with him, sitting in a big chair, and his extremely small fingers wrap around her thumb. 

She allows no one else to nurse him after, for the idea alone hurts too much. _He’s mine_ , she thinks, and she doesn’t want another woman to take care of him, she’ll feel like she failed when she’ll allow it. So, he keeps her up at night, and Robb too, and that makes Robb curse, though he often falls right back to sleep the moment Rhaenys picks the baby up, crawls back into bed and lays him at her breast. Then Robb fades away, as well as the early twittering birds outside their window, her relentless headache somehow becomes much less stinging and, though her eyes are weak and fight a battle with sleep, she can’t help but decide that this, this is _real_. 

Robb jumps around the crib like an enthusiastic boy, eager to see everything, beaming in pride whenever the child does little but blink. in his excitement, he’s far too clumsy, and that makes her a little anxious, and her anxiety makes Jon laugh. Jon is not clumsy, and for the first time ever, Rhaenys does not roll her eyes at his paternal instincts.

The baby sleeps so much, all through the day he does little but sleep, cry and nurse. Robb still claims the baby looks like his father, and perhaps he does, but Rhaenys sees _her_ father and her mother and brother too, those who left her. She lost plenty of people in her lifetime, but now the Gods took nothing away, the Gods sent someone to her. 

_A mother_. Rhaenys will be the best mother, she'll have to be, she must, for he deserves it. It’s all thrilling and terrifying; nothing has ever been so intense. Every time the baby moves or coos Rhaenys feels rewarded. Nothing has ever been so simple, yet she feels utterly confused at all times. Rhaenys feels like she can finally forgive, though who and for what, she's not entirely sure. 

Sansa invites her over for supper with the family. 

‘Supper? With all the family?’ Rhaenys moves a little on the sofa she sits on, as she looks up at Sansa, perfectly dressed, her hair combed to molten copper, her eyes wide open and awake, her dress expensive and perfect, her wrists decorated with silver bracelets, her hands folded in front of her. Every inch a queen and perfect in all her perfection.

‘Yes! It is a special day!’

‘Oh?’

‘I and Jon have been married for _six_ years!’ 

‘Have you?’ Rhaenys sits straight at the mention. 

‘Well, not _really_ , only next week, when I shall turn twenty and three, but we met a week before that, remember?’ 

‘I always assumed you met the day you were born?’ 

‘That doesn’t count.’ Sansa decides without proper argument.

‘Has he showered you with gifts and affection?’ Rhaenys feels suspicious, ‘Or has he forgotten?’ 

Sansa beams, ‘Of course he hasn’t! He forgets no anniversary, only his own nameday.’

‘Right.’ 

‘In any case, we wish to celebrate with family.’ 

‘You must celebrate it with the realm!’ Rhaenys feels a little stunned then, at the mere suggestion of celebrating a wedding anniversary by having a simple family supper, ‘Wedding anniversaries are always celebrated with tourneys and banquets, masquerades... At King Viserys and Queen Alicent's five-year anniversary tourney, prince Daemon-’ 

Sansa waves that story away, ‘Oh no, we don’t want all that fuss.’ 

‘You must have a feast, at least!’

‘I’ve had too many feasts lately. I want a perfectly happy, cheerful supper with the people I and my lord husband love most in this world.’ 

‘But a feast-‘

‘We shall have a feast if you have it arranged by tonight… can you do such a thing?’

Rhaenys only blinks and Sansa gives her a pleased smile.

‘No feast then, and I expect you for supper tonight.’ 

‘Will Arya be there?’ Rhaenys asks after a moment of blatant silence and Sansa shakes her head. 

‘Of course, she’s my sister. Bran and Myrcella too.’ 

‘Have you stopped avoiding her?’

‘Myrcella? Perhaps. You?’

‘No.’

Sansa sighs, ‘Please Rhaenys, for me?’ 

‘Does Arya speak to him now? to her new husband?’

‘Oh yes, she let him help her get on her horse!’

‘That’s wonderful progress.’ Rhaenys agrees, ‘Robb felt horrible over Arya’s displease with him.’

Sansa sits down on the sofa and sighs, ‘Even Arya must eventually lay down her sword.’ 

‘So long as the future lord of Storm’s End doesn’t lay down _his_ sword.’

‘Rhaenys! Arya’s my _sister_.’

‘Jon being my brother never stopped you.’ 

‘That’s different.’ 

‘ _How_?’

‘Jon is not your little sister.’ 

‘He’s my little brother. I’m quite sure I know more about Jon than Robb does, when it comes to his _sword_ , I mean.’

‘Shut it, Rhaenys.’ 

‘Valyarian Steel bastard named Longclaw.’ 

Sansa laughs and her laughter makes the baby in his crib softly cry, ‘Did I wake him up?’ she asks as Rhaenys jumps up and leans over the crib, to pick Eddard up. The baby calms down the moment she holds him and as she sits back down, hushing and rocking him, he’s fallen back to sleep already, ‘Is he a crier?’ 

‘A what?’

‘How much does he cry?’ 

‘Not too much?’ 

‘He’s beautiful.’ Sansa decides then and she moves her forefinger to rub the baby cheek, ‘He’s definitely Robb’s!’

Rhaenys decides not to waste energy on disagreeing and only smiles, ‘I must thank you for… Catelyn told me to stay away from you, after, for _reasons_.’

‘What rea- oh! Don’t be silly.’ 

‘How are you?’

‘Much better.’ Sansa says, nodding, ‘We were not ready.’ 

‘No one is ever ready.’

Sansa smiles, ‘It was a different sort of not ready.’ She says. Seeing Sansa pregnant is a sight Rheanys is most used to. With the exception of two gruesome years, Sansa has been pregnant nearly constantly from the moment Rhaenys met her. ‘He’s so precious, Rhaenys.’ Sansa’s smile is warm. 

Rhaenys would not have been able to do it without Sansa, not without her squeezing hand, her words and her encouragements. 

‘He’s so small… they always are, when they’re your first… Freia was smaller, though. Have I said that before? She was the tiniest, so tiny, she could fit in my handpalm. I’ll never forget.’ 

‘I was there when she was born, remember?’

‘Of course, I remember!’ Sansa grins, ‘How could anyone forget baby Freia. She was the most beautiful little baby. I couldn’t stop staring at her, utterly shocked at her sheer existence… this great burst of love, greater than anything before… Can’t describe it with any words.’

Rhaenys knows Sansa expects her to agree and confess her own bombardment of emotions, but Rhaenys can only nod once. 

‘Freia won’t shut up about him, she’s asking for a baby brother. I’m afraid she’s expecting that to be more exciting than Mylaena, which will, naturally, be a gruesome disappointment.’ 

‘I thought Freia was quite fond of Mylaena?’

‘Oh yes. She’s sweet and careful but… well, Rickon found himself new friends and she could use someone to run around with. She’s such a fidget, squirms in her chair when she’s forced to sit still for a moment.’

‘She is energetic.’ Rhaenys sees little harm in it, ‘She lives in her own daydreams. I envy her, really, she can ignore all that happens around her.’ 

Sansa only nods, a frown to her face.

‘And Mylaena is doing alright?’

Sansa nods proudly, ‘One year old! Can you believe it? She’s too precious for this world. She’s getting much better at walking… she can’t do it on her own, but she will soon, I’m sure.’

‘I’m sure too.’

‘Septa Aurestyne says Freia is good at writing but she finds Freia grows bored quickly, and called her _lazy_.’

Rhaenys can’t help but laugh, ‘Typical, septas claiming a child is bored and lazy… easy for them to say, an excuse to hide the fact that they are, themselves, extremely boring. If Freia’s bored then the septa must find ways to keep her attention.’ 

‘She’s clever, you know. When she’s passionate… she already knows more about horses than I ever will and she’s very good at _seeing_ people.’ 

‘Freia’s too clever for her own good. I caught her watching lord Bolton suspiciously last week… I’ve never before felt so proud.’ It’s as if the baby senses his mother’s words and wishes to challenge them because he coos and opens his eyes. 

‘So… you’ll come for supper?’

Rhaenys bites her lower-lip and looks down at her baby. 

‘You can bring him, I’ll bring Mylaena, and Freia too and we’ll have a proper family supper, with everyone there.’

Rhaenys can’t find a reason to object to that, so she finds herself getting dressed that same evening, as her handmaiden helps her in a deep dark red dress.

Rhaenys avoided supper with the family as much as she avoided politics. Jon didn’t push it and Robb definitely didn’t. Rhaenys is a woman now, more than she’s ever been before. She used to be only half a woman to them, even after she married, but not anymore. To them, she’s soft now, spineless, feeble, fragile and weak. They expect her to hide in the nursery, be suddenly obedient and submissive.

Rhaenys feels vulnerable, yes, but not spineless and certainly not weak. She’ll never be weak, she cannot possibly be. Strength is a choice she’ll keep on choosing. 

Yet she’s not ready yet. She’s not ready to face their discomfort, their resistance, objections and oppose. She’s not ready to glare at them, mock them with wit, to bark facts in their way to get what she wants, outmaneuver them, find the right word just to make sure they won’t bite back… she’s too tired for that, too happy. 

She doesn’t want to hear about the war, about soldiers, armies, tactics, bannermen, supplies, swords and strategy… these will all give her a headache. She used to long for that headache, she used to desire the pain and discomfort of hours and hours of council meetings. She liked a lack of sleep, because it meant people needed her, that she worked, it meant that her life was not wasting away, precious time did not go unused… Rhaenys enjoyed being necessary, to be heard.

‘Rhaenys, you look wonderful!’ Catelyn lies when she walks into the already filled parlor. 

‘Thank you, lady mother.’ Rhaenys, allows Catelyn to kiss her cheek and she scans the room in only a second. Myrcella looks less like Cersei the more you see of her. At first glance she’s a copy, but her smile is different, it’s real, and Rhaenys watches her make Bran laugh. 

Arya is actually properly dressed, a surprising sight. She looks pretty really, the color of her hair is still boring but when combed properly it shines and her eyes are so dark they look like two deep pools to drown in. Her husband chose to wear the colors of his father’s house. He’s lucky black and golden suit him. 

Along with all other ladies, Rhaenys sinks through her knees is a curtsey when Jon walks in and as Robb bows his head for his king, Jon kisses his sister’s forehead. 

‘So good of you to come!’ 

Freia jumps up and down in excitement as she sees her baby cousin and eagerly looks down in the crib after Rhaenys places her son down, ‘He is _red_!’ She decides. 

‘He has his mother’s complexion.’ Robb says, ‘Olive skin.’ 

‘Look!’ Freia says, she points at her cousin and tells her drooling sister, who’s hand she’s holding, ‘You looked like this a loooong time ago!’

Mylaena sticks her hand in her mouth, sucks on it and seem extremely uninterested. 

‘I like him!’ Freia decides, ‘He is my friend!’

‘You can’t play with him yet, Freia.’ Sansa warns. 

‘I don't! I just tickle.’ Freia doesn’t tickle the baby’s belly, only rubs it softly, gives him her brightest, happiest smile. 

Baby Eddard, who still lacks a nickname that better fits his age, curiously stares up at Freia, bats his eyelashes when she starts playing peek-aa-boo for him and kicks his legs in a two-weeks-old baby attempt to show his enthusiasm. 

Catelyn can’t help but shed her happy tears as she watches Freia, then Rickon, giggle and coo over her first grandson, ‘Careful!’ she warns, ‘Your cousin is very small and you can’t hurt him.’

‘I will not!’ Freia promises and she pats the baby’s belly with her hand, careful and gently, ‘You grow and we play with _swords_!’ 

‘Thought you didn’t want to play with swords.’ Jon says and he lifts Freia up and places her down on his knee. 

‘I have to.’ Freia says, ‘Boys play with swords and my cousin is a boy.’ 

Rickon, who’s sitting next to Jon on a chair, swifts a little in his seat as he fails to hide his discomfort. 

Sansa sits down too, next to Mylaena in her high baby chair. The baby seems eager to eat and tries to grab the spoon in Sansa’s hand with her fat fists, her hands opening and closing repeatedly. 

‘You can’t call him Ned,’ Jon suddenly says when everyone sits down, ready to eat, following no protocol whatsoever in choosing their seats and Rhaenys makes sure to sit far away from Myrcella, ends up between Robb and Freia, ‘That’d be weird.’ 

‘Ned... Ard? Call him Ard.’ Sansa suggests and Jon laughs too hard. 

‘His name is Eddard.’ Catelyn seems almost offended. 

‘We could just call him Edd.’ Robb says with a shrug.

‘Like Egg.’ Rhaenys says, she rubs Freia’s cheek before the girl jumps off her father’s lap and sits down in her own ‘old people’s chair’. 

‘Egg?’

‘They called my brother Egg.’ 

‘I like eggs! Eggs come from chickens, and chickens wake people in the morrow!’

Catelyn laughs and Rhaenys can’t help but press a kiss to Freia’s chubby cheek. 

It’s actually nice, Rhaenys realizes, to sit here with all these people. She was ready to come out of her room after all. She likes being dressed properly, hair neat and washed, arms decorated with bracelets. She likes listening to Freia’s endless chattering, Myleana’s babbles, Sansa’s stories, Rickon’s tales, Bran’s wisdoms, Catelyn’s memories, Arya’s adventures and Jon’s complains. 

As Robb cheers to Sansa and Jon’s successful, happy and fruitful marriage, she moves her eyes over everyone sitting at the round dining table, and she recalls a round dining table, in another castle, with another Targaryen King and Queen. 

Rhaenys back then never believed family dinners could be anything other than torture. She used to avoid her family, even Aegon. _Especially_ Aegon. 

Would he be happy to know she is happy now? Would he hate her for loving Jon? Would he despise her for fighting for Jon? Would he mock her for loving Robb? Rhaenys doesn’t know, and that helps her remind herself that she may have never truly known Aegon all that well. 

If Aegon had known what was all deep down in her heart, if he’d known she never truly hated Jon… he might’ve felt she betrayed their mother.

‘I want to toast too.’ She says, and she holds her glass up, points it at Jon and Sansa and smiles at their smiling faces, ‘To my favorite brother and my favorite sister…’ She waits, then goes on, ‘I’m so terribly jealous of you, that’s all. And grateful, because you’ve taught me so much, and I would not have been the person I am today without these lessons.’ 

Rhaenys looks down, grins at Robb, who beams, she can already see the wine’s effect on him. 

‘To the next six years, I suppose.’ 

Everyone politely claps as Jon grabs Sansa’s face and promises her, ‘ _Sixty_ years of course!’ before he kisses her. 

‘Jon!’ Sansa squeals but it doesn’t really help because he doesn’t let go, ‘ _Don’t_ , you taste of pomegranate wine, I _hate_ pomegranate wine.’

Freia hides her face behind her hands with her fingers wide apart so she can still look through them, she giggles, ‘Papa no! No kisses for mama!’ and Rickon puts up a face of disgust. 

‘That’s disgusting!’ He says and he throws his napkin at Jon’s face, who catches it and pulls on his cousin’s red curly hair. 

‘Say that again and I’ll press your nose to the stable floor to teach you what disgusting is.’ 

‘ _Jon_!’ Catelyn and Sansa say simultaneously in their shock and Robb and Bran laughs.

Rhaenys lets her eyes slide over all he people. Bran in his Stark doublet, Myrcella with her golden curls hands Bran his wine as Arya’s answers her Baratheon husband with a smile… Rhaenys hears the sound of Freia’s twittering giggle, followed by Robb and Jon bursting out in laughter, and she realizes that family dinners can be amazing. 

Rhaenys picks her baby up and hands him over to Catelyn, who eagerly takes him and holds him in the crook of her arm, ‘Such a handsome lad…’ She whispers to her grandson, and the sight makes Rhaenys emotional. 

Most things make Rhaenys emotional lately, she both hates and loves that. Robb wraps an arm around her shoulders when she sits back down and then goes on to tell Jon he’s grateful there’s no fool. Robb hates fools. 

‘Lord Hightower’s fool’s called Mushroom.’ Jon says, ‘Which says it all.’ 

‘Still funnier than Moonboy.’ Sansa says, taking a sip of her wine. 

'Cersei probably fucked Moonboy, perhaps that’s why he was so depressed.’ Jon says and Sansa covers Freia’s ears but it’s too late, so she goes on to slap her husband’s shoulder.

‘I think father purposely had the least funny fool the world has ever seen.’ Rhaenys says, ‘He was a very serious man.’ 

‘I remember, once, when Olenna Tyrell tried to question me, she invited Moonboy to sing and she made him sing so loud she hoped no one would hear the words we spoke.’ Sansa recalls, ‘He was good at _that_ , so perhaps it’s why Rhaegar kept him on.’ 

‘Odious woman.’ Rhaenys says. 

‘She fed herself a full supper of pride every night, it shocks me she could walk with her head so high due to all the weight.’ Sansa says.

‘You’d think she’d die sometime soon.’ Robb says.

Jon shrugs and turns to Sansa, ‘I’ll take you to Highgarden, one day, if you like?’ 

‘We could have a tourney.’ Sansa says, ‘Let’s go there when we’re celebrating our seven-year anniversary!’ 

‘You will have a tourney then but not for your sixth?’ Rhaenys but rolls her eyes. 

‘We’re at war, Rhaenys.’ Jon says and he fills his cup, ‘We have no time for tourneys anymore.’ 

Freia looks up at these words and the table goes quiet when they realize how much truth there is in these words. 

‘When shall you… When do you plan on leaving?’ Catelyn asks. 

‘Within a week.’ Robb answers, ‘The sooner we leave, the sooner Jon can sit his ass down on that throne and it’ll finally be over.’ 

‘King’s Landing is weak.’ Jon says, ‘We’re hoping for a surrender.’ 

‘Cersei will never surrender.’ Rhaenys mutters. 

‘The city might.’ Jon says, ‘Cersei’s stupid, but clever people have told me they’re convinced she’s paranoid. Jaime says-’ 

‘Jaime’s clever now?’ 

‘Clever enough to know the war’s lost.’ 

‘Taking King’s Landing’s really just a formality, right?’ Sansa’s obviously looking for reassurance and she grabs Jon’s hand, ‘It’s only a necessity.’

Jon smiles sweetly at her and nods, ‘No need to worry.’ 

‘Anything might happen.’ Robb says, ‘We always have to be careful.’ He wraps his arm tighter around Rhaenys’ shoulders, ‘We’ll be back with a blink of the eye.’ 

‘Is papa going?’ Freia asks. 

Sansa nods and pulls her free hand through Freia’s curly brown hair, ‘Yes, but he’ll be back soon, and when he’ll come back, we’ll be together forever, remember?’ 

‘I can come?’ Freia suggest. 

‘You can’t come.’ Rickon says then, ‘You have to stay with the women and children. You’re a child.’

‘So are you!’ Freia spits back as if being a child is insulting and that makes Edric Storm laugh. 

‘Yes, and that is why Rickon will stay too.’ Catelyn says, she gets up to place Eddard back in the crib.

Freia gives Rickon her _Ha!_ face and turns back to her food, terribly moody suddenly. Jon watches her with the usual sad eyes he puts on when he feels guilty for abandoning his ever so important father role for the cause of this war. 

‘We’ll be living in the red castle I’ve told you about.’ He reminds Freia but she shows no sign of excitement as she uses her golden fork to play with her pigeon pie. 

‘When?’ Freia asks. 

‘Soon.’ Jon promises, ‘Very soon.’ 

‘How many sleepy nights?’ 

‘A couple..’ Jon sighs, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You cannot pro-wis when you don’t know.’ 

‘I can.’ Jon exchanges nervous glances with Sansa, ‘I just don’t know how many nights we’ve still have got to go.’ 

‘You know no-thing.’ Freia decides, ‘You cannot say _I pro-wis_ when you know no-thing.’ 

‘I think you’ll love the capital.’ Myrcella says and Rhaenys nods.

‘When I was a little girl, like you, I was a princess in King’s Landing too. It’s always crowded with new people.’ 

‘I don’t want new people.’ Freia says. 

‘Very interesting people! And the feasts-‘

‘I don’t like feasts.’ Freia suddenly seems so determined to hate everything. 

‘Don’t be silly, Freia!’ Sansa says, ‘You always like dancing!’ 

‘Nobody dances with me,’ Freia says, ‘Because I am the child.’ 

‘I wish I was a child.’ Catelyn says.

Myrcella’s smile is still there, ‘I would _love_ to dance with you.’ 

‘So would I!’ Bran says. 

‘Me too.’ Robb nods.

‘There are feasts in the throne room.’ Rhaenys adds, ‘With the Iron throne, it’s made of _swords_.’ 

‘I don’t like swords.’ Freia says, and suddenly her bottom lip trembles. 

‘You always want to play with us, when we’re playing with swords.’ Rickon says, his eyebrows high. 

‘I don’t want to play with you, you’re _stupid_.’ A single tear drops down Freia’s cheek. 

‘Freia!’ Catelyn and Sansa say in unison. 

‘Freia, I want you to apologize.’ Jon says, his voice calmly parental. 

Freia says nothing as she mashes her beans with her fork. 

‘Freia?’ 

Freia throws her fork down on the table, jumps off her chair, big fat tears rolling down, ‘I don’t want to go to the red castle!’ She yells at Jon and Mylaena starts crying, ‘The red castle is stupid!’ 

‘Sit back down!’ Jon raises his voice and points at Freia’s chair. 

‘NOO!’ Freia bellows, ‘ _You_ sit down!’ 

Jon gets up from his chair and that gesture is too threatening for Freia to scream at, so she chooses to safely run out of the room, sobbing and screaming for the sake of screaming. 

Jon moves to go after her but Sansa pulls on his arm, ‘Don’t.’ She says, ‘Please. She doesn’t deserve scolding.’ 

‘She can’t yell at me.’ Jon says but Sansa shakes her head. 

‘She’s confused.’

‘Poor thing.’ Catelyn mutters, failing at whipping Mylaena’s crying face with a napkin. 

‘I’ll go to her.’ Sansa says, she gets up and quickly leaves, to follow her crying daughter, as Jon pulls Mylaena from her high chair and rocks her to calm her down. 

Robb turns in his seat to look at Rickon’s red and flushed face, ‘If that happens again, I’ll beat your back-end until you’ll beg for the stranger.’ 

‘ _What_? What did _I_ do?’ 

‘I told you to be nice to Freia!’ 

‘I _am_! She hates _me_ now!’ 

‘That’s not how it works!’ 

‘I can’t help it that Ser Rodrik won’t teach girls how to swordfight! Even if she were a boy, she’d be too young, she’s _four_!’ 

‘That four-year-old child rides a horse better than you do.’ Robb gets up and rises high above his little brother, so high Rickon sinks down a little in his seat, ‘I’m not going to debate over whose fault this is. You are a child too, don’t forget that, boy. I expect you to behave.’ He pulls Rickon up by his sleeve, ‘Time for bed.’ Is all he says before he pushes Catelyn’s youngest in her direction. 

Catelyn takes Rickon’s hand, apologetically looks around, then debarks the solar with a displeased, whining Rickon on her hand. 

‘Well… that’s a bummer.’ Rhaenys decides after a long moment of silence filled only with the soft whining of Mylaena. 

Edric Storm coughs and looks at Arya, who sees something on his face apparently because she nods, ‘May we be excused?’ Jon nods and makes a hand gesture to let them know he’s fine with them either leaving or staying. Bran accepts the message too. 

‘We’re leaving too.’ 

Rhaenys watches Robb’s siblings and their new respective partners leave and comes to the conclusion that, honestly, she’s the best matchmaker the world ever knew- and all that without bothering for their happiness. 

‘Freia hates me because I’m leaving again.’ Jon says, pulling her from he thoughts the moment it’s just the three of them and Mylaena, he sits his youngest down on his knee and offers her a strawberry.

‘She’s upset because she’s lonely, that’s all.’ Robb says.

‘ _That’s all_?’ Jon’s widens his eyes, ‘That’s _horrible_!’ 

‘I know Jon, I’m only saying… she doesn’t _hate_ you.’ 

‘Oh well.’

Robb opens his mouth to speak but Rhaenys clears her throat and announces, ‘I won’t be left behind when the two of you are off defeating my enemy.’ 

‘You’ll have to.’ Robb says. 

‘ _Your_ enemy?’ Jon asks. 

‘Yes, Cersei is mine, you promised her to me, remember?’

‘Well, that was before you-‘

‘Had a child?’ Rhaenys warningly raises her eyebrows and Jon wisely says nothing, ‘Does having a child rob me off my well-earned right to be the one to watch Cersei Lannister die?’

‘Yes?’ Jon sighs and hands Myleana another strawberry, ‘Sometimes things are… Not as important as other things.’

‘You have to think about your health, sweetling.’ Robb says. 

‘I want to go.’ Rhaenys insists, ‘I must.’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Little Rickon may be acting a total brat, but he was right all the same. Women and children stay behind for reasons.’ 

‘ _Reasons_?’

‘Safety, among others.’ Jon says. 

‘The measter confirmed my health.’ 

‘But you’ll have to leave the baby behind.’ Robb says, ‘You might not see him for two moonturns or more.’ 

‘It won’t be that long.’ Rhaenys swallows a sick feeling in her guts away. 

‘It would be stupid.’ Jon says.

‘As stupid as you bringing Sansa and two-year-old Freia to the warcamp.’

‘That was _different_.’ 

‘ _How_?’

‘Sometimes there are no happy choices, only one less grievous than the other.’ Jon says, ‘I had to bring Sansa to a place as dangerous as that, because if I had not, I would have lost her and I was not willing to risk it.’

‘I’m not willing to risk this.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I cannot miss it.’ 

‘It won’t be the end of the world.’ Robb says, ‘And the baby needs you.’

‘I _know_ that.’ Rhaenys says.

‘Paba!’ Myleana babbles. 

‘What is it?’ 

‘Paba laboolee!’ 

‘What?’

‘Pabaaa!’

‘Yes?’

‘Pababababa is that!’

‘No, you can’t have more cake.’ 

‘PABA!’

‘Too much cake for you! Your tummy will say ow.’

Myleana follows Freia’s example cries, though there’re no actual tears, she’s just wailing and wriggling, ‘PAABAA!’ 

Jon groans and moves Myleana over to his other knee, ‘ _Seven Hells_ …’ 

‘Pabaaa thaaaaahht! Pabaahaaahaa…’

‘Myl- _no_!’ Jon pulls the baby away from the table and then quickly stands up, to make sure anything near the table is not within her grasp, ‘I’m going to bring her to bed.’ he announces.

‘You do that by yourself?’ Robb asks and Jon only glares and refuses to answer the question. 

‘We’ll talk in the morrow.’ Jon says, a finger pointing at Rhaenys as if he’s warning. 

He leaves then and it is only Robb and Rhaenys, and they sit side by side in silence for a moment, as Rhaenys catches herself hoping their son will start crying so she can run away. 

‘If you want to come, I shan’t stop you.’ Robb says, ‘But I don’t think it’s what you want.’ 

‘It is.’ 

‘You must think carefully.’ He says.

‘I will.’ 

‘There’s no shame in being a woman, in not fighting, in being safe, in staying with your children.’ 

‘If there was I’d be shaming Sansa.’

Robb bites his lower-lip then, and grabs his cup to take a sip. 

‘Robb?’

‘Hmm?’ 

Rhaenys can only suspiciously eye him and she knows it’s enough for him to say it eventually.

‘Sansa’s not staying behind.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s coming with us to King’s Landing. She’ll be there when… _if_ we take it.’

Rhaenys has no time to tell him there is no room for ifs, ‘Sansa’s _coming_? That’s far too dangerous! Freia and Myleana-’

‘She’s leaving them behind with my mother, they’ll follow the army at safe distance, until they’ll reside in castle Rykker. It’s been decided, though Sansa has not yet told Freia, that’s why I haven’t told you.’ 

‘Are things being kept from me?’ 

Robb breathes in, then turns in his seat to grab her hands, ‘Of course not, sweetling, it’s only that… you didn’t seem to want to know. You didn’t ask.’ 

Rhaenys cannot deny that to be true, so she pulls her lower-lip in as she studies his face, then drops her gaze and digs her nails in his hands, ‘I needed a war-less bubble.’ She admits, ‘It’s been war in my world far too long. I need to be there when it ends.’ 

‘Has it not ended already? Sansa’s right, this is all just the dot at the end of the sentence. We have won, the war is practically over, King’s Landing will only mark-‘

‘The end, yes, and what’s the point of the travel when you do not reach the destination?’ 

‘Rhaenys-‘

‘I have to look her in the eye _one_ last time, or I shall never find resolution.’ 

‘Can you not… Can the birth of our son not be that? Is that not the ultimate revenge, Rhaenys? To have what you thought they took from you? To be what you would never ever be… can’t that be resolution? Must it be her death? Can it not be the beginning of something good instead of the end of something terrible?’

‘Because I owe that to my father.’ Rhaenys says and she repeats, ‘I need to look her in the eye, I want to hear her words, I want to tell her what I never got to say, there are still things left unsaid and if I do not go, she shall die without ever hearing me say it.’

Robb nods once then pulls her off her chair into his lap. Rhaenys allows him and then drops her head on his shoulder, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why ever are you sorry?’

‘I’m giving you some extra grey hairs again.’ 

‘I’d be worried if you wouldn’t.’ 

Rhaenys can’t help but smile at that and she leans up to kiss him, though she can’t do it properly, because the baby in the room next door suddenly destroys the peaceful silence of night when he starts crying and Rhaenys instantly jumps up to tend to his needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps, sorry for not calling Rhaenys' son Rhaegar, it's cause someone else was always going to call his/her son Rhaegar, and when I say always, I mean always.  
> byeeeXX


	66. A Dream of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You don't understand.' Rhaenys says, and there’s a burning in her eyes that reminds Robb of Oberyn, ‘They’re Dornish, they do not melt south of the Neck, they’re nothing like the Northern lords… Targaryens speak of Fire and Blood well… The Dornish have fire _in_ their blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one will believe me when i say the part about the Tarly's of Jon and Sansa's convo was written months ago, long before show-Dany decided to set them on fire. It's true tho, guess some things can be predicted, especially when they concern someone as predictable as Daenerys. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the delay, I hope to update the last two chapters somewhere next week, before I really have to go back to uni.

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon waits in the door opening for Sansa to whisper good-night to Freia, before he moves aside so she can walk through.

‘Was she very angry?’ he asks, nervously.

‘Just sad.’ Is all Sansa says as she makes her way to her own bedchamber, ‘She’s so young, she doesn’t understand. She’s afraid we’ll leave her.’

‘We won’t.’

‘We _will_ , Jon.’ She sighs again as she opens the door, kicks her shoes off before she drops herself down on the bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to herself.

‘Not really! Not actually. When the battle is over they’ll come to us.’

Sansa closes her eyes to let him know she’s not interested in conversing, the way she always does when she’s tired, cranky, or both.

Jon sits down by the bedside too and can’t help but drop his head down on her hip, 'Do you think I should talk to her? Tomorrow morning?’ he moves his hand to pull on her braid after which she hits his hand to make him stop,

‘What do you want to tell her?’

‘I don’t know, but she’s angry with me.’

Sansa sighs and turns to her back, then moves her hands to his head as it now lies in her lap and she twirls a curl of his hair around her finger, ‘Freia’s been having a hard time for a while now, and it’s not all your fault.’

‘Do you mean Rickon?’

‘Not just Rickon.’ Sansa bites her lower lip and sighs, ‘She reminds me of Arya.’

‘Don’t say that as if it’s a bad thing.’ Jon leans up and feels a little angry suddenly, ‘I know Freia is not the average lady-like girl, I know she’s not much like you, I know she likes things she shouldn’t like but that’s not a _bad thing_.’

‘I’m not saying…’ Sansa sighs, ‘It was hard enough for my mother to turn Arya into a lady and Arya grew up in Winterfell. Freia will be the eldest daughter of the king, things will be expected of her, she won’t be easy.’

Jon pushes himself further up until he sits upright, ‘I don’t want her to be _easy_ , I want her to be happy.’

‘She would be happier if she was easier.’ Sansa says and he wants to scream at her for that.

‘Freia’s not a doll, she’s a little girl, and I know she can be a bit wild, a bit-‘

‘Jon, she can be plain rude.’ Sansa says, ‘And she _never_ sits still, she runs off and often she prefers to just ignore whatever it is I say when she doesn’t want to hear it.’

‘Well-‘

‘She’s awfully clever but has the attentiveness and focus of a stone. She has quite the temper and can be terribly impolite when uninterested… she has the Stark blood.’

‘Does she?’

‘Thanks to you, not me.’ Sansa shakes her head then, ‘She’ll be fine, don’t you worry about that, I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Will you?’ Jon grins, ‘I’ll have faith in you then.’ He shakes his head and decides he cannot worry about Freia in such a way, it’s _Freia_ , she’s always been _daydreamy_ and carefree, and _yes_ , she has the wolf’s blood, but he has trusted himself to let her be free and happy _and_ protect her at the same time. She may be difficult, but he won’t give up on her.

Sansa sighs again as she moves up too, ‘I can’t even get her to take a nap. She’s _four_ , she needs a nap.’

‘So, what are you saying?’

Sansa shrugs, ‘Squirming, fidgeting, tapping, running around, doing things she shouldn’t for the sake of doing them, Arya was the same.‘

Jon gets off the bed, ‘Stop saying she looks like Arya and make it seem like a bad thing.’

Sansa sits up too and her eyes are cold when she tells him, ‘Arya nearly got us killed you know, in King’s Landing, because she had no patience, no self-control, because she just couldn’t shut her damn mouth. Arya always does what she likes and when she can’t… Women can’t do what they feel like in this world, not women like us.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Freia’s so angry all the time, not because she’s displeased but just over… _silly_ things, things that should not matter. I think Freia feels very misunderstood and I _hate_ that.’

Jon blinks a couple of times, then breathes out slowly before he asks, ‘Is that because of the war? Is that my fault?’

Sansa’s anger fades like the morning dew, ‘No…’ She moves her hands to pull him towards her, grabbing his collar before she moves her hands down over his chest and back up again, to take his face in her hands, ‘You understand her better than anyone.’

‘But I don’t-‘

‘ _That_ is why she’s so upset you’re leaving.’ Sansa sighs, ‘And I’m leaving too.’

‘You have to.’ Jon breathes, and he hates saying that, he wishes he didn’t have to, ‘You’re the queen.’

Sansa drops one hand and with the other she pushes his hair behind his ear, ‘She was never going to be easy.’ She says then, ‘I knew from the moment she spoke her first words.’

‘What _was_ her first word?’

Sansa grins, ‘Ghost. After that it was no.’

Jon grins too, ‘I feel that Freia just really needs to be loved.’

‘All children do.’

‘But Freia in a…’ Jon sighs, ‘It’s different with Freia. We left her before, it’s an ongoing fear for her.’

‘But we always come back. And the only thing we can do is promise her we’ll always come back and make sure she believes us.’

Jon nods because he feels there’s no other way for him but to agree, ‘I… yes.’ He sighs and drops himself backwards on the bed, ‘Rhaenys wants to come too.’

‘Rhaenys is mad.’ Sansa says, she starts to open her bodice at the front and closes her eyes at the release.

‘I told her so, but I still fear because Robb is awfully terrible at convincing Rhaenys to do the right thing.’

‘True.’ Sansa agrees.

‘What do you think I must do?’

‘Tell Rhaenys what you think and allow her to make her own decision, of course, what else?’

‘Won’t it be-‘

‘Whatever gruesome consequences it may have, they won’t be your responsibility. Rhaenys is a woman grown, married too, and very clever above all.’

‘Clever yes, but foolish and stubborn too.’

‘As are you,’ Sansa grins and she gratefully smiles at a girl who walks in with Sansa’s nightgown draped over her lower arm, ‘Oh, thank you Leila.’ She smiles at the girl, then allows the maid to help her undress.

‘What do you mean with _that_? Rhaenys and her stubbornness are of a complete different level.’

‘You're stubborn in saying just that.’ Sansa can't help but giggle at the way it sounds, all innocent, young and sweet, it makes him grin, because the sound still manages to make him feel happy, though he hides that smile when she looks back at him, ‘In any case… you managed to come out alive after each battle, too many battles. Let Rhaenys fight hers.’

Jon looks at her for a moment and when she notices his staring she raises her eyebrows and gives him a challenging look, the same challenging look she put on when he saw her for the first time, six years ago.

 _Jon, you ought to greet your betrothed_ , his father said, and Jon cursed himself for not preparing. It matters very little now, she seems to have forgiven him rather quickly for his lack of charm, though she still blushes every now and then, when she suffers from second-hand embarrassment.

Her skirts fall in a hoop down on the floor and Sansa puts a robe on and sits down to let the maid unbraid and brush her hair.

Her legs are still wearing silky stockings and as she leans them on the table in front of her, Jon decides he's already looking forward to taking them off.

‘She's getting back at the game.’ Jon says, ‘Rhaenys, I mean.’

‘Good,’ Sansa says, she looks down at her hands when she adds, ‘I was wondering whether or not to worry.’

‘Is she… she's managing, isn't she?’ Jon asks.

‘Rhaenys? Why shouldn't she be?’

Jon shrugs.

‘She seems very happy, don't you think?’

Jon doesn't believe happy is the good word for it, not at all, though he's not sure what other word to pick instead, so he only nods once.

Sansa looks up and the turn of her head causes to maid to accidentally tug on her hair, after which the girl takes great care in apologizing in exaggerated fashion, ‘I can manage from here on, thank you Leila.’

‘Your grace.’

‘Could you ask Septa Aurestyne if the princess Mylaena is sleeping? Remind her I want to be woken if she has a bad dream again, or wakes up upset… and if Freia wakes up too, and if she comes here in the morrow tell them not to stop her, she can always come into my rooms if she wants to, I don’t want her to be refused ever again.’

The girl curtseys and leaves the room, her face flushed.

‘They refused her at the door last week.’ Sansa says, an extremely displeased frown on her face, ‘As if she were a bothering servant. They told her I had no time for her.’

Jon can see the anger in her eyes when she says it, ‘Do you want me to-‘

‘Ser Barristan won’t dare refuse my child in my stead again.’ Sansa says, she looks at herself through the mirror and Jon reminds himself Sansa is very capable at fighting her own fights too.

‘We'll have their rooms closer to ours.’ Jon promises, ‘In King’s Landing.’

‘Rhaenys says we must take up different bedchambers, it's not custom for the queen to have no separate rooms.’

Jon just snorts and says nothing, which is all the response Sansa wants, he knows that, ‘She doesn't trust the Tarlys.’ He admits.

‘The Tarlys are… is that the grumpy red-headed man?’

‘It's the grumpy bald man.’ Jon says, ‘He's rather shrewd. He only swore his fealty after Highgarden fell and Rhaenys considers that reason enough for distrust.’

‘And you think she's wrong?’ Sansa asks, she walks over to the bed and crawls down next to him.

‘Gods no, she's right,’ Sansa leans her head on his chest and Jon moves his hand through her brushed hair, shining like molten bronze, ‘But she forgets he's considered to be one of the greatest battle commanders and he also happens to be married to a Florent.’

‘And the Florents-‘

‘Owe me.’ Jon nods, ‘He's too cunning and too strong-willed to jump ships again, and even if he did, it wouldn’t hurt us too much, he has nothing to gain by betraying us and if he does… we’ll send him to the wall or something.’

Sansa rubs her cheek to his chest, ‘And, per usual, that is your reason to allow the man to give his opinions, share his views, advice you and council you… and as always, this frustrates Rhaenys because she considers it fool to trust former enemies merely days after their surrender?’

‘Perhaps.’ Jon says, he leans his head back against the headboard and stared up at the lavish decoration of this far too pretty canopy bed, ‘I don't want to surround myself with yes-your-grace-ers.’

‘Did you just make that up, or is it-‘

‘Can't surround myself with yes-your-grace-ers, Sans, that is… you have to intertwine in the culture you want to rule. Aegon the conqueror made hundreds of incognito trips throughout the Seven Kingdoms before he even attempted at invading it. He made himself a Westerosi first, and I must do the same. I cannot be a Stark king, or a Targaryen king, not _really_ , if there's no one there to tell me what the Reach wants or thinks then how can I ever even make an attempt at ruling any of them?’

‘That doesn't at all sound like something Rhaenys is incapable of understanding.’

‘Though I find your mother is unreasonably harsh on my sister, Catelyn’s right when she calls Rhaenys unforgiving.’ Jon yawns.

‘Rhaenys is hungry for justice.’ Sansa decides.

‘Justice does not at all mean one can apply different laws and vary the degree of punishment based on little but your gut feeling.’

‘Gut feelings are often right, still.’ Sansa says, she turns on her back and when she looks up at him she moves her fingers to tickle his face.

‘Kings can't rule on their gut-feeling,’ Jon says, grabbing her hand and locking it in his fist, ‘Consistency is underrated.’

‘I'm sure.’ Sansa says, she pushes herself off him, pulling on her hand as he holds it tight in his and her grin widens, ‘So I'll have to look at Lord Tarly’s bald and moody head?’

‘Endure.’ Is all Jon says, ‘It's good Rhaenys is questioning my judgements, someone must and it means she's being herself.’

‘I could question you if you’d like? But we might not reach the sixty-year anniversary you promised me.’

Jon only grins.

Sansa rolls her eyes, smirks and pulls the blankets around her body. She drops her head on the pillow and sighs, ‘No more talk about lords and strategy tonight, my head hurts.’

That's not a hard request at all and Jon’s happy to find her body is responsive and melts against his the moment he pulls her back to his chest and he presses a kiss to her neck, ‘Six years.’ He says, ‘Can you believe it?’

‘It feels like a thousand, doesn’t it?’ She asks and a wide smile forms around his lips, then she looks up at his face, ‘Remember it like it was yesterday, though.’

‘After these six years we’ve had.’ She means to say it with scorn in her voice, but she doesn’t manage when he runs his hand down her skirt and grabs the bare skin of her inner-thigh.

‘I can’t, I have to wake up in a couple of hours, to feed Myleana.’ She says.

‘But it’s our anniversary.’

‘It’s not, it’s only in a week time.’ She giggles, though she moves herself closer to him to give better access.

‘That’s very… you can’t say that _now_.’ Jon says and she laughs, ‘You can’t demand a damn family. supper over a useless, worthless date.’

Sansa giggles as she cups his face, ‘Shut up, Jon.’ She tells his lips. 

* * *

 

Jon wakes up because she gets out of bed, he keeps his eyes closed in the hope of going back to sleep but it’s hopeless. He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Sansa to return with or without the baby in the hope of cuddling before he has to really get up and face the day.

It’s not Sansa who opens the door, but Freia, who wears her nightgown, yellow robe and slippers, with the unicorn heads covering her toes.

Jon pretends to still be asleep, because he knows she prefers it all that way, and when she climbs in the bed she drops herself down on his back, and whispers in his ear, ‘Papa… papa, are you sleeping?’

‘No.’ Jon says, keeping his eyes still closed.

‘Papa… I was having the bad dreams.’

Jon turns on his back and wraps an arm around her, ‘What was it about?’

‘Dragons.’ She says, ‘ _Two_ dragons.’

‘Were they big?’

‘Yes, and you was there.’

‘Me? Was I riding them?’

‘No. They only fly.’ Freia spreads her arms to show him, 'Woooosshh...'

‘Was there fire?’ Jon asks and Freia shakes her head before she lays her head down on his chest and he wraps his arms around her.

‘Where is mama?’

‘Mama… flying a dragon, of course.’

Freia giggles then, her childish, high-pitched, happy giggle and Jon can’t help but laugh with her at his own stupid joke, ‘Mama cannot fly the dragons! There _are_ no dragons papa!’

‘Exactly!’ Jon says, ‘So you don’t have to be scared.’

Freia pushes herself off him again, ‘I am not scared ever!’

Jon nods and pushes some escaped curls behind her ears.

‘I tell My-phaela… if you are scared, you hide your head under all the blankets,' Freia pulls on the blanket to show him, and then, with her head hidden away she explains, 'And then, no monsters can never ever reach!’

‘Was Mylaena scared?’

‘Of the dark.’ Freia says when she shows him her face again, ‘And dragons.’

‘But dragons aren’t real remember?’

‘In the dream, they are real.’ Freia says, ‘My-phaela was crying. They are real and Dange-trous in dreams and they are… they are _monsters_.’

‘Yes.’ Jon strokes through her hair with his fingers until she pushes his hand away because it probably hurts. Freia doesn’t like it when anyone touches her hair.

‘Septa Aure-phine is looking for me, to brush my hair.’

‘Well, you’re save here. She won’t come in here, she’s afraid of me-’

Freia bursts out in giggles again, stands upright in the bed and starts pulling on his arm to force him to get up too, ‘I want you to come and sit on the horseys!’

Jon groans when he sits up and his back protests, ‘Freia…’ He says and he pulls her to sit down, ‘It’s so early… all the stable boys are still asleep.’

‘ _No_!’ Freia says and she drops his arm, a big frown on her face, her eyes narrowed the way they are when she spots a lie, ‘I looked through the windows! I _see_ them!’

Jon wants the curse the many windows, ‘We have to break our fast first.’

‘When I can sit on the big horse?’

‘You can sit on the bog horses when you are big yourself.’ Jon says, he feels he tells her daily.

‘ _How_ big?’ she jumps up again and stretching her arms out to the ceiling.

Jon taps the top of her head, ‘When your head reaches the horse’s shoulders.’

‘ _Shoulders_?’

‘When you’re as tall as the horse’s back. When you can touch his forehead without me or someone else lifting you up.’

Freia frowns as she tries to imagine how much she must grow before she reaches the horse’s forehead and it's terribly adorable. She drops herself back down on her bum again, still touching the top of her head, there where Jon tapped it, ‘And then I can hunt?’

‘Ladies don’t hunt.’

‘But I am princess.’ Freia grins at him as if she knows the difference doesn't mean much but she's pleased with her own cleverness. 

Jon laughs, ‘Right.’

‘So, I can hunt?’

Jon’s quite sure Freia has little understanding of what a hunt really means for he can’t believe she’d enjoy such a thing as killing for sports, ‘When you’re big, maybe, we’ll see.’

Freia presses her lips together, deep in thought, and then, after some silence, mutters, ‘Papa… I am sorry I was yelling.’

‘Yesterday?’

Freia nods.

Jon leans his back to the headboard of the bed, ‘I’m sorry too.’ He says, ‘For yelling and… for going away.’

‘Mama is going too.’ Freia says then, and the sadness on her little face breaks his heart, ‘With you.’

‘Did she tell you?’

Freia nods and she looks as if she’s ready to cry.

‘’When we come back, we’ll come back together, too.’

‘Are we going to the red castle?’

‘One day, soon, yes.’

‘With the dragons and the swordsy chair?’

Jon nods, ‘Yes, all of that.’

Freia pulls her legs in and hugs her knees, ‘And My-pheala is coming too?’

‘You and Mylaena are always staying together.’ Jon says, ‘You have to take care of her, because you’re her big sister, remember?’

‘Yes! I remember, I always take care of My-phaela.’

when the door opens, Jon expects Sansa, but it’s Robb.

‘You must come.’ He says, though he’s fully dressed he’s also hastily dressed, with his hair a mess and his eyes bagged.

‘What is it?’ Jon moves to get out of the bed, and he feels intense worry at Robb’s face, ‘Is Sansa-‘

‘Your aunt Daenerys.’ Robb says, he always has trouble pronouncing the name, he thinks it’s ugly and it gets caught in his throat.

‘What did she do?’

Robb makes a hand gesture to the door, ‘There’s a council meeting, just come.’

Jon nods, pecks Freia’s temple and tells her. ‘Your mama will be here soon, okay? I’ll see you later.’

Freia sticks her thumb in her mouth and Jon doesn’t leave her quick and soon enough, to not see the way she looks down at her lap, when he walks over towards the door.

 

**Robb**

* * *

 

‘Sit down.’ He says and he makes a hand gesture to a chair.

‘Not again.’ Rhaenys raises her eyebrows to warn him but he shakes his head.

‘It’s not about King’s Landing.’ He says, ‘I mean it, sit down.’

She sits down then, slowly, carefully, her eyes never leaving him, and her strong talent for reading his face astounds him yet again when she asks, ‘Daenerys?’

Robb nods once and he can see the way her breath gets caught in her throat.

‘Is she dead?’ Rhaenys’ voice is so high he hardly recognizes it, and she moves her fingers up to grab the rim of her high collar.

‘No.’ Robb says, ‘But… someone else is.’

‘Quintyn?’ She asks and Robb grabs a cup to fill it with wine for her.

‘I thought I had to tell you, before we depart.’

‘ _How_?’ she asks, ‘The last time… his last letter told us he reached Mereen and was granted a room in the Great Pyramid.’

Robb nods, ‘That was the last letter he wrote to you. Since then, he offered his hand in marriage, showed the wedding contract between your father and your uncle Doran-‘

‘ _My_ wedding contract.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I was meant to marry him, I was going to, they were ready to put me in a wedding dress and-‘

‘But you didn’t.’ Robb says, ‘You didn’t marry him, because they did not want you.’

‘I did not want _him_.’ Rhaenys scuffs, ‘They called him the Frog Prince, and I-‘

‘I suppose Daenerys thought the exact same. She married…’ Robb clears his throat before he pronounces the name, he clearly practiced it beforehand, ‘Hizdahr zo Loraq.’

‘Daenerys is married?’

Robb nods, ‘For peace, between Yunkai and Mereen. She refused to marry Dorne and told nothing was to change.’ Robb pushes Quintyn’s last letter in her way, ‘He wrote this letter to your uncle Oberyn. It mentions the dragons, the two smallest.’

‘The dragons?’

‘Quintyn saw them, he claims them to be frightening and threatening. Daenerys urged him then to leave Mereen, for it was not a safe place for him.’

‘ _Was_?’ Rhaenys stretches her back and there’s sudden anger in her eyes then, unexpectedly, as if the ghost of hatred took over, ‘Who killed him? Who must I add to my list of enemies that shall not outlive me?’

‘Daenerys is missing.’ Robb then says, ‘They do not know where she is. Her biggest dragon appeared in a fighting pit… the stories don’t all match, they think the beats appeared because the smell of blood… attracted him? Some say she went up in flames, others say she only rode the beast and fled…’

‘So she _is_ dead?’

‘She’s missing.’ Robb says, ‘They don’t know where she is.’

‘Why would she leave?’

Robb can’t do anything other than shrug, ‘She just… She left?’

‘She _just_ left?’

Robb nods slowly at first, almost as if he’s not sure, then he realizes he _is_ sure and he adds, ‘Yes, she just left.’

‘On the back of a dragon?’

‘The one who was missing, for a long time, remember?’

‘Of course I remember!’ Rhaenys groans, ‘So now… How is… What happened to Quintyn? I don’t understand!’

‘Well he… he went to them.’

‘Them?’

‘The dragons.’ Robb says and he can see understanding grow in her eyes, as if she calculates it in her head and finds the right answer, simply from the words _dragon_. Rhaenys moves her hand to her face and places it in front of her mouth, ‘He went down there… to where they were. He went to see them on his own.’

‘No.’ Is all Rhaenys says.

‘Yes.’ Robb bites his lower lip before he says, ‘It wasn’t Daenerys’ fault, she… she wasn’t there. He went on his own.’

‘They b-burned him?’

‘One did.’

‘They… did they also-‘

‘He died five days later, of his burns, in a bed. In your aunt’s bed. But she wasn’t there, it wasn’t Daenerys’ fault. It was his own fault.’

‘Why did he… why would he go there?’

‘To tame them? Quintyn had Valyrian blood.’

Rhaenys removes her hand, takes a shaky breath and shakes her head, ‘Dragons are the greatest Targaryen killers the world ever saw.’

‘Do you need… Do you want to drink some water? Wine?’

‘I need to lay down, I think.’ She says and she gets up to move over to the bed, where she drops herself down and grabs a pillow to hold it to her chest.

Robb stands there, looking at her for a moment, wondering if she wants him to hold her, or if she wants to be alone. Rhaenys didn’t know her cousin all that well, and Robb can't recall her ever mentioning the man, with the exception of all these times she brings up her first betrothal, which is usually only to mock it with the intention to hide away her years of built up shame.

‘Rhae…’ he whispers, and he hopes she can hear his concern.

‘Gods be good…’ she says and against his expectations but by great relieve he sees a tear drop down her cheek, into the pillow below her head.

‘Come here…’ He mutters and she lets him help her upright, leans her head on his shoulder and he feels one more tear against his neck, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I haven’t seen him in _years_ …’ Rhaenys says it as if she is frustrated with her own sudden sadness, ‘If anything this should be a great inconvenience for me, nothing much more.’

‘But it is more, because he’s family.’

‘ _Barely_! We’ve never exchanged letters, I haven’t properly conversed with him since I was seven and ten years of age and I… I was told to amaze and enchant him with my bedazzling… charms. I tried to use my courtesy as an armor, the way my septa taught me… I always hated him for representing the biggest embarrassment of my life, I thought he was a good pin to move across the board, across the Narrow Sea, but I ended up pushing my own innocent cousin right into the belly of the enemy.’

‘He wanted to go-‘ Robb doesn’t find time to remind her Daenerys is as much of not more her family, before Rhaenys groans and leans her head up.

‘Arianne is going to want her dead now! And Oberyn, _Gods_! Oberyn…’ Rhaenys hides her face behind her hand, “Poor uncle Doran, he'll be _devastated_ …’

‘It wasn't your aunt’s fault. He went down to the dragons all by himself.’

'You don't understand.' Rhaenys says, and there’s a burning in her eyes that reminds Robb of Oberyn, ‘They’re Dornish, they do not melt south of the Neck, they’re nothing like the Northern lords… Targaryens speak of Fire and Blood well… The Dornish have fire _in_ their blood. They’re passionate in their love, loyalty and duty as well as in their revenge and anger. Well… They’ll want it now. _Revenge_ , they only think with their heads when they choose to.’

‘I know the Dornish are… feisty people-‘

‘ _Feisty_ people?’ Rhaenys cackles a laugh before she repeats, ‘You do not understand.’

‘Yes I do.’ Robb is very sure of that, ‘I know _you_.’

‘I’m not Dornish.’ Rhaenys says, though with less insult in her voice then there should be.

‘You are a little.’ Robb says, ‘And even that bit of little makes you feisty enough for me.’

Rhaenys narrows her eyes at him, then decides to drop the subject of her family’s fierceness entirely to go bac to the practical matter of things, ‘And we do not know where these beasts are now?’

Robb shakes his head.

‘They have not even… are they not followed?’

‘I dare say it's easy for dragons to shake off stalkers.’

Rhaenys groans again and sits up straight, ‘Daenerys be damned.’ She says, ‘That girl is set to make my life difficult.’

‘I doubt that was her intention, but yes, this is an inconvenience.’

‘Do not call the death of my cousin an inconvenience.’ Rhaenys says, her eyebrows raised.

Robb sinks down on the bed beside her, ‘What do you want to do?’

‘What _can_ we do? I wish Daenerys Stormborn dead, just to be done with it, but simplicity was never wrapped up in the shape of a purple-eyed, silver-haired nymph.’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘What did Jon say?’

‘Jon says he hopes the dragons won't cross the Narrow Sea.’

‘Why would they do such a thing?’ Rhaenys shakes her head, ‘Jon knows nothing of dragons. They don't _just_ cross the narrow sea.’

‘How much do _you_ know about dragons? When was the last time you saw one?’

‘I know enough of dragons to know that Valryian blood is not what one needs to tame one. Have you never heard the story of that sheep girl? Skettles or Settles or whatever her name was… If even peasants can tame a dragon, then how could Quintyn be ignorant enough to assume the blood in his veins was all he needed? The old Valyrians controlled their dragons with magic… magic controlling magic. _That_ is how this works, it’s not about blood. Every fool could’ve told him that. It’s never about blood.’

‘I have never heard the story of that sheepgirl.’ Robb admits and he feels a little stupid until he sees her eyes.

Robb wants to both kill and make love to her when she raises an eyebrow at him, gives him that smile that never fails to make his blood boil, his heart skip a beat, and then she says, ‘Leave the dragon taming to me, dear lord husband, Valyrians are said to share their ancestry with the beasts… _now_ , of course this is absolute nonsense, but from time to time, nonsense can be of great value.’

‘What _are_ you saying?’

Rhaenys ignores that questions, Robb assumes that's in all likeliness because she cannot answer it and refuses to admit to such a thing. She drags herself off the bed and starts pacing through the room, her eyebrows knitted and her arms crossed.

‘Sweetling…’ Robb sighs, ‘I don't want you to lose your mind over this. The frog prince is dead, there is little to be done. Your aunt is as far away from Westeros as she could ever-‘

‘We don't _know_ where she is.’ Rhaenys says, ‘Jon should never have allowed Ser Barristan to return by his side, we should've kept him on as our spy, now all we can do is guess.’

‘I very much doubt Ser Barristan would've been able to tell you where Daenerys is now, had he stayed by her side. She seems missing. Some presume her dead. My understanding of the word _missing_ is that-’

‘Pray to the Gods she is…’ Rhaenys mutters, ‘As dead as that rat brother of hers.’

Robb decides not to torture her by wondering out loud which brother she means. Joking and mocking Rhaenys when she’s at her political height has become a very entertaining sport, but he'd sooner see a sandstorm north of the wall than hear Rhaenys call her king father a rat and she won’t enjoy the mention.

‘You don't mean that.’ Robb decides and Rhaenys can't help but glare, ‘Oh for the loe of the Gods, Rhaenys! _Seven hells_ , she’s your aunt.’

‘She _was_ my aunt.’

Robb gets up too and walks over to her, ‘You don’t have to put that shield up right now, not with me, surely.’

‘It’s no shield.’ Rhaenys says, her eyes burning flames as she pushes his arms away, ‘Dany is long dead to me, and this pretender is nothing but an insane traitor.’

‘That’s not… you _loved_ her.’

‘Once I did, such long time ago I can barely remember.’

‘ _Once_? Does love fade so easily? Is it so meaningful to you? Should I be concerned?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! You would never betray my trust in such gruesome and unforgivable manner.’

‘No…’ Robb closes his eyes and sighs to give himself time to consider his words, ‘But sometimes people are kin.’

‘ _So_?’

‘Sansa has forgiven me, though you yourself reminded me so often of my unforgivable betrayal.’

‘ _You_ have not turned the richest city to the poorest, a stuffed city to starvation, a peaceful city to evil bloodshed.’

‘Oh…’ Robb can’t help but snigger, ‘This is why you are angry? For your aunt has been cruel to a distant Ghiscari slavers city deep in the deserts of Essos?’

‘ _No_ , I am _angry_ for my aunt chose to leave me to die in the capital when my father passed, then, against her king’s last wishes, she preferred to sit by her mad brother’s side as he declared himself rightful lord of the Seven Kingdoms, then, when she had nowhere to go but the castle of my mother’s birth, she accused me of all evil she had lived through in her life, not only her marriage to her prince-brother, a duty set out for her ever since she drew her first breath, with which I had _nothing_ to do, but the death of her never living son too.’

‘What is… well, you never killed her son.’

‘ _Of course_ I did no such thing! Yet it is what she believed, for I so desperately hated the father, well… _that_ is true, I would have loved to kill Viserys, paid a thousand golden dragons to see him scream for mercy as he perished under his heavy burns… alas, it was not to be, he did not need my help. Viserys was very good at digging his own grave, he did it at the first chance he got. I knew when to take a step back and have patience when disaster kills disaster, and what disaster _was_ my uncle the prince Viserys...’

Robb feels he’s sighing for the hundreds time, ‘Yes, but… doesn’t all this anger make you terrible _exhausted_.’

‘No, there’s only one person who does such a thing as of late.’

Robb raises his eyebrows, ‘That’s not fair, I’m only-‘

‘ _Your_ son…’ Rhaenys helps him remember, ‘…is an awful sleeper.’

The mere mention of that human being makes Robb as soft as satin and as he watches her avoid his eyes he sighs again, of course he does. The mother of his son is the most exhausting woman he has ever had the pleasure of coming across in his life. What would he do without her? He'd have such less headaches, that is one thing he knows in certainty.

Robb grabs her hand and pulls her to his chest, she seems surprised and perhaps that is why her resistance fails, ‘Talk to me.’ Is all he says, ‘I cannot read faces as well as you can, but… I want to know what’s in your pretty head.’

‘Nothing much, I'm ever so empty-headed.’

Robb laughs, ‘You’re as stubborn as a drawn bridge under siege.’ He says, ‘I worry, that is all.’

‘That is not _all_.’

‘It is my duty, I swore it in sight of _your_ Gods.’

‘My gods are your gods, what is mine is yours.’

Robb pecks her blonde hair, and then, to her relieve undoubtedly, decides it won’t matter whatever he may say, ‘So… we do nothing?’

‘What does everyone else say? My uncle? Oberyn? What did Oberyn say?’

‘He and I have not spoken, He did not hear it from me and I thought I’d tell you first. I wanted to be the one to tell you.’

‘Does Sansa know?’

‘I suspect Jon has told her.’

Rhaenys nods, presses her lips together, gets up and walks around him towards the door, ‘Well, if I may be excused-‘

‘You may not!’ Robb grabs her sleeve and stops her, ‘I really do believe you ought to let it all sink in some more before you go all… before you'll be all _you_.’

‘What's _that_ supposed to mean?’

‘Just… are you not… you must be upset about you cousin?’

‘I’ll have to try not to be.’

‘Don’t be so cold, the boy is kin.’

‘And as his kinsman I shall revenge his death.’

‘Rhaenys…’

‘Don't _Rhaenys_ me, I have been hidden away for far too long.’ She straightens her back and looks more confident than ever before, ‘Naturally, all of it is a mess, so you must leave me to solve.’

She chooses to ignore him as he calls her name again. He hesitates for a moment but then consciously decides to follow her, for he takes his duty to protect her from her own self as serious as his duty to protect her from foes.

He follows her as she waltzes out of her room, to Oberyn’s rooms, where a combination of princess Arianne’s heartbreaking sobs and the smashing of glass through the door is a sound that rings in his ears.

Rhaenys takes a moment to herself as she lays her hand to the handle. Robb, in that moment, reminds himself that Rhaenys will never deny her mother’s blood is something she has much to thank, she will not forget it, she never forgets a thing.

‘I want that woman dead.’ Is the first thing Rhaenys’ uncle Oberyn tells them, when they enter and find Arianne hurdled on a chair, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

‘So do I.’ Rhaenys says.

Her Dornish are her true kin, they always have been and always will be. They would never betray her, and the world knows it. The blood of the Rhoynar flows through her veins and when Robb grabs her wrist he can feel it throb.

‘Your aunt.’ Is all Arianne says, her eyes wide, red and furious.

Robb opens his mouth to speak but Rhaenys pulls her hand from his and shakes her head, ‘Daenerys Stormborn is no kin, she is the enemy, and enemies must be killed.’

‘You wish her dead now?’ Oberyn usually does not ask the question that lies at the front of Robb’s tongue, this must be the first and last time.

‘She'll die, Arianne, I’ll make sure if it. I promise you her head.’

Robb has no words to speak when he glances sideways at his lady wife, mother to his son, the most unbearable woman, the most beautiful princess in Westeros and the worlds beyond… she scares him a little then, as she did when they were first married. Her determination, her cold-heartedness and lack of forgiveness is terrifying, but what scares him the most… is that he now, after these years, knows her better than anyone and can therefore say with certainty, that she means it.

 

**Sansa**

* * *

 

‘One kiss on this cheek… and one kiss on the other.’ Sansa whispers as she kisses Freia, who wraps her skinny arms so tight around her mother’s neck it's as if she refuses to ever let go.

‘Mama… don't go.’ She says and Sansa feels her hands tremble.

She has never willingly left Freia. They took her from her once, and after she swore she'd never let no man do that to her again. Now… she broke no vow, for she leaves willingly, and it makes her sick, devastated and as broken as broken can be.

Is this what Jon felt each and every time he left them all behind? If it is then he is even stronger than she always believed him to be.

Sansa looks up and spots Jon bounce Mylaena up and down. The baby giggles and waves with her arms. _She doesn't realize we’re leaving_ , Sansa thinks, and that's heartbreaking to her for so many reasons.

‘I'll miss you so, so much.’ Sansa whispers in Freia's hair, ‘Every moment of every day.’

A sob escapes Freia's throat and when Sansa looks at her face she sees nothing but pure fear as the girl shakes her head. Sansa swallows her own tears away. She cannot cry now, for she must be strong for the girls, they need her to show them noting but certainty and safety.

‘I love you.’ Sansa says.

‘I love you too.’

‘You must look after your little sister.’ Sansa says, ‘She's not as big as you and she may not understand.’

‘I look after My-phaela.’ Freia promises.

‘Of course, I trust you.’ Sansa cups Freia’s face, then straightens the clip of her grey cloak, ‘You’re my big girl.’

Freia sobs again, though she does not wail, her tears are these silent tears of someone far older, who's known more pain than any four-year-old should even begin to comprehend.

‘Mama loves you, Freia, more than anything, don't forget it, Promise?’

Freia nods.

‘ _Promise_.’

‘I pro-wis.’

Sansa nods, ‘ _Good_.’ She rubs the tears of Freia’s freckled cheeks and then takes her little hands in her own, ‘I’m so proud of you.’ Sansa decides then, ‘So terrible proud.’

Freia takes one of her hands back to rub her eyes with her knuckles and then points at Mylaena, ‘I read stories to My-phaela because you are not here.’

Sansa nods and her eyes burn some more, ‘Yes, that’s… you must. And when Mylaena is upset or crying because she's scared-‘

‘I tell her all is w-well.’ Freia sobs and then she drops back against Sansa’s chest. Sansa wraps her arms back around her baby and presses her nose in the chestnut curls to memorize the smell and scent of her one more time.

 _Gods, please keep them save_ , Sansa prays as she looks up at the sky, _Please bring them back to me_.

Sansa finds her mother's eyes, who lays her hand to Rickon’s shoulder as the boy bites his lower lip, his head bowed down as if he doesn't want to disrespect them by watching.

‘We'll be back before you know it.’ Sansa promises for what feels like the hundredth time, ‘And then we'll be forever together.’

Freia nods then and lets Sansa go.

‘Mama, mama…’ Mylaena babbles as Jon hands her over to Sansa and it's then that Sansa can no longer hold her tears in. Mylaena grabs her thumb and Sansa kisses the little baby hand.

‘Myllie… mama's going to miss you.’ Sansa whispers, her voice high, as she presses her forehead to the baby’s temple, ‘So, so much.’

‘Mama!’ Mylaena parrots and she lays her fat hand to Sansa's cheek, ‘Mama, mama, Fleba!’

‘Yes, you and Freia are going to stay together.’ Sansa confirms, ‘Don't be scared, hmm? Sweet Myllie…’

Sansa has not ever felt so empty and drained before as the moment right after Catelyn pulls Mylaena, slowly and carefully from her arms.

Sansa watches Jon hug Freia for one last time, before she follows his example and tells Freia, for the millionth time, that she loves her so, and then allows Jon to grab her hand and pull her with him, to the horses. Where he pulls her to his chest, so she can sob against him, for no one to see.

‘We’ll see them ever so soon.’ He says, ‘I swear it to you, Sansa, I promise it.’

Sansa wishes he wouldn't, but she has no energy to tell him so, for she needs it to drag herself up her stallions back, far too big, far too high for her. Sansa doesn't feel secure in the saddle, she doesn't feel secure with the idea of travel. She's travelled far too much, too often, she's sick of traveling.

Her bum hurts after mere moments and when she breathes in the horse senses her discomfort and restlessly moves on his spot.

Jon helps her sit properly, checks if her horse is properly and securely saddled, for even a king must not trust his squares, and then pads Midnight Ink’s neck before he tells Rhaenys’ still living cousin prince to get him his own horse, to tell his army it shall depart for what, if the Gods are just, will hopefully be the last battle of a Targaryen’s reign.

Sansa has not ever travelled on horseback with a military pack as big as this one. Ever since Mylaena was coming she travelled in a wheelhouse and there's little she saw of the scale of an army traveling when she was locked away in that thing.

Now, she can see it all. The thousands of horses, the tens of thousands of men, their swords, their shiny armor, the unity of it all, despite their different backgrounds.

They're easy to keep apart, not in the last place because their breastplates show their sigil as well as the banners that decorate the wind as they dance around them. All these colors, with the different emblems. Some houses have animals as their sigil, others suns, stars, weapons, buildings, food, a mermaid, a flower or a tree. Sigils come in all sorts of colors, with all sorts of words.

Only the Stark’s words always speak truth, and Sansa is reminded of that when their army marches north, and the wind turns icy, waves through her layers of wool and fur, and the sky grows less blue, with grey clouds and heavy rainfall, ready to block her sight, down her mood, and clam her skin.

The weather represents her feelings, for Sansa has not ever before felt so down, yet strong and determined. To end all this. She can feel it near, she knows she's not the only one. All these men, these thousands, high born, low born, from the north or the south, they all can feel the end, they all want it, they can all smell it, grasp for it if they reach out… and the Gods know they shall.

It's been enough. The Seven Kingdoms have known war for too long, too much has been lost, everyone is too tired, too exhausted, too drained. Winter is here.

 _Fire and Blood_.

Sansa lies against Jon at night as she hears the heavy drops of a thunderstorm rain down on their tent. She shivers when the light of a flash lightens the darkness surrounding them and he tightens his arms around her.

Outside, she can hear the wolves howl. Greywind, Summer and even Shaggydog. All of them but Ghost. Ghost stays with the girls. The wolf is a part of Jon he makes sure to leave behind when he goes, so Freia and Mylaena are never truly without him. Sansa wishes she could do just the same. As she hears the wolves howl for their brother and sister in the south, it's the first time in perhaps years that she remembers Lady. Her sweet direwolf. If only Sansa could leave Lady behind too, to keep the girls warm at night, safe during the day and loved always.

Sansa wishes she could share her longing for her children with Rhaenys, but Rhaenys was never the one to speak of her feelings much. It is simply not what she does, what she can do, and Sansa has learned to accept that.

‘Mayhaps we can make a baby again.’ Sansa tells Jon’s neck as she burrows her face in the crook. He breathes a laugh as he pulls her close, moving his hands over the bare skin of her legs, wrapped around him, like most nights, still, even after all these years.

‘I’ll try, but not now, I’m tired, I can’t perform.’

‘Not now.’ Sansa agrees, ‘But soon.’

‘Whenever you think you’re ready.’ Jon says and she looks up to grin at him.

‘I’d like to feel life inside of me again.’

‘We shall speak of it when it is of relevance.’ Jon decides and Sansa cannot help but smirk.

Jon tells her she must sit in on council meetings, because it's her place, he says, to keep her from growing bored too, and because she must learn to understand, to know what it is that clouds his mind, to know what people speak of, what they refer to, so she can have opinions that will be of interest to people. Though she finds her mind wandering off after a certain while, she also notices how she recognizes things, how she can predict Jon’s reasons, Rhaenys’ response, Robb’s words… she can watch them and comprehend what it is they're trying to do. She hears them mention the gates of King’s Landing, watches them overlook a map and point at the walls and she slowly understands what it is they're trying to work out.

Sansa never says a thing during these council meetings, but she hears everything, and this reminds her of her time as a hostage. Back then she never used to say one thing either, but she hears all they said, and now, she realizes, that is of value.

Heavy wings come and tell them Cersei blew up the tower of the Hand. Why only the Gods know but it infuriates Rhaenys, and why this is Sansa would not be able to say either. Rhaenys and her politics can be so exhausting, and Sansa prefers at all times to avoid her tirades.

It is as if Rhaenys is worried, nervous most of all, as if she can sense that the moment she's been waiting for is coming, yet it scares her, Sansa can see it, and she understands. But Sansa cannot speak with Rhaenys of fear, not unless she wishes to lose her head, so she does only that what she is best at, what her role in this lifetime is, to be Jon’s queen, to be his shoulder, shield and soft words.

‘Are you afraid?’ She whispers in his ear, late at night, they only ever speak late at night, when they see nothing but the glittering of the eyes staring back at them.

‘Yes.’ Is all he says.

‘The Gods will protect you.’ Sansa says, ‘The old gods and the new, mine and yours, the Gods of your father and the Gods of you mother.’ She places her hand to his heart, she can feel if beat under the hot skin of his chest, ‘The Gods of your heart and the Gods of your duty.’

Jon can only shake his head, ‘There are no Gods, sweetling.’ He says, ‘They left us long ago, it is only you and me now.’

Sansa cannot help but smile, ‘Then I must protect you, if the Gods shall not.’ She pushes hair behind his ear, which never makes him look handsome, yet she always does it, ‘I thought we agreed I'd protect you from losing your wits?’

Jon grins, ‘Aye… that is the truth.’

‘It _is_.’ Sansa confirms.

‘You do keep me from losing my wits, as often as you cause me to nearly lose them.’

Sansa laughs a little, ‘What a lovely compliment, I must say, thank you my lord.’

‘Don't call me that.’

‘Mother called my father her lord so often.’ 

‘I don't care.’ 

Sansa giggles, then sighs and closes her eyes. They're both silent for a while until he tells her, his eyes closed, ‘I’ll keep my vows to you.’ He takes her neck in his hand and lays his cheek to the top of her head, ‘I was a little crazy about that when we married, because of my father, but nothing has much changed, I'll keep my vows.’

‘Of course you will.’ Sansa says, though she is not exactly sure what vows he speaks of, ‘As I.’

He doesn't clarify exactly, not truly, though she has a faint idea, much later that night, when he lays his head on her chest, his eyes closed, as she moves her hands through his hair, ‘I became a king for you, you know that, do you not?’

‘You did not need to.’ Sansa says, she tugs on his hair to tease him but he does not let her.

‘I did.’ He decides, ‘I swore to these damn Gods I'd do anything to get you back, I swore to them, old and new, I'd even become a sodding king if I must… look at me now.’

Sansa cannot find the answer he seeks so therefore all she does is press her lips to his forehead and hold him. Sansa holds him that night, the night before the red castle of King’s Landing appears to the horizon, as if it is the last night of their lives, together and apart.

She wants to ask him to make love to her as if it'll be the last time, as if it'll be their last chance, as if they know they'll die in the morrow, when the sun comes up, the birds wake, the rain drops down some more and expectations rise along with dread and fear, regret, even, as men crawl out of their tents like bears depart their cave after the longest winter.

But Sansa asks no such thing, for he falls asleep, and she loves to watch him sleep, so peaceful, so at ease, so save. Sansa has watched Jon sleep ever since they were little more than children, and she never stopped. She loves it nearly as much as watching their girls sleep.

 _We’ll have more girls_ , she promises him then, _all these girls that witch promised me once, and boys too_. They can name him Aemon, and the others will have Valyrian names too, like Rhaella, for his grandmother, or Daena, she likes that name, Daeron for his childhood hero, Naerys the queen who loved the dragon knight and perhaps even an Aegon, or a Rhaegar. He'll want to call a son Rhaegar, eventually he will, and she'll let him.

She makes that promise to Jon now, to grow old, to never leave him, to never be left without him. She promises they'll watch the sun come up and will not be welcomed with rain, with storm and clouds.

She promises him spring, not even summer, only spring, and the promise of spring, the dream of spring, seems so warm and gentle, so good, soft and kind, as perfect as perfect can be, that it makes Sansa fall asleep with a smile to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has Cersei's requested/dreaded (for me) pov. Never hated writing someone's pov so much before. So yeah, Hope I can update maybe wednesday or thursday. 
> 
> Have a nice weekend !xX


	67. The Blood of Old Valyria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Cersei,’ Rhaegar said, ‘At the end a dragon hatches from an egg and devours all lions.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> I've had quite a lot of Cersei pov requests, but I wasn't exactly sure what exactly should be in there or what you would like to find there, what part of her thoughts would be interesting. I could add chunks of politics and her strategy, but I liked for that to stay vague and unknown, because it's all unknown to team Stargaryen, so I thought I delve a little deeper into the relationship Cersei had with Jon, Rhaegar and Rhaenys especially. I couldn't really spare the amount of words I gave this chapter, so it basically means there are at least two, maybe three more chapters after this one. Anyway, sorry for that ramble. I'm extremely nervous to post this, actually (it's why it took so long, sorry!), I never thought I'd ever write a Cersei chapter, cause I personally don'y believe I shine in writing her.

**Cersei**

* * *

 

_There are no army drums_ , the queen thinks as she places a hand to the glass of a window. Her breath causes clouds to rise up to the ceiling of the room, so cold is it, yet, Cersei does not feel it, _It means they must still be far away_.

Perhaps it snows wherever they are, snows so much they got stuck, cannot move, they’re trapped. Their horses will die, their wolves will die, their soldiers will eat cats then rats, then horses and eventually they’ll die too. The bastard will die, and his wolf bitch wife. Rhaegar’s daughter will die. The thought of them freezing in their tents gives Cersei joy, but she knows that she’ll hear them soon enough.

At this hour, Tommen is fast asleep, but Cersei looks in upon him before she seeks her own bed, surprised to find a white kitten by his side.

She ordered them to kill the beast, she would’ve told her son the kitten had fled, or ran away, lost and not been found. Yet, here it still is, curled up against a king of barely fourteen years.

‘Where did it come from?’ she recalls asking Meryn Trant.

‘The little queen gave it to him.’ Ser Meryn said.

Margaery’s clumsy attempts at seduction had been so obvious as to be laughable. She could not give a child kisses, so she gave him a kitten. She left in a hurry at the darkest of nights, her head held low, her aspirations of power wrapped up under her arm, to be taken away, far from the capital, fleeing in fear of a bastard’s army.

Her family, house and castle surrendered not long after. Clad their walls in white and knelt to Rhaegar’s shame. When Cersei found out she filled her glass with wine and blew up the Tower of the Hand with the greens of dragonfire. Seeing the wretched stones melt was not enough to give her joy in the moment, it only made her wish to pull her hair from her scalp, yet the blazing flames gave her comfort as they represented so much of her own fury.

_It’s white_ , Cersei sees, _as white as their hair_. Silver-golden Targaryen hair. They do not grow grey, Rhaegar's never did, not even when his heart became as weak as his mind.

The kitten may be white, not black, but it looks like the kitten Rhaegar’s only daughter carried around with her everywhere she went, when she was only three years of age. _An innocent child_ , they all called her then, soft and sweet with her Valyrian eyes, Rhoynar skin and hair the color of honey, long, wavy, wild when she allowed it to be, like a wildling princess. Only when Rhaenys stood amidst a snowy field and the light reflected came from a pale sky of ice her hair had that silver look her brother proudly inherited. In King’s Landing, walking around like a queen in all but name, Rhaenys’ hair had the golden color of the Lannister daughter she should have been. Cersei always knew. She could, even when the girl was only of that young age, see what Rhaenys would become.

These purple-blue eyes glared at Cersei from the very first moment on, distrust and spite deep in their ocean of lilac.

‘I am your father’s queen.’ Cersei said, she had tried, she still recalls it all, tried for these two to make them love her, but they never even attempted to let her, ‘Your new mother.’

A jealous child, a hateful child, that is what Rhaenys was, still is, she never changed, ‘You are no queen.’ She said, ‘And you are never my mother.’

Rhaegar should’ve had her beaten silly for that, but he never did. He had none of them beaten. He did not even have a whipping boy. Tommen has Pate now, the same boy Joffrey had before him.

‘I want a kitten, mother, I demand it!’ Tommen told her once, when just made king.

Cersei had summoned for Pate, and forced Tommen to whip Pate himself till Pate bled from both cheeks. Next time he’ll demand a thing of her, she swears she’ll instruct for Qyburn to be summoned and to remove Pate's tongue in front of the king. He’ll learn not to fear blood nor cruelty.

_I waited, and so can he. I waited half my life._ She had played the dutiful daughter, the blushing bride, the pliant wife. She had suffered Rhaegar’s purposeful humiliations, his hateful words, his stares of disgust, his public insults, his weakness, Jaime's jealousy, Viserys’ cruelty and insanity, Daenerys’ dumb and weak-minded self-pity, Varys with his titters, Aegon with his stable boy escapades, his arrogant and careless mooching and loafing. She endured the existence of Jon Snow, right under her nose, Rhaegar’s love for the boy, his laughing, moping and sulking, his capabilities, his utter ignorance, his Stark wife with her round belly, stupid dreams and her naïve and oblivious giggles turned murderous she-wolf. She had contended with Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, and her treacherous, murderous dwarf brother, she had spent years of her life enduring the sight of Rhaegar’s vile and spiteful jealous daughter, with her shameless insults and confident laughs, all the while promising herself that she would laugh last, one day it would be her turn.

_Outside of my city walls, Jaime sleeps_ , Cersei thinks as she looks up at the moon that lightens the King’s bedchamber.

She had thought it a well idea to get rid of him by sending him to take back their father’s pride and honor. He had become more of a hindrance than a help, always felt free to council her, contradict her, even refuse her, as all of them did. No man ever dared refuse Tywin, no men ever dared to contradict Rhaegar. _It’s all because I am a_ woman, because I cannot fight them with a sword. She refused to suffer it, not from Jaime.

‘I love you too, sweet sister,' Jaime said before he left, 'But you’re a fool. A beautiful, golden fool.’

He is in their vile hands now and evil tongues claimed he betrayed her. As everyone else. The little dwarf, her spiteful monstrous brother, the Tyrells too, she’ll kill them all even if she must burn down all their castles in the pretty south. She’ll skin the High Septon for running off and declaring that vicious bastard rightful king, Jon Snow will be beheaded with a paper crown on his curly head and his wolf bride shall bleed and scream for days for taking Joff away. Rhaenys… Rhaenys will be robbed off her tongue first, for all the words she’s spoken, she’ll take them all back, until she’ll wish to beg for mercy, but find no breath to speak it, no tongue to shape it… then she’ll choke on her own blood, her throat filled with Cersei’s revenge.

They told her Rhaegar’s daughter had a son. _Lies_ , Cersei knows they are, they must be. Rhaenys was good at lying, she wrapped them up with ribbons and named them truth and people admired her for it, feared her for it, but Cersei has always known how there is no bigger liar but the Dornish Queen.

_She could have been my daughter_ , Cersei often thought as she watched Rhaenys write her letters, straighten her back, spy on every man around her, sit in on those council meetings. _She even looks like me in a certain light._ But Rhaenys was never a Lannister’s daughter, Cersei’s uncle Kevan once said it, _If you are the sun, my queen, the princess is all but a flickering star_.

Rhaenys was beautiful, no man could deny it, but she was as cold as stone, as dry as dust. She might have been from the earliest of ages, no surprise there. Everyone has heard that story, though Rhaenys was fool enough to pretend not to see or hear.

_She would have been my daughter_ , Cersei knows, if the mad king had not played such cruel japes on her father. It had been his madness that had led Aerys to refuse Tywin’s daughter and take his son instead, while marrying his heir off to that feeble and simple Dornish princess. The memory of the rejection still rankled, even after all these years. Many a night she had watched Rhaegar in the hall, playing his harp with those long fingers of his. His music was the sound of the Gods singing, if they could do such a thing. _Had any man ever been so beautiful_?

Ten years, Cersei had been, when she first saw Rhaegar in the flesh. At the tourney her father threw to welcome the king to the Westerlands. Cersei had never heard smallfolk cheer so loudly as when Rhaegar appeared.

Seventeen he was, new to knighthood, dressed in the finest of armor, two of Cersei’s uncles fell to his feet, as did her father’s finest jousters. That night he played the harp and he had made Cersei weep.

When she was presented to him she drowned in the depth of his deep purple eyes. He had been wounded, and Cersei swore she’d take all his pain away once they were wed, mend all his hurt. Next to prince Rhaegar, even her beautiful Jaime looked like a callow boy.

Her aunt Lady Genna told her to be exceptionally beautiful that night, ‘They shall announce your betrothal.’ She said, fussing with Cersei’s dress.

Cersei had been so happy that day, elsewise she would never have been so brave to enter Maggy’s tent. She did it only to prove her friends a lioness knows no fear.

The memory of that foretelling still makes her flesh crawl a lifetime later. Maggy was the ugliest she’d ever seen, safe Tyrion, yet Cersei let her taste her blood and laughed at her stupid prophecies, none of them made the least bit of sense. She was going to be Rhaegar’s bride, her father had promised it, and Tywin Lannister’s words were gold.

_'You shall not marry the prince, you shall marry the king.'_

Cersei married Rhaegar, five years after, and that man had been nothing like her beautiful prince, the prince of her dreams and drawings.

She recalls him now, standing in the sept, his eyes big, purple, but not deep, only sad, that sadness never left him. His hand was cold, not warm as she’d imagined it to be, and it was then she realized Rhaegar was no dragon, he was weak, numb, life had been sucked out of him.

Plotting to overthrow his own father for years, he saw himself punished for it as Cersei’s brother drove a sword through the man’s back. His Dornish wife violently killed in his own bed, his daughter raped by a dozen men, his son a mere babe in his crib, crying for his mother’s teats. The woman he once stole was dead because of their son, that son far away in the hands of Northern savages.

That is what Rhaegar was. Lost and broken, and he saw in Cersei nothing but the girl he had to marry to attempt at mending his own mistakes.

Never had Cersei muttered the name of the girl who caused her king his grieve. The she-wolf he stole, the whore who birthed him his only bastard.

‘ _Three children for him, and three for you._ ' Maggie promised her, ‘ _The King shall have two princes and one princess_ , _a_ _nd you shall have none_.’

‘That makes no sense!’ Cersei decided, but it always haunted her, it still does. Two princes. _Two_.

‘ _Three for him, and three for you. The king shall have one nādrēsy, you shall have three. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds._ ’

She had asked what a nādrēsy was. _A bastard_ , they said, in Old Valyrian, it is the name for those ill-born.

_‘Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger than you, more cunning than you. And when your tears have drowned you, the dāria shall look up at you on another man’s throne and the sight of her shall choke the life from you.’_

Cersei need not ask what a dāria was. _A queen_.

If only the kitten Margaery gave Tommen had not been white. As white as Rhaenys’ hair when she was a little girl with a black kitten. The girl named the thing Balerion, after the dragon of Aegon the Conqueror. When Cersei stretched her hand to pat the thing, the kitten bit her finger.

‘Balerion does not like you.’ Rhaenys said, ‘Nobody is ever liking you, not even Septa Westerling.’

‘My daughter is a child,’ Rhaegar said, ‘A little girl, just only recently lost her mother, I do not wish to ever hear you speak ill of her in or out of my presence and if you demand me to whip a child of mine ever again I’ll have _you_ whipped, my lady.’

She never suggested it after, not in the ten years of suffering, headaches and shame Elia’s child gave her. She never wasted a moment to embarrass the queen, it is what she loved most. It is, after all, why she did not hate the bastard, nothing shamed Cersei as much as that bastard. Aegon hated the bastard, nearly as much as Cersei, but Rhaenys could not.

The walking shame of Cersei’s pride. Lyanna’s son. At court, for all the world to see, to look upon his face and hear his words. His mother’s face and his father’s words. At Winterfell he wore browns and the grey and white of Stark. But at court he dressed in those Targaryen colors of black and red Rhaegar clad him in. In the capital, he stood against a wall, leaning as he thoughtfully watched everyone through his eyelashes. Despite his whining and complaining, people liked him. They liked his sarcasm, his wit, his clever remarks and quick responses.

Jon Snow was nothing like his father, not in his coloring, not in his stature, nor in his confidence… that is, at first sight. He walked like Rhaegar, sighed like Rhaegar, turned his spoon around in his hand like Rhaegar, read a book like Rhaegar, glanced at dishonorable men like Rhaegar, joked like Rhaegar, even sat on a high stallion like Rhaegar. Arrogant, moody, careful in their self-confidence, impressing without imposing fear, secure and straight in their saddle. Jon's eyes could turn dark like his father's, demand with just one single look of them, yet they were never indigo, only grey, like his uncle's, in his uncle’s long solemn face. The ugliest face, a horse face. Jon's presence was an ever reminder of the only refusal Cersei had ever known.

Rhaegar received letters from Lord Stark in the North every other week. About the boy’s wellbeing, the boy’s progress, his learning, his riding, his writing, his health, his sorrows and his joys.

When he came to court Rhaegar gave him nothing less but the education his other sons enjoyed. The same swordmasters and the same maesters who taught Jon Snow  the words of High and Low Valyrian, he learned all about the distant lands in Essos, he knew every city, every castle, every stronghold and holdfast in all the Seven Kingdoms, knew of their army seizes, of their specialities and weaknesses in battle, farming, fishing and trade. He was the most excellent horse rider, the way men like to see their lord sit a stallion, and decent at numbers, decent enough for his own household, but he was the best… he was brilliant with words. A master in responses.

As his father. As his sister, too. Jon Snow wore a shield of ice and fire both, and Cersei’s hatred, at one moment once, stopped reaching him. Clever he was, funny too, with his arrogant grin, the way he’d look at Rhaenys and they’d share an idea, a thought, with only their eyes, as if they could read each other’s mind, and then they’d burst out laughing.

_He’s a bastard, Cersei_ , Jaime said, he said it oft and with so many different voices and she hated to hear him say it, to hear others say it. _Bastard_.

She should’ve smothered them all in their sleep when she still could. Rhaenys, Jon Snow, even Aegon. Aegon did not deserve to breathe either, he was too much like his father.

Cersei grabs the kitten by its neck and lifts it from Tommen’s arms, it protests without sound and the boy remains in his sleep. She killed Rhaenys’ kitten all these years ago, she’ll kill this one too. Balerion’s throat was slid and thrown for the dogs to feast upon, but she’ll gift this one to Qyburn.

_Killing a kitten is less cruel than cutting them out of their mother with a dagger, I suppose_.

Rhaegar hit Joff that day, when the boy presented these creatures to his king father. Not hard, he hardly lost a tooth. His lip was bleeding and his fingers trembled. Joff was always so eager for Rhaegar’s love, while Rhaegar could barely stand to look at him.

‘It is your father’s rage.’ Cersei said then, as she cleaned the boy’s lip, he’d barely been a year or ten of age, ‘Your father is a dragon, with the blood of Old Valyria, as are you.’

Rhaegar did not want them to speak proudly of their ancestry, he did not want to be reminding all those who’d eagerly listen of their great Valyrian forefathers. He hated slavery more than anything, more than the Iron Throne, and the Valyrian empire was built on the blood of Ghiscary slaves.

It was, oddly, one of the first disappointments Cersei found in her dragon prince. Many followed after.

‘Sleep well.’ He told her the night of their wedding. He had not tasted a sip of wine, his eyes were awake, sober, and they never looked upon her, no matter how pretty she was that day, how much she blushed, how many songs were dedicated to her beauty.

Lyanna Stark was a corpse and Cersei a living, breathing girl yet he never found it in him to bestow the woman who deserved it most the love he had to give. Lyanna never left him, as a cloak her ghost was wrapped around him, though he never spoke her name, it was always on his lips and though he never said so, his songs were dedicated to the sharp holes in his heart, the emptiness the wolf bitch left when her son killed her.

It took him many moonturns to finally lay with her, and as he moved inside of her, Cersei wanted to cry. The man who bedded her then was not beautiful, not gentle, no gallant prince of songs. He could not ride a dragon to save his life, no. He was weak then, weak when he pushed his seeds inside of Lyanna’s womb, weak even when he killed the usurper at the Trident, weak when he loved his bastard, weak when he died.

He bedded her once or twice a year, to do his duty, as he believed it so important. Cersei once assumed she fooled him, but now she knows she never did.

She sat beside him in the throneroom when they pushed Jon Snow forward. He wore a cloak of grey and white Stark colors, his eyes the color of the North, his hair a curly mess, and the look on his face gave them nothing but badly hidden fear and a great deal of distrust and displease. _Suspicion_.

‘Jon Snow, your grace.’ Ser Malckom Holmes said.

Rhaegar said nothing. Cersei can still remember the way he stiffened as he sat there, his hands trembling for none to see but his queen, his eyes deep again, as deep as they had been when Cersei was first presented to him.

'He looks like his mother,' Jaime said afterwards, and it had annoyed Cersei. The boy’s look annoyed her. His presence humiliated her. The mere sight of him made her roar with fury.

Cersei never mentioned Lyanna’s name, first because she did not want to upset Rhaegar, later because she did not want to give her lord husband the impression she _cared_ enough to ask. Lyanna Stark was dead, buried in the crypts of her childhood home, there where her son should have remained, always, forever.

‘I do not want him at court.’ Cersei told her king husband, ‘His presence is humiliating, do you wish to see me humiliated?’

‘As much as you humiliate me each and every day.’ Rhaegar said. He never listened to her, of all the men who rolled their eyes at what she said, Rhaegar was best at it, ‘You Lannisters are all not as clever as you think you are. It’ll be your downfall.’

As the years passed she hated him more, and the more she hated him, the more he hated her back. His look changed from disinterest and indifference to pure and heavy revulsion, and revulsion became disgust.

The look in his eyes when they stared upon his only bastard changed as Jon Snow grew older, as Jon Snow felt comfortable in the Red Keep. Cersei knew the king taught his bastard, privately spoke to him. Though Rhaegar, at all times, refused to look his bastard in the eye, he stared to make up for it when Jon Snow could not see.

There was a pride then, and most of all a love, that matched not even what the Dornish queen meant to Rhaegar. Perhaps it was his mother, perhaps it was the disappointment of Aegon, but every man who looked upon Rhaegar long enough, and took the time to see, could understand.

When the boy married the daughter of the most powerful man above the neck, and said man pinned the Hand to his doublet, Cersei knew. She had known for years but then, standing by Rhaegar’s side in these drowsy woods, Cersei not only knew, but she understood it all too.

She decided to have him killed then, but no matter what she would have done, what she may have tried, Rhaegar may have been feeble and weak, he was no fool, and as well as Cersei knew, so did he.

She told him once that only a man who was less than a man would use a taster, for that was common believe. ‘No true man kills with poison.’ She said, ‘Poison is for cravens, women, and Dornishmen.’

‘The most dangerous of all.’ Rhaegar only handed his cup to the man and took no sip for the rest of the night after, ‘Lord Arryn used no taster.’ He added at a moment.

So, Cersei sent a bottle of tansy, mint, wormwood, a spoon of honey, and a drop of pennyroyal North when the first wings brought news of a quickening womb and Jon Snow’s child died before it could ever gasp for air. The only child Cersei could kill, but she would have killed them all if she could.

That vile child of his, with her eyes and his hair, cried every time Cersei merely glared in her crib. Her father’s son, none would ever dare deny it. They sang songs of the child and Joff had many tongues pulled from throats when only the faint sound of it reached him.

She should have killed that child, she regrets it now, sent it to his father in multiple boxes, all with different parts of her. She should’ve killed the mother more so, that is one mistake Cersei shall never forgive herself.

She did not kill one of them for Jaime, that is the only reason, and now, she wonders if that was her greatest fault of all.

‘He needs you.’ Jaime said so often, ‘He’d never get rid of you, he needs father, he needs peace. Rhaegar is afraid, he is a fearful fool. The mention of war has him tremble upon his Iron Throne. Aegon is his heir and Aegon shall die with no issue.’

Jaime was right and wrong. Rhaegar feared war yet he knew it would come, he knew he’d die and leave a land of peace rolling into a grave of deaths, _a feast for crows_ , he called it, ‘War is a feast for crows, no one else.’

He warned her constantly, he chose his words carefully always, ‘Cersei,’ Rhaegar then said, ‘At the end a dragon hatches from an egg and devours all lions.’

Lyanna Stark died and took the Dragon prince with her. She died and left Cersei nothing but a feeble and frail pretender. If only the mad king had married Cersei to Rhaegar from the first moment on as the Gods intended, he never would have looked at the Stark girl once. Rhaegar would still have lived today, and she would have fathered his sons too. Cersei had never forgiven Rhaegar for becoming what he became after he lost the wolf girl. But then, lions are not good at forgiving.

All Rhaegar gave her was the sight of her son on the Iron Throne one day. His worries killed him, his worries but his regrets most of all. Only weak men have regrets, and Rhaegar had more than most of an age twice his own.

Cersei wakes the next morning by silence, _still no war drums_ , she thinks and a smile spreads across her face. As she’s dressed she feels her headache grow, it pains her so that she slaps her handmaiden and fastens her sleeves by herself.

She opens the door to depart her bedchamber, then hears yelling, she means to ignore it, for the fools of kitchen maid screams do not interest her, but the screams grow louder and as she hears the voices of men, too, Cersei turns around, stares at her window, hesitates then takes the steps forward to take a peek at the world outside.

They circle above Blackwater Bay, banking and turning as ships lay still below them. Prowling, soaring in wide circles above the city on great wings. The flaps of wings the color of cream and green stir the air, Cersei can see it, and in that moment, she can do nothing but scream, though no voice escapes her opened mouth.

The scaled, long-necked, tailed reptilian creatures use their leathery wings as forelegs, like bats, when they set their claws in one ship as they cast their fire to burn another. Cersei can see, even from this distance, the spiny crests running down their backs.

Cersei feels her dig her nails into the skin of her face as she watches the green one breathe his flames as he burns down the Mud bridge, part of the wall it tries to hold and sees the guards fall down from their post, only the seize of ants.

The green one sets another ship on fire, then moves his wings and rises back up to the sky. The dragons turn and dance as they move around each other as they fly up, higher and higher, until they touch the clouds, then, they make their way, further west, to find the blood of their mother.

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

Jon opens the flap of the army tent, allows Sansa to move out before him, then nods to Ser Barristan.

‘Tell me all you know of them.’ Jon says, he grabs his sword with his left hand and Sansa’s wrist with his right and hurriedly follows the man through the camp, pulling his queen with him as he feels her sweaty fingers wrap around his hand palm.

‘Viserion and Rhaegal are their names your grace, Daenerys named them after both her brothers. The green one is Rhaegal, the crème one Viserion.’

‘The third?’

‘The third is not here, the third followed the queen of Mereen wherever she went.’

‘Only these two?’

‘The two smallest, your grace.’

‘The two smallest…’ Jon whispers as the roaring of the beasts grow louder, they sound angry, furious, like monsters so wild, savage creatures of the greatest danger. The sigil of Jon’s house. It makes Sansa shiver as she stands beside him.

They are not small, not at all. Ser Barristan then confides him that they were the seize of small dogs once, small cats when hatched, and Jon cannot believe it. They have set a tent ablaze and chaos and loud screams of terror are all around.

‘Dear Gods…’ Sansa whispers and she moves behind him, if only to use him for shield as the beasts seem so full of heat, it emanates from their bodies, so much they steam in the cold air of winter. 

‘ _Seven hells_ …’ Jon mutters.

‘Two of the three, I recognize them, they are… they are her dragons.’

‘The third one… where-‘

‘Jaeheron.’ Ser Barristan says.

‘Named after you.’ Sansa breathes and Jon does not see reason to deny or accept it. It matters not, it’s only a name, ‘Named after her true king and my lord husband.’ Sansa says it loudly, Jon is not sure why, but the men around them bow their heads at the words of their queen and Sansa glares at them all, as if she dares them to contradict her. She no longer shows fear for the flames nor the dragons as she watches them with a certain determination in her blue eyes.

‘The largest and most aggressive of Daenerys's three dragons is Jeaheron, she has problems reining him in.’

‘The largest?’ Jon cannot imagine the seize.

‘Men named it Balerion the Dread reborn.’

The wings of these two beasts stretch twenty feet from tip-to-tip, they’re scaled, with horns, and their teeth are as black as night when they screech like a hundred tortured horses. Their scales are dark green, the green of moss in the deep woods at dusk, just before the light fades, or pale cream streaked with gold. When the pale one roars, Jon thinks the mere sound of that would send a hundred-thousand men strong army running, begging for their mother, pleading for forgiveness.

The green dragon, named after Jon’s own father, bellows once more and his flame is orange-and-yellow fire shot through with veins of green as he unleashes it to the sky above him. Jon sees the shadows of the flames crawl over Barristan’s face. The heat make the dragon’s own bronze eyes, brighter than polished shields, glow as he turns his gigantic head down, and stares at Jon.

‘The green one is more dangerous than his brother, your grace.’ Barristan says, ‘Tales tell that he killed your sister’s cousin.’

‘Stay away from them.’ Jon says, ‘As far as you can, give command to the tents up close to be removed, and do not come near, do not let any man near.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

Jon nods, he blinks when he turns his eyes away from the beasts, then his gaze finds Sansa’s face. They speak no words, only share their fear as they look upon each other. There is nothing they can say now, nothing of truth, but they both understand in that moment, what it is that must be done, what this means, what it tells them, what tales will rise from it, the songs written in the very moment, lying on the tongues of tavern singers with their fingers already pulling on the strings of harps.

Jon blinks to let reality sink in, then he turns and marches away, barely keeping himself from running, followed closely by his wife.

He doesn’t give Rhaenys’ princess guard the time to present their arrival when he nearly drops down into her tent.

‘Rhaenys-‘ He says but stops when he sees her hurdled over a book, ‘What in the name of the Others are you-‘

She holds up a book, ‘ _Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons_ by Maester Thomax,’ Rhaenys says.

‘Where is Robb?’

‘He left on the patrol you send him on.’

'And-‘

‘Oberyn is leading a party east to lay sight on the capital before we march, it may be a while until he'll return.’

‘Rhaenys…’ Jon says, and he pulls the book from her hands, ‘There are dragons, _Dany’s_ dragons, they found us, they are here, they are setting tents on fire, they are dangerous. We must-‘

‘Feed them.’ Rhaenys says, she points at the book in Jon’s hands, ‘Or so Thomax claims.’

‘F-feed them? We have no… What could we feed them?’

‘Meat of course.’

‘Meat… what meat?’

Rhaenys gets up and glares at him for his stupidity, then walks around him to depart her tent.

Jon wants to run after her but realizes he’s panting so he leans against a pole instead and sighs. He feels Sansa’s eyes on him and only look up when she speaks, ‘I know nothing of dragons.’ Sansa says, ‘I wish I studied them now they are sudden here.’

‘Dragons were gone.’ Jon says, ‘The last one died in Westeros a hundred years ago.’

‘But they came back.’ Sansa says and she turns around to look him in the eye, ‘My mother taught me to believe only that what I see with my own eyes… I’ve seen them now. They are here... for _you_.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Jon tells her, ‘Targaryens have no more power over dragons than those they thought more mortal. And even so, I have more blood of the first men in my veins than the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons are the biggest Targaryen killers.’

‘Then why are they here?’

Jon can only stupidly shrug, ‘Because they found the smell of horses appealing, they must be hungry after their journey across the sea.’

‘They left Daenerys.’ Sansa says and she moves closer to him, ‘Left her to rot in the Dothraki Sea, there where she was seen last.’

‘How do you know she-‘

‘They could have spread their wings and flew her way, to save their mother, the queen who hatched them but they did not. They abandoned the woman, the pretender who locked them up in a vault, they melted their chains with their own breath and here they are. Anywhere they could’ve fled, to the ruins of Old Valyria, to each and every corner of Essos or to the unfound lands. But they chose to cross the Narrow Sea and they reached Westeros and they _found_ you.’

‘Father told me so often.’ Jon breathes, ‘He told me often and _loudly_ that dragons are no good, they kill and burn, they bring fire and blood.’

‘So do you.’ Sansa says, ‘They are the words of your house, they are the words of the Targaryens, you are a Targaryen king, Jon, your father’s son. Rhaegar may have hated the Valyrians of the past, the Gods know many still hate them, but their blood flows through your veins all the same.’

‘Do you tell me to yell and scream it loudly to all those who can hear? As Viserys did?’

‘You are no Viserys.’ Sansa says, she takes a step forward and takes his face between her cold hands, ‘Jon,’ she looks less fierce then, and as her eyes scan his face he feels it melt away underneath the touch of her fingers, ‘Viserys was Mad Aerys' son, but not you, you are Rhaegar’s. You are as he was, you do not name yourself dragon but it is what you are.’

‘Sansa-‘

‘Every time a new Targaryen is born the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.’ Sansa says and she lowers her hands to his neck, ‘You have proven to the world to not be mad, now prove to the world you are great.’

‘ _How_? To not kill these beasts?’ Sansa moves her hand to fuss with the chain of his black cloak, and Jon gulps, then nods, ‘If I kill them, men will doubt me, when men doubt me, they will trust me less, when I lose their trust I lose their support.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Because a dragon does not kill a dragon.’

Sansa sighs and adds, ‘A king who must tell others he is the king is no king. Don’t tell them who you are, show them so they will know and never forget.’

Jon hears the snow beneath his feet creak as he marches back. Ice around him is melting as the dragon fire that warms the air swirls through the sky. People watch him as he passes and he makes sure to show them no fear nor doubts.

When they reach the dragons yet again Robb is just taking a look. His eyes are wide and terrified and in the blue Jon can see the reflection of Dany’s children, ‘Why are they here?’ he asks as he looks sideways at Rhaenys, who’s hugging herself and the book she presses to her chest, still the same, ‘How did they find us?’

No one answers him but Tyrion, whom Jon only notices now. He seems full of wonder and astonishment, some awe and reverence too, as if he looks upon that what he has always believed in most, ‘Dragons are as intelligent as they are believed to be.’

‘The grief and glory of our house.’ Jon says, ‘That is what father named them. They are intelligent, you say? What must I make of that, my lord?’

‘They found our camp with a purpose, they came to us-’

‘ _Our_ camp?’ Rhaenys has, for some reason, lost all self-restrain when it comes to the imp, ‘They came to _us_? Yes they did! The blood of Old Valyria, the kin of their mother, _dragons_  found _dragons_ , not one dwarf fool who is here only as he has no other place to go to.’

‘You consider yourself a dragon now? Yesterday it was your mother's sun, the day before your husband's wolf... what is it? What is most convenient to you, Rhaenys?'

In her anger Rhaenys drops the book, 'Whatever I am, imp, it will a thousand times more than you could ever dream of being.'

'Rhaenys-' Robb tries.

'They are impressive, are they not?' Tyrion asks, 'Once a man has seen a dragon in flight, let him stay at home and tend his garden in content, I promise you now he shall not, he shall never, feel joy in it for this wide world has no greater wonder.’

‘Monsters!’ Rhaenys says and she points at Ser Malckom, ‘Take their monster admirer away from here!’

Malckom frowns yet he takes a step forward, until Jon cannot stop himself but raise his voice, ‘ _No_! He stays here. He goes nowhere, no man leaves until I tell them to.’

He walks the few steps it takes to stand in front of the imp, Uncle Ty, a shadow of what he once was, ‘You have written a book about all your findings.’ Jon says.

‘I referred to the books men before me wrote of them, yes.’ Jon sees how much it pleases Tyrion to be questioned, ‘I have studied them for years. I left what I collected in King’s Landing when I left.’

‘When you _fled_.’ Rhaenys never allows Tyrion to forget.

Jon nods, ‘A study of years?’

One of the dragons roars once more and Jon closes his eyes at the sound, ‘Of many years, your grace.’ Tyrion says and Jon sees him glance sideways.

Jon rises to spot Jaime there, fully dressed in the wool and leather of a Westerosi knight. His face pale, his eyes wide, and the one hand he can fist does just that.

Jon clenches his jaw then, he feels his blood boil when he realizes all around him watch him, expectantly, patiently almost, as if there is no hurry needed for this problem.

‘What must I do? Tell me what you believe I must do.’

‘I have not read all there is written about dragons.’ Tyrion says, ‘There is only one surviving copy of  _Blood and Fire_ it lays in the deep vaults of the Citadel, but I-‘

‘ _What_ must I do?’

‘I do not know.’ Tyrion admits, ‘The old Valyrians mastered their dragons with horns, or so I've heard, horns, wisps and magic.’

‘I have no magic.’ Jon reminds everyone who hears him.

‘Dragons are of magic. Once they left the world the winters grew colder.’ Tyrion explains on, ‘They are of a reasonably level of intelligence.’

‘What does that mean for us?’ Jon is not sure it pleases him that these dragons are of reasonable intelligence. If anything he already knew, ‘They can be trained, I know, but-‘

‘They receive vocal commands, your grace.’ Ser Barristan says then, ‘Daenerys had her words. She spoke to them and they heard her voice, took her words and understood.’

‘They can hear what I say?’ Jon asks, ‘We better speak in whispers, then.’

His joke makes no one laugh, it only makes Rhaenys let go of the breath she seems to have held and she shakes her head, biting her lip, ‘Daenerys gave them vocal commands?’

‘She did, my princess. She used Valyrians terms.’ Ser Barristan says, he looks uncomfortable suddenly, ‘It seemed at first only her voice could command them but as their seize grew I realized the queen made a mistake in choosing these words. Every man knows the Valyrian word for fire, and it is what she chose to teach them for commanding them to breathe their flames.’

‘ _Dracaerys_.’ Rhaenys whispers, ‘Not every man knows, only those who were fortuned to learn the dead language of Old Valyrian from a maester.’ She turns her head and looks at Jon, ‘You and me among few others. In Westeros, that is.’

‘If one speaks this word they’ll breathe fire?’ Jon asks.

Ser Barristan nods, ‘I do believe so, yes, your grace.’

‘Dragons are capricious in nature.’ Tyrion says, ‘And... they bend easiest to their rider's will after they have been fed and their stomach is full.’

‘No man here is a dragonrider.’ Jon says, ‘But Dragons must be trained, to keep them from laying waste to everything around them. Lock them up and they grow only to the seize of a cat, allow them to roam the sky freely and accidentally they'll kill a child from time to time.’

‘We have no time to train them.’ Rhaenys decides.

‘But we can give them a full stomach.’ Sansa says, it is the first thing she’s said ever since the left Rhaenys' tent.

‘Meat.’ Tyrion says all simply, ‘We can feed them horses.’

‘What an utter waste of cavalry!’ Robb objects but Jon nods.

‘We can spare two horses, would that feed them round and content?’

‘Not round, but content perhaps.’

Jon nods and finds himself mere moments later taking the reins from ser Malckom. He stands closer to the dragons than any man ever should dare to go and feels the eyes of Sansa burn in his back. Jon wants to curse or scream, preferably run away too, but the dragons have stopped screaming, they are no longer blazing fire. As they had found themselves a spot on the muddy field, one has dropped his head down on his own tail, though his eyes watch Jon carefully, his nostrils move as smoke emerges.

Jon’s hands around the steers are sweaty and clammy. The heat of the dragons blows through his layers of clothing and Jon wishes he’d taken off his doublet. If they open their mouth, reveal their black and sharp teeth and choose to eat him or set him aflame or both, there’s little difference boiled leather will make.

_I am not resistant to fire_ , Jon thinks, _fire kills dragons_ and he is no Daenerys Stormborn. In that moment, Jon, for the first time since he heard of her missing, wonders where she is, what she’s thinking, if she’s afraid, remembers him with spite or forgave him for how he failed her. If only he had not failed her, he never intended to, he thought she knew that. What if she’s dead? Will they ever know? For a tiny moment then, Jon wishes she were here. Not because of the dragons, but because he misses her.

The two horses are unsaddled and they’re not too big nor too small. Two coursers, Jon tells himself. Lighter than destriers and less costly, but still very beautiful. Two strong and fast horses, perfectly fit for war. The expected mount of knights when they find themselves in combat. A waste indeed, Jon agrees as he stares into the golden eyes of Viserion, and he decides he shall pay the knights who owned these horses a little more than their worth in golden dragons. _Dragons_.

He pats the neck and prays to give them reassurance before he takes a step back, slowly letting go of the reins. The horses are not in fear of the dragons, oddly, and Jon wonders if that is because they calmed down, because they are lying there, almost relaxing in the cool but evident Winter sun.

‘Just slap their fucking arse!’ Robb screams suddenly and Jon hears the fear in his voice. He wishes he could scream back that he must keep his bloody mouth shut, but he really doesn’t dare make any misstep and the eyes of his council, cousin, sister, wife and hundreds of soldiers lay heavy on his shoulders as bites the inside of his cheek to calm his nerves.

Jon wonders for a moment if he should tell the dragons he came over to feed them precious horses, that he hopes they’ll enjoy their supper, that Jon picked these beasts out with care, but… he really can’t do it with his throat as dry as it is. So, he does exactly what Robb told him to do, then runs away like a beggar boy who just stole a loaf of bread.

Behind him he feels the heat of the flames the dragon spit at their food, and the horses are still flaming when their legs are ripped off their body and slowly all what remains is a heap of carcass.

‘Seven hells.’ Rhaenys whispers, ‘Would you look at that.’

‘Such a waste of good horses.’ Robb mutters though his eyes do not match his words. He stares in awe, and Jon realizes they all have ashes in their hair. He moves his hand to comb through his own with his fingers and rubs his cheek with the wool sleeve of his tunic.

Sansa grabs his arm then and gives up her attempts at appearing unimpressed, she hides behind his back and Jon feels her shiver against him. Oddly, her breathing and shaking remind him of when they're alone, when she’s naked against him and panting in his ear. He makes her shiver then, too, whispers in her ear how good she feels.

Jon turn his head to look at her face and rubs the ashes off her cheek, before she shakily breathes and moves closer to him to hug him. She trembles in his arms and over her shoulder Jon watches the dragons flap their wings. They are so big the movement feels like heavy wind, as if they are at sea on a ship, not near the Kingswood at the rim of an army camp.

The dragons scream once more, at each other in seems, before their wings flap. The ground trembles underneath their feet as the dragons move and ready their back to push themselves up as they jump and grab the air underneath them, to soar through the sky.

‘They are gone.’ Jon whispers in Sansa’s ear and he knows how his voice sounds, as if he is in utter disbelieve.

When Sansa lets go off him she looks up and as she grabs his hand they both stare at the beasts as they roam the white sky, full with snow, circle through the flakes as if the frozen drops of water cleanse them.

‘They were hungry.’ Rhaenys says. Jon turns his head and spots her as she sits down in the grass, her hair loose over her shoulders, the rim of her black dress ruined by mud, ‘They came here because they wanted to be fed.’

‘Two horses are not enough.’ Tyrion says, ‘They’ll want more.’

‘They can hunt.’ Robb decides, ‘These forests are… they are filled with boars and stags and… all of these things.’

Jon takes Sansa’s braid between his fingers, rolls it around and stares at the deep red color before he presses his nose to her temple. Her hair is the color of blood, no flames, there is fire in her hair, but the leaves of the weirwood know no fire, they are rooted deep into the ground, and the Old Gods must curse for they cannot see magic spread out below the neck.

‘Then why did they not just take what they needed?’ Jaime asks.

‘Because they wanted to come and say hello.’ Rhaenys says, as she allows Robb to drag her off the ground.

‘You’re right.’ Jon says as he turns to watch all the men who stand at the rim, hiding behind trees or tents, their faces full of astonishment, disbelieve, shock or fear or all of these and more. They look at him in a new way now, he sees. If he ever dared believe his soldiers believed him to be a God, now he knows they do and that makes him want to grab Sansa again and hide his face in the crook of her neck.

‘Am I now? I am not familiar with the experience.’ Rhaenys says, she looks pale suddenly, as if she's sick or miserable or both. Robb tries to stand in front of her, almost protectively, but as always, she doesn’t let him.

‘They came here to let us know of their presence.’

‘Do you wish to follow them?’ Rhaenys asks.

‘Where do you think they will go to?’ Tyrion asks, ‘They won’t stray far, they’ll follow us as we march on, I have good faith.’

Jon can only nod, ‘No need to follow them.’

‘You do not wish to keep an eye?’

For some reason, Jon is not sure what or why, he doubts these dragons will hurt him or his men, and only if they do, he shall consider murdering them.

‘The Dornish have killed dragons in the past, they are happy to do it again.’ Rhaenys says, ‘My uncle-‘

‘Is not here.’ Jon says, ‘I shall speak with him and ask for his council the moment he arrives.’

‘Soon, I’m sure.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I am as sure of his swift return as I am of him knowing of the arrival of those beasts. He must’ve seen them before we did.’

‘He’ll feel bad for missing the spectacle, I think.’ Jon realizes, he can only begin to imagine what is and will be on Oberyn’s mind, and in that moment, he realizes he cannot wait to speak with the man… a very new experience.

'Arianne will want the green one dead.' Rhaenys says and Jon closes her eyes at the name alone, ‘It killed her brother.’

‘I believed she wanted Daenerys Stormborn dead, not her dragons?’

Rhaenys glares at her brother, ‘Revenge is never sufficient, I hope you already know this much.’

‘I do.’ Jon says, ‘But Arianne is not my king, her wish means rather little to me, we do not revenge Quintyn’s death by murdering a dragon, I assure you as much.’

‘I am _only_ saying. She will want it, and her uncle and father too. Whom do you wish to please? Your bannermen or the children of our aunt?’

‘None.’ Jon says, ‘I am not here to please no man, I must be wise enough to know I must make the best decision, to protect all, not please the most.’

‘So, what to do?’ Robb asks as he watches Rhaenys and sees her anger grow, ‘If they shall not leave they are your responsibility.’

Jon can only nod.

‘You do not expect to ever end them?’ Rhaenys asks, and Jon can only be grateful that she asks for his words of thought, not gives him her own.

‘We shall not kill them.’ Jon says, and he feels determined as he looks at Jaime when he adds, ‘Dragons do not kill dragons, they only concern themselves with sheep, so that is what we must do.’

Jaime turns his face away and as Jon feels Sansa’s hand grab his as he stands there, biting his lower lip, brooding. Moments go by until he suddenly hears Robb hush Rhaenys. He turns to look at her and sees big fat tears fall down her cheeks, her shoulders shake as her body trembles.

Dragons do not kill dragons, yet dragons are the biggest Targaryens killers of all.

‘It’s alright, sweetling.’ Robb says as he pulls her close. He seems to know why she cries and she allows him to comfort her. Jon can’t recall them ever showing such public display of affection.

‘Damn that woman.’ Rhaenys says as she drops her head to Robb’s shoulder.

As Jon watches her shudder and cry he realizes that perhaps, Rhaenys doesn’t want the dragons nor Daenerys dead, perhaps Rhaenys too, from time to time, misses Dany. Not Daenerys. But Dany.

The Dany Rhaenys grew up with. The girl with her batting eyelashes and nervous fidgeting. Desperate for a safe home, attracted to the freedom of the sea, dreaming of a sailor’s life. Beautiful, innocent, tortured Daenerys. How much had Viserys robbed off her? How greatly did her mind suffer? What did the world do to her? What had power made of her? Did any part of the girl Jon once loved remain? Did that part send her dragons to him?

He can still see her stand there. On that beach. Her dress full of water, her face tear-stained. She held her belly in her hands. Her son that would never live. One more person she lost, to leave her behind, all alone.

_‘Do you love me too?’_ she asked and Jon shook his head.

Daenerys nodded as if she understood and in that moment, Jon knows now, he drained all hope that remained to her away.

_‘Why do you love her so much? She's a stupid girl.’_

Jon gulps and as he hears Rhaenys whisper her regrets he feels his own shame rise, ‘I never should have let her go.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I should have made her stay, I should have protected her. She was my responsibility, father wanted me to look after her. She trusted me and I failed her. I let them marry her to Viserys, I let Viserys abuse her for years, I called her a traitor and _now_ … now she’s gone. She could be dead.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Robb says, ‘You could do nothing and she _did_ betray you.’

Jon agrees and he suddenly reminds himself of words he had forgotten he ever muttered, _‘I will never love you. You have to give up on me. I will never make you happy, I belong to someone else.’_

He always would. It was never a choice. Daenerys declared his wife dead that night, looked into his eyes and lied. She lied well, for Jon almost believed her. She seemed to feel no shame in it, and Jon didn’t think he could ever forgive her for it. Jon pushed all she said away, to forget and never remember. But it all comes back now.

_'Jon, don’t go, don’t leave me, please.'_ she begged.

Daenerys had always begged him to save her, at times he even promised, had wanted to, but he never could. Jon was too locked up himself, his chains were too heavy. His future too set and it did not contain her. It never saddened him for she never gave him what he needed. She never made him feel like the world made sense, like goodness exists, like he belongs somewhere, like he could do things right. Sansa did. He loved Sansa right. If he ever loved Daenerys the way she loved him, it can’t have been right.

_'You are the only man who has ever been good to me. Come with me. Across the narrow sea. Together. You and me. We’ll be free, we’ll be together. As you always promised_.'

All Jon wanted was to go home. He recalls telling Sansa once how home is never a place, it is the people you love. Daenerys believed she never had a home, and in her desperate wish for it, she almost stole it from Jon. Almost. Because Jon stayed, in Westeros. To fight for _his_ home.

But Daenerys went. She sailed across the Narrow Sea and swore that no child born in Slaver’s Bay would ever know what it felt like to be bought or sold, as she, Daenerys herself, would never forget what that felt like. If perhaps she could’ve forgotten, if perhaps she’d never been sold at all, maybe she would not have accidentally brought cities to total irreparable ruin, killed thousands of innocents, ruled foreign lands like an angry bratty child and turned Astapor to the ‘closest thing to hell on earth’ men had ever seen.

Jon looks at the dragons and wonders what could possibly be more dangerous than invincible weapons in the hands of a broken-hearted, inexperienced, well-meaning but absolutely incapable and uneducated child. Ifs and buts don’t matter. Whatever happened, or may have happened or should have happened doesn’t matter. Jon can’t know what he should’ve or could’ve done differently. It’s too late for all that now. If he has learned one thing, it’s that once a tree has burned down, the only thing men can do is plant the seeds, for setting others on fire will make the smoke grow thicker to suffocate all and mourning ashes has no use.

_We’ll go wherever we want to go, far away from this place, just you and me._ It was appealing once but not anymore. Jon didn’t want to be free. A man has no taste for freedom if it is comes too late, without those he needs. Jon wanted his daughter and his wife, and Daenerys named them dead, in doing so, she killed him too, if only for a moment.

‘ _She is a thousand times the woman you will ever be_.’ Jon said. he looks sideways at Sansa and feels he could say these same words again, if need be, and he’d mean them still, _more_. And they’ll break Dany’s heart all over again.

_’Papa… I was having the bad dreams again.’_ Freia said, _Dragons. Two dragons._

Daenerys often saw dragons in her dreams and Jon can still recall laughing at her silliness with Rhaenys. He wishes he could laugh now, but even if something could ever be funny enough, he’d be too exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update sometime next week, but I'm not making promises anymore. I've been ridiculously busy. Anyway, have a nice weekend! :)


	68. Red Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa bites her lower lip, glances at her husband, closes her eyes and sighs, ‘You do not win the throne to save the kingdom, you ought to try and save the kingdom to win the throne.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello! It's been some while. I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to update. I have a million excuses but you don't really care about that anyway. Hopefully I can respond to all of your messages by tomorrow (I've seen and read them all!).  
> Anyway, prepare for my two favorite Stannis de mannis quotes, I'm so glad I got to add these in this story at one point.

**Robb**

* * *

 

Robb wants to keep his eyes on Rhaenys, but he knows she’ll feel it and glare at him for it, so instead, he watches Sansa.

Sansa is full in black leather, the embroideries of her clothing honor the direwolf of house Stark as proudly as the three-headed dragon and as she follows Jon everywhere he goes at steady pace, Robb cannot help but wonder if she feels fear.

She doesn’t look like she does. She walks with a fierce step, her head held high, her hair pulled back from her face, which only emphasizes the piercing blue of her eyes, and she makes perfectly sure to stand by Jon’s side, as proud and prominent as a Queen during wartime should be, at safe distance, though close enough for him to lean his head down every now and then, to inform her of whatever it is he wants her to know.

She has been at a warcamp before, Robb vividly remembers, but back then, all she did was run after Freia and hold her baby bump up in her arms, her face red and the bags below her eyes dark to mark her fatigue by a mix of lack of comfort and sleep both.

Now, Sansa seems like such a different woman. Perhaps it’s because her babies aren’t around, which she handles remarkably and surprisingly well.

She’s such a woman now, nothing of the jolly girl remains. War pulled her head out of her brightly-colored cloud, and dropped a grown woman down to the earth. She sank away in the dark, thick and dangerous mud of the world but swam back up, gasped for air, fought violently, aggressively, found steadiness under her feet and here stands Jon’s queen. Robb sometimes must blink to make sure he’s certain it’s his little sister still, his little sister _always_.

What astounds him most and more than anything, he comes to realize, is a certain lack of fear when Jon approaches Daenerys Stormborn’s children. They’re monsters, and Robb cannot help but blink whenever he looks at them. Even the wolves howl or whimper when blasts of fire are shot up to the sky.

As for now they have not killed one man but too many horses and some cows.

Jon feeds them two large stallions each and as he watches them devour the flesh, rip it off the bones, cooks it with their own breath, Robb can see the red flames dance in the grey of his cousin’s eyes.

‘They’re terrifying, aren’t they?’ Jon asks, ‘Horrifying.’

‘They are.’ Robb agrees.

‘I need them as pleased as they can possibly be.’ Jon says, ‘They are likelier to follow commands when their bellies are filled, makes them less dangerous.’

‘Thank the Gods Freia doesn’t see it.’ Robb decides, ‘Her poor horseys.’

There’s a small smile on Jon’s face and though it’s a happy note, it seems to make him sad too.

‘What if you can sit upon the Iron Throne by sundown tomorrow?’

‘Then I would call tomorrow a very successful day.’ Jon says, he grabs the pommel of his Valyrian sword and sighs, his eyes still staring out at the dragons, ‘I’ll probably get drunk, take Sansa with me to bed and _sleep_ , if it’s safe enough.’

‘It’s close,’ Robb notes, ‘You can pretend to see it if you ignore the red walls.’

‘Let’s not ignore the red walls.’ Jon decides. He coughs and moves to take his cloak off. From his breastplate he takes pieces of yellow parchment. Drawings, and Robb instantly knows who made them.

Jon hands them over to Robb, who enfolds it and stares at a drawing of a very happy sun hanging above a high tower, with many little wolves and a small girl in a red dress. Two dragons sore through the sky above her and they’re wonderfully detailed. One green, one yellowish.

‘Did mother send this to you?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘She made it the day the High Septon placed a crown upon my head. Freia saw Viserion and Rhaegal in her dreams.’ He says.

‘How?’

‘Sometimes Targaryens do these sorts of things.’

‘Oh.’

‘Freia understands.’

‘Understands what?’

‘I kept telling her dragons are scary, they hurt people, but she shook her head and told me they’re kind to her, their fire keeps her warm now that winter is here.’

‘W-what do you think that means?’

Jon shrugs.

‘Do _you_ ever have dreams?’

Jon shakes his head only once, ‘The only thing I ever dream that feels real is Ghost.’  
Robb finds Jon’s eyes, grey Stark eyes, then says, ‘Yes, me too. _Greywind_.’

Jon nods, then tells him, ‘When Ghost was with them in the capital, he lay at the foot of Freia’s crib, he watched her always. Back then, when I was sleeping, I dreamed of her cries, I saw her little fists, her dark hair and blue eyes. I saw Ghost lick Sansa’s face to wake her up and I saw her teach Freia how to walk in the gardens. When they finally gave her to me, when Rhaenys handed her over, when I held her for the first time, it was as if I knew her. I recognized her, and I think she recognized me.’

‘You believe these dreams are real?’

‘I’m not sure what the word ‘real’ would imply.’ Jon said, ‘I am the only Targaryen to not dream of dragons but of wolves.’

‘That is because you are just as much Stark.’

Jon doesn’t take it as the great compliment Robb intended to give, perhaps because Jon already _knows_ , ‘I remember dreaming of my mother. I walked down the steps of Winterfell’s crypts and she’d be down there, waiting for me. When I was younger, her face was all but a shadow, but she became clearer to me when I grew older. I know it was her. The night Sansa set sail from King’s Landing to White Harbor, she was there, with my father, they told me to go home. I had no idea Sansa was released, or that she would be. But my dream told me.’

Robb feels suddenly uncomfortable, he isn’t sure whether to say it but Jon spots it anyway.

‘Say it.’ He says, ‘I am not like one of those great rulers. I won’t lose my temper.’

Robb smiles slightly, sighs and says, ‘Rhaenys has often told me of her father’s… obsession with prophecies. She said that… she said all Targaryens often are, that they’re obsessed with visions and… well, dragons and fire.’

‘Daeron the drunk was always drunk and spoke of nothing but his dreams.’ Jon says, ‘Daenerys always spoke of dreams, she believed she was special, because her dreams come true. She believed her son would be the prince that was promised, but that son died in her womb. Daenerys thought she could make magic happen, because she’d done it before, because she herself was magical.’

‘But Daenerys-‘

‘Wasn’t magical. People never are. Magic happens _to us_. Targaryens have always believed they were special, unique, better even, _magical_ … _superior_. We answered to no laws nor Gods.’

‘Rhaenys isn’t pleased with that idea.’

‘She’s progressive, and she’s always admired Aegon V, as did my father, ignoring the Summerhall disaster. But I agree, truly, because it’s not true.’ Jon says, ‘We are not magical, but our dragons were. They are fire. They made us extraordinary… and we used it to oppress, dominate, tyrannize.’

‘Yes.’ Robb says slowly.

‘All they left me is a weight of power, and I’ll never misuse it as my predecessors have done before me.’

Jon stares at the snow, but he doesn’t look at it, he looks at the shadows of the dragons, listens to the crack of leathery wings as the feel of their hot breath warms the air, ‘Maester Aemon… Aegon V’s brother, wrote me a letter not so long ago. He wrote about his brothers, of how they dreamed of dragons too, and the dreams killed them, every one.’

‘Maester Aemon… the… the maester at Castle Black?’

‘Aye.’ Jon nods, ‘He recently passed away, I received a letter a couple of days ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘He already knew he was dying when he wrote me. He told me not to feel too saddened, for he was old and he said too many dragons are as dangerous as too few.’

‘That… sounds rather cruel.’

‘But he’s right.’

‘You think so?’

Jon doesn’t answer as he continues to stare at the shadows, ‘The Targaryens always knew that someday the dragons would return. Aegon V set Summerhall on fire when he tried to hatch eggs that had turned to stone. They said a dragon would be born and that night Rhaella Targaryen gave birth to my father amidst salt and smoke, so Rhaegar believed he was a promised prince born to save the world: it ended up pushing the realm into the rebellion, killed Rhaenys’ mother, my mother, my father himself even and it’s the only reason I exist.’

‘But your parents loved each other.’

‘Maybe, but my father would never have done it if it wasn’t for the prophecy, if it wasn’t for the three heads of the dragon. Prophecies are dangerous.’

‘So, why listen to them at all?’

‘The last dragon left five eggs, all dead, there was no life in them, but Targaryens all saw it in their dreams, and their dreams come true… they believed it. They believe their dreams because… others had apparently done it, and they had the blood of the dragon, so they should be able to do it too. Now they’ve got their wish; dragons have returned. The grief and glory of my house.’

‘But Targaryens were mad.’ Robb says and finally Jon looks up. For a moment, Robb believes Jon feels insulted, and for a moment, he’s almost scared, but then Jon laughs.

‘Aye, that is true. Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin.’

‘But you’re not mad.’ Robb says, though he may have been able to say that once with more certainty in his voice, before he married Rhaenys. Rhaenys is a sane woman, but by all accounts, she can be a little mad. Two sides of the same coin indeed.

‘Well, thank you.’ Jon says, then, his grin disappears, ‘Swear to me that when you believe for a second that I might go mad, you’ll tell me.’

‘When you speak of the dragons I sometimes think you’re a little mad.’ Robb instantly confesses.

Jon’s grin doesn’t return when he nods once and says nothing, only returns to staring at the dragons, as if he’s trying to prove Robb’s point.

‘Have you ever spoken of this with Rhaenys?’

Jon shakes his head, ‘Rhaenys is allergic to nonsense.’ He says, and Robb can’t deny that, ‘She believes… Targaryens base their believe of their dreams coming true on Daenys seeing-‘

‘that one creepy girl who dreamed of the doom and convinced them all to move?’

‘That one.’ Jon grins, ‘There is erm… some strong evidence to suspect the Targaryens left Valyria for some impractical stone island near the coast of Westeros because they were fleeing from heavy debt. That’s the story my father tried to sell us. Sounds a lot more likely… Targaryens being in heavy debt, fleeing their home and eventually ending up ruling a continent. We’re lucky bastards like that.’

‘That… well, that sounds a lot less magical.’ Jon laughs and Robb can only snigger, then he asks, ‘So, you think Rhaenys’d instantly wave it away?’

‘She’s the only Targaryen ever to believe nothing more but what she sees with her own eyes. Aside from the Gods.’

Robb can’t help but notice how Jon uses the word ‘only’. Clearly, he doesn’t count himself in the group of people who believe only what they see with their own eyes.

‘There’s one good aspect of coming from a dynasty of cruel kings and mad kings, insane and delusional kings.’ Jon wipes the sweat of his forehead with his sleeve, ‘We get to learn from their mistakes.’

‘What does all of this mean? What does it have to do with Freia’s dreams?’

Jon shrugs, ‘I don’t believe she told Sansa of her dreams, and nor have I. She just seems to think they’re nightmares.’

‘So Freia has dragon dreams like maester Aemon’s brothers?’

‘Dragons don’t fear dragons. If they don’t even scare a little girl, then why should they scare me?’

‘I… I really do not know?’

‘Nor do I.’

'Because they are not real in Freia’s dreams?’ Robb suggests, ‘They are real _now_.’

‘I know they are.’ Jon breathes a laugh as if that does not bother him one bit.

Robb looks down at the drawing, moves it aside to find some more of dragons alone, of a happy family of four, of fishes in a pond, and many many horseys. Freia is, apparently, very excellent at writing her own name, _From **FREIA** to papa_ it says each and every time.

Among the drawings are a couple of letters Robb instantly recognizes. One he read himself all these years ago, when men called him King in the North and Jon was only Joffrey’s traitor bastard brother, his wife a hostage, his daughter a Snow. Then there’s another, from a queen informing her king husband of the birth of a princess.

‘I always have these with me.’ Jon says, ‘I feel like I shouldn’t, in case I am roasted, I wouldn’t want splendid art to go to waste.’

‘Maybe they bring luck.’ Robb suggests. As snow falls down almost sadistically, he shivers at the cold. It blocks his sight and he lifts his hand to push the melting drops off his face.

Jon nods, take the parchment back and hides them under his cloak, to protect the picture of Harry the pony from the ruining wetness, as he wipes the flakes from his eyelashes with his gloved finger.

‘Tyrion thinks they’re beautiful.’ Jon says, looking at the dragons, ‘He’s a bloody fool.’

 _Only when a man feels fear, he can be brave_ , Ned Stark told them, he said it often and he said it loudly.

Robb turns around to see their surroundings. No one close watches them except for some guards. The army is hiding in tents, hearing from their commanders what shall be expected from them, what the change of plan in. Sansa and Rhaenys are sheltering from the snow, hurdled together, warming themselves to each other under furs, writing letters to Catelyn to give her all the instruction she doesn’t need as she mothers over their most beloved.

The spiked and horned head of the green one turns. _Viserion_. Named after Daenerys’ brother and husband. The head is as big as a very small wheelhouse, but as the beast rests it upon his own claws, he closes his eyes and seems to allow the snowflakes to melt on his back.

‘ _Seven hells_ …’ Robb mutters and he wants to stumble away from the beasts, pull Jon with him, but finds himself nailed to the ground like a punished slave in Astapor. He wants to scream or command Jon to run away just now, as if he were not a King but a stable boy, his brother, but all he hears is the wind blowing in his ears.

‘Spies tell me the dragons burned down part of the Old Gate.’ Jon says suddenly, ‘Which is… extremely useful. Lord Celtigar called it admirable."

"Lord Celtigar could look at the contents of my chamber pot and call it admirable." Robb says and Jon smirks but doesn’t laugh.

‘Lord Celtigar also told me you saw it too.’

‘I saw it with my own eyes, your grace.’ Robb creaks, ‘The Prince Oberyn and I found it half burned as we took a small party to-‘

‘Exactly.’ Jon nods to himself as if he just made a very carefully calculated decision, then turns around to leave Robb at this save and careful distance from these dragons, who still lay there, almost as if they’re relaxing. Smoke appears from their nostrils every time they breathe out and their body heat warms even Robb.

Robb feels lightheaded for most of the day, eats very little, hears barely what all the lords fight about the snowstorm mostly, then scream at each other as the battleplan is shaped, discussed, changed, adapted, ignored, refused, then accepted again. Robb has learned to listen more than hear every word they speak, so long as one knows what it is they all want him to know.

He’s more nervous than he usually is, if only because this is not his field of battle. This is not a fight he’s fought before. Perhaps that is why Rhaenys is so calm, because she feels his nervousness, it’s perhaps why she grabs his hand every moment in an attempt to make sure it won’t be the last time she’s feeling the warmth of his skin.

He sits in his cot that night, sipping soup from a cup as he watches Rhaenys undress. She sits down next to him and takes his hand.

‘I’m nervous too.’ She admits then.

Robb can only nod and she leans forward to press her lips to his. Her hair is as soft as silk as it tickles his face, her mouth is surprisingly hot and she’s incredibly naked under his hands. Robb wants to move but it’s almost as if he’s tied down to something he can’t see and his eyes are heavy then, not because he’s tired, but because he feels cloudy, almost dizzy, though not in a sickening way.

As he allows his wife to make love to him, hearing her sigh in his ear, feeling her goosebumps under his fingertips, it is almost like the rush and sensation is different from what he’s used to.

He wants to watch her face, find her purple eyes, feel her sweat and her muscles rolling, the weight of her on top of him, to squeeze in a little further, to make her gasp. He can’t stand the idea of falling asleep, all he wants really is to hide his face in the crook of her neck, smell her everywhere, feel her everywhere, for her to never stop moving as he feels himself throb inside of her.

‘If we die, we die.’ Rhaenys says, ‘But _we_ , will live forever.’

 _I don’t want us to die_ , Robb thinks, and he is not sure what she means, he wants to ask, but he can’t find the energy he needs to ask.

Eventually he falls asleep, only because she has, dragging her close against him as she shivers in his arms, her Dornish blood protesting belligerently to the cold. He only wakens when the warhorns are loud and aggressive. Robb’s eyes are still closed when Rhaenys groans at the danger of the sound.

‘Let’s stay here forever?’ she suggests, ‘In this tent, I mean.’ and Robb nods.

‘Let’s.’

 

**Jon**

* * *

 

When Jon was a boy of ten and two, Ser Malckom brought him to King’s Landing for the very first time ever. Jon imagines he must’ve sat on a horse and looked at the Red Keep in the distance, proud and fierce upon Aegon’s Hill, at this exact same place as he does now.

‘It smells even worse, who could’ve thought it possible?’ Ser Malckom wonders now, ‘It smell not of an old whore but of a dying old whore.’

Jon grabs the steers tight in his hands, the gloves he wears are made of thick leather but they flex comfortably with his fingers and keep them warm all the same.

Around him, flakes fall down the color of the purest white. It came suddenly in the earliest of morrow, and flurries around from all different directions. The powdery flakes fall in Jon’s hair, land on the skin of his face and as he lifts his hand to place it to his hairy cheek, he feels the softness of the cold.

When Jon closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of ice, he can imagine he’s home. _Winterfell_. The Gods know he so often pretended in the past.

‘Can you see that?’ He asks the men all lined up in front of him.

Dornish, Northeners, Westerlanders… Knights of the Vale, the army of the Riverlands, houses Stark, Martell, Caswell, Hightower, Tully, Ambrose, Baratheon, Umber, Bolton, Dayne, Tallhart…

They all carry their own banners, but they’re united under one. One sigil, one house, one king. Three heads of a dragon. The way Aegon the conqueror liked to see it.

Aegon I of house Targaryen landed on this particular spot in Westeros before he invaded, his sister wives by his side. Jon is flanked by a sister and a wife instead. He prefers it that way, honestly.

‘Over there is the Red Keep, in it, is the most uncomfortable and ugliest chair I have ever laid my eyes on… how bout we take it back from usurpers?’

Rhaenys is good at keeping her face as stone and as cold as the walls that surround the city behind them, but Sansa can’t contain a grin the moment all the soldiers cheer.

‘Can I yell something too?’

Jon can see his own face in the reflection of her blue eyes and he quickly removes his frown, ‘What?’

‘Of course you can!’ Rhaenys has trouble keeping her horse in order but her voice is as careful as ever as she fights with the steers, ‘Just raise your voice and scream.’

‘What should I scream?’

There’s excitement in Sansa’s grin as Jon considers what could possibly be a suitable and proper thing for her grace the Queen to scream to a lineup of soldiers ready to march, mentally prepped for battle, when Rhaenys suggests, ‘Tell them to get ready to kill Lannisters.’

Sansa opens her mouth, hesitates, then shakes her head, ‘They won’t hear me, my voice is too soft.’

‘It doesn’t matter, they’ll cheer anyway.’ Rhaenys says wisely, but Sansa shakes her head again and smiles.

‘Better not.’ She says, as if she makes a wise and calculated decision, forever Catelyn’s well-raised daughter. She urges her horse to move, a pleased smile around her mouth, right before Rhaenys’ words ring true and the soldiers start cheering anyway, despite the lack of cause.

Rhaenys dressed Sansa up, Jon’s sure, he’s never seen her wear what she’s wearing but it is the look Rhaenys has been sporting for four years now. It almost looks like breaches, except she wears a skirt over it, yet it still really is breaches, and the skirt is about half as short as usual.

Sansa is a tall woman, he can pretend it was a mistake, yet she never makes mistakes when she’s working with cloth. There’s some armor too, a three-headed dragon dances around a galloping direwolf on her breastplate and her shoulders are padded.

Jon can’t recall her ever looking so smug, it nearly reminds him of Daenerys, was it not that he needed no reminder as the flapping sound of wings above him is all enough.

Jon wonders if this is what queen Visenya the warrior queen looked like when she arrived in the Eyrie upon her dragon Vhagar. Perhaps Sansa can climb upon Rhaegal or Viserion. Or she can stay as far away from these monsters as she possibly can.

‘Your grace, lord Tyrion asks for audience?’

Jon frowns, slides off his horse, hands the steers to Trystane, makes a headgesture to his sister wives and they follow prince Oberyn to the rim of the King’s woods, where they find Jaime sitting in the muck, his back against a tree, Tyrion standing in front of him.

‘Get up.’ Jon says, it’s all he can think of saying that might instantly let all who can hear him know that he has no time for a mental test.

‘Your grace…’ Jaime seems drunk, though Jon knows he can’t be, ‘There is something you must know.’

‘You have no idea how often I hear these words.’

Jaime looks up at Jon, not attempting to stand up and he seems to be at the brink of tears.

‘But do not hesitate to tell me.’

Jaime looks sideways at his little brother and Jon notices his shaking hands. Fancily dressed up in Lannister red, with the lion roaring on his breastplate, with gilded longsword and ornate lion's helmet, he still looks nothing like the man Jon once knew. His hair, though still the color of beaten gold, is messy and greasy as he has been holding it in his hands so much. His green cat eyes no longer shine of the pride of one man too good at too early.

A great warrior once, not so long ago, Jon knows Jaime inspires loyalty in his men with his lack of fear for death and his boldness, his arrogance, his carelessness… despite the lack of his hand, the replacement of the golden one.

Jon cannot help but scream internally. For the Lannister support today, he needs their lord to get up, stand and fight.

‘I do not know how to say it.’

‘I suggest words.’

Jon can almost hear Rhaenys swallow behind him and he wishes Robb was anywhere around, not with the Northern lords, to hold her back a little, make her less vulnerable for emotional outbursts.

‘I never expected to tell a soul.’

‘I never expected to see you again without pressing a dagger through your throat. Speak, do not speak, whatever you prefer, I promise you, however, mistakes will be regretted.’

Jaime nods once and finally gets up. As he does he stumbles forward a little and stares up at the sky, there where the green and white of Dany’s children float with some bats of leathery wings, their heat visible as it emerges from their bodies in the icy cold winter wind.

‘The night Daenerys Stormborn was conceived I heard Queen Rhaella scream through the thick oak wood of her door.’ Jaime tells, ‘Fire aroused him… Aerys. He burned people and that same night the Queen would have a visitor.’

‘I suggest you stick to what is necessary knowledge.’ Rhaenys says, her voice is as cold as it is whenever her eyes find a Lannister.

Jaime ignores her advice and goes on, ‘Ser Jonothor Darry, my sworn brother, stood guard with me and we listened to her cries. I told Darry we were sworn to protect the Queen as well, and he replied, "but not from him.”’

‘Ser Darry was wise.’ Is all Jon can say, and as he feels where this is going, he cannot deny the story intrigues him still, if only because he knows so little of his own mad King grandfather, a man Rhaegar preferred to pretend never existed, ‘But his wisdom has little value to me at this moment.’

‘I agree.’ Jaime says, and he seems to sober up somewhat as he straightens his back, ‘And I am sure my wisdom will matter as little to you, however… I must ask you one favor, your grace.’

Jon wants to tell him to do it quickly to get it over with, but he finds himself unable to do little but blink.

‘Do not use the dragons.’

‘What makes you think I will?’

‘The blood in your veins.’

Jon wants to remind everyone that he is as much, if not more, Stark than Targaryen, and _yes_ , despite everything, he still has the bloodline to prove it. He’s like Rhaenys is that regard. Stark when it suits him, Targaryen when it suits him better. A nasty but useful habit. Instead he says, ‘You are not the man to make assumptions based solely on a name.’

‘If I would, I’d judge you a bastard and declare you a shame.’

Jon blinks and realizes he feels no anger at these words. If he has learned anything, grown somewhat from all that’s happened, then perhaps, this is it. He has long forgotten what it feels like to despise where he comes from, it serves no purpose. He has learned to use his weakness as the thickest armor, so no man, certainly no Jaime Lannister, can hurt him. Yet, surprisingly, Jaime does not look as if he means to hurt.

‘But I have kneeled to you, your grace. In sight of Gods and men.’

‘Don’t play your luck, kingslayer.’ Rhaenys says, her voice soft, ‘There is reason for you to be known to break oaths.’

‘Haven’t we all.’ Jon finds himself muttering, ‘Broken oaths.’

Rhaenys has nothing to say to that, so she simply decides to continue her stare down Lannisters session.

‘I broke my oath to protect the King, to uphold the oath I swore as knight. To protect the weak and innocent.’

‘Because Aerys was all but weak and innocent?’

‘He was most certainly weak.’ Jaime says, and now, Jon knows, he truly is playing with his luck. Why? Jon’s father thought him to always ask _why_. Not until you know why, you can understand, and without understanding, you’ll never predict the next move. If you can’t predict the next move…

Jaime shoved his sword through Aerys’ back to protect the weak and innocent. To use dragons… it would mean certain victory. And certain loss of innocent lives. Innocent lives Jaime protected all these years ago in exchange for lifelong mockery and the loss of knightly honor.

 _Only death comes out of a dragon’s mouth_.

‘And I will never plead forgiveness for ending his life.’

‘But you did.’ Rhaenys says, ‘You pleaded forgiveness to our father. I was there. Only four… but I remember.’

‘You remember incorrectly.’ Jaime says, ‘For I pleaded forgiveness for betraying _him_ , betraying _Rhaegar_. Not Aerys.’

Rhaenys raises her voice but Jaime cuts her off quickly like the brave man he once was, ‘My father would _never_ let-‘

‘After the Battle of the Bells, Aerys knew the Baratheon usurper formed a serious threat to the Targaryen rule. I knew of a plan he devised with the help of his pyromancer.’

‘Oh sweet Seven.’ Rhaenys nearly bumps against Jon’s shoulder as she marches through the mash of the forest, her hands fists, ‘Do you believe we do not know he placed caches of wildfire all throughout the city? Chelsted flung his chain of office to the floor when he disagreed and for that, Aerys burned him alive.’

‘Aerys did not trust me!’ Jaime turns around to look Rhaenys in the eye and in that moment, the Jaime of the past has returned, ‘He kept me close by, I heard and saw everything that happened during the last days of the mad King’s life.’

‘Oh really?’ Rhaenys breathes the ugliest smile Jon has ever seen, ‘Did you see them carry my mother’s corpse from my father’s bedchamber after you failed to protect her life and limbs?’

‘I did.’ Jaime admits, he looks down as if he means to respect the dead, ‘And I shall never forget it.’

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Rhaenys asks then, ‘How odd that we have things in common with our most gruesome enemies.’

‘You and Cersei have plenty in common.’ Jaime says and Rhaenys hits his face for that. The slap is loud, Jon can imagine the stinging pain.

‘I advised you to stick to what you believe we must know.’

‘There’s so much you must know, so much you know but ignore, you do not need me to tell you that.’

Rhaenys raises her hand to hit the Kingslayer again but he backs away and the push he gives her after nearly knocks her down.

‘ _Stop it_.’ Jon says as he marches over to Jaime, shoving Rhaenys aside in the process, ‘I have no time for the squabbles of the past, I speak to you now for you tell me there is something you need to tell me, _tell me_.’

‘I used dragonfire to blow up Viserys’ ships.’ Tyrion confesses then, Jon’d nearly forgotten his presence, ‘And I believe I used up all of it. But now I believe… I might’ve unintentionally given Cersei a very dangerous weapon.’

‘I saw it.’ Sansa says, ‘I looked through my window, and I saw the green light. I felt the heat of it, all up in Maegor’s Holdf

ast, in Jon’s rooms.’

‘What does Aerys got to do with that?’ Rhaenys asks.

‘I begged your father to take me with him when he left to fight at the Trident, but he confessed to me the King ordered me to stay. I was a hostage.’ Jaime says.

‘I was your sister’s hostage.’ Sansa helps Jaime remember, ‘You waited long to change that. Powerful pawns we were.’

‘I cannot say it was unwise of Aerys.’ Jon agrees.

‘He’d have blown me up with all the rest of the city if I had not pressed a sword through his back.’

‘ _Kingslayer_.’ Rhaenys spits.

‘Shut it!’ Jon unexpectedly loses his temper. With Rhaenys, he never sees it coming.

‘Beg your pardon?’

‘I want to hear what he must tell me without you bellowing in my ear every chance you find.’

‘Jon-‘

‘No!’

From the corner of his eye Jon can see how much the discourse pleases Tyrion and the imp reminds him of Littlefinger in that moment.

‘Rhaegar promised me of changes that would be made when he returned from the battlefield. He charged me with keeping his wife and children safe.’ Jaime says, he looks at Rhaenys then and all the courage he built up leaves him again, ‘You and Aegon and the princess Elia.’

‘Do not speak their names.’ Oberyn says, his voice soft, careful, even controlled, yet the warning message is clear. Jon had not heard him approach. Oberyn has a tendency of doing that. He whispers the words as if he hopes Jon won’t hear, but every deaf man could know what he said.

‘He promised me.’ Jaime says and he looks at Jon then, straight in his eyes, ‘Your father trusted me, Jon, he had me protect you always, he promised me things would change and they _did_. When he returned, when Rhaegar sat the Iron Throne, it changed, and all for the better. I believed in him, I was always loyal to him and-’

‘What are you trying to say? What do you want me to know? My _father_ trusted you, well… why would I believe that? After all you’ve done… what should that mean to me, hhm? Tell me?’

‘Rhaegar had been conspiring with many others to push the mad King off the throne. He’d been working on it for years.’

‘These are lies.’ Rhaenys says.

‘Whispers of turncloaks.’ Sansa agrees, ‘Whispers of his enemies, songs they sing.’

‘These were no lies.’ Jaime says, shaking his head, ‘I know they weren’t.’

Oberyn laughs at that. Jon has grown accustomed to Oberyn’s laugh. It’s hardly ever a pleasant sound. He shakes his head, ‘ _Fools_.’ He says, ‘Rhaegar the noble hero… he was a dragon, and dragons do not care for their own kind.’

‘They do.’ Jon spits, and he regrets lashing out at Rhaenys instantly.

Oberyn laughs again and Jon has trouble hiding his anger. Today is not the day to mock the Targaryen tendency to distrust, betray, hate and kill their own, ‘Ser Jaime here was there, at the tourney of Harrenhall.’ Oberyn says, he points at Jon, ‘Where your king father met your lady mother. I will never forget… the shame on my sister Elia’s face. Your mother dressed in armor. The knight of the laughing tree… it all could’ve been so simple. But it never is, is it? A great conspiracy if I ever saw one.’

‘Uncle, please.’ Rhaenys says, her voice trembles, ‘My brother is right, we have no time for the squabbles of the past. My king grandfather is dead for many years, and he died not at the hand of one of his own.’ She looks at Jaime again, ‘He died at these hands.’

‘Only one of them.’ Jaime raises his golden hand, ‘This one, however-‘

‘ _What_ do you want from me?’ Jon asks, and he feels Sansa’s eyes prick.

‘It is of no matter who’s right it is to sit the Iron Throne, what is important is whom deserves it, Rhaegar understood that.’ Jaime says, though he looks weak still, his voice is strong, ‘This is why he betrayed his father the moment his corps rolled down the steps of the Iron Throne.’

‘You killed him.’ Jon reminds everyone again.

‘And Rhaegar thanked me for it.’

‘ _Lies_.’ Rhaenys whispers.

‘Rhaenys!’ Jaime has not dared call the girl he failed to protect all these years ago, _Rhaenys_ , and Rhaenys visibly doesn’t like the gesture one bit, ‘You know who he was, you know what he could do! You remember… you remember his screams! You heard it! He was as mad as any Targaryen ever was, his insanity ate him from the inside, he-‘

‘Aye so father trusted you!’ Jon can feel his patience leave him, soon he’ll need to break something and he has no time for that, ‘ _What_ are you trying to tell me?’

‘I need you to trust me.’ Jaime says then, and it’s almost as if he begs, ‘You must trust me, Jon.’

‘Because my father trusted you?’

Jaime only nods.

‘My father was a wise man, you did not deserve a moment of his time.’

‘I agree.’ Jaime says.

‘You betrayed him. You bedded his Queen, passed your bastards off as his.’

‘To protect them.’ Jaime says, ‘I and Rhaegar protected them, by keeping it secret. Rhaegar did not want to see Tommen and Myrcella executed for mistakes beyond their own choosing.’

'Are you telling me-'

‘Rhaegar did not give a fig about what Cersei did. All he cared for was avoiding war, progressive lawmaking in favor of the smallfolk, Aegon, Rhaenys and _you_. She meant to greatly insult him, but she never could. His indifference angered her more than anything ever had.’

‘So, father allowed her to have your bastards?’ Jon hopes he sounds as full as disbelieve as he feels.

Jaime shrugs, ‘He was practical like that. He needed the Westerland support.’

‘But he always knew.’ Jon says, ‘And he never wanted any of them on the Iron Throne.’

‘He wanted Aegon there, but Aegon died.’

‘But _I_ lived.’

Jaime nods then, ‘The things I’ve done for love… you’d do them too.’

‘Careful.’

‘I’ve seen your two girls, I’ve seen you with them. You’d do what I’ve done without a moment of doubt.’

‘Fine.’ Jon says, ‘You want me to believe you? I shall believe you. Say what you have to say so I can decide whether or not I’ll have you-‘

‘There’s dragonfire below the city, below the castle, everywhere… Rhaegar removed it, but it’s back. Cersei placed it back in the exact same spots as before after the battle of Blackwater bay.’

‘I have seen it.’ Tyrion adds.

‘No one trusts you, whatever you say.’ Jon can’t remember Sansa speaking to the dwarf ever, and as she does now, she looks up at the sky, at Rhaegal and Viserion, ‘The bitter words of a spiteful man.’

Jon hasn’t seen Tyrion look at Sansa. He kept his promise to stay away from the queen, but he can’t hide his pain now. For some reason, Sansa’s opinion of him, is unpleasant to the ears, ‘Sansa-‘

‘You are here to see your sister die, preferably at your own hands.’ Sansa looks down finally and her eyes are colder than Jon has seen them in a while, ‘It is us who give you the biggest chance of that, but such loyalty, based on anger and revenge and self-serving of nature, has the worth of nipples on a breastplate.’

‘I am loyal to my true king.’ Tyrion says, straightening his back, and his eyes nervously flash to Jon.

‘As I said,’ Sansa frowns deep, ‘for what it’s worth.’

‘I have seen the wildfire still.’ Tyrion says and his breathing shakes, ‘And you too, with your own eyes, Lady Stark, you know I speak no lies.’

‘I am your Queen.’ Sansa says and she looks down at the imp, straight at him, ‘I have been your Yueen for years, though I understand you have a hard time remembering for you’ve played pretend for such long time before. It must be easy a fact to ignore.’

‘Excuse my unforgivable mistake, _my queen_ , my rudeness-‘

‘If your mistake is unforgivable, please refrain yourself from widening the wound with your natural behavior.’ Sansa, ‘I do not wish to hear it.’

Tyrion follows her command and leans his head forward almost as if he kneels to his Queen’s heavenly wisdom.

‘Cersei will light it.’ Jon says then, ‘She will light it, the stashes of wildfire. She’ll blow up the city like a pyre of war fallen men.’

‘With you in it too, if she sees chance. It is the only reason why she has not blown it all up as of yet.’ Jaime says.

‘Me?’

‘That does sound like something she would do.’ Rhaenys is standing with her side to everyone, with her arms crossed she looks over her shoulder to glare at them all. Jon knows that if anyone has been inexcusably rude it was him, but he’s sick of her unleashing her frustrations on a Lannister face every time she sees chance.

The thing that makes peace different from war is that you make it with enemies, not friends... a hard lesson to learn. Rhaenys will be difficult to please when he’ll try and mend wounds she’d rather see rot and cut away. She’s too unforgiving for peace, enjoys the simplicity of war. In that, she’s exactly like Daenerys.

‘So, she’ll set it all on fire? Even Tommen?’ Sansa asks.

‘She’d rather see him burn than hand him over to you.’

‘ _Why_?’ Jon asks, he can’t help but raise his eyebrows, ‘I’ll never hurt him, Cersei knows… Tommen is my dearest little brother, I liked him far better than I ever liked Aegon.’ He looks over his shoulder at moping Rhaenys and waves his hand at her, ‘Ever liked Rhaenys.’

‘It’s about pride.’ Rhaenys says, her eyebrows raised, not at all insulted, ‘Cersei’s own pride… not her son’s life. That woman cares only for herself.’

‘What do you suggest must be done?’ Sansa asks looking at both of Tywin’s sons, ‘What do you think we must do? You say we cannot attack the city, you say we cannot take it, we cannot use dragons... You want us to leave it as it is, have everyone inside starved to death?’

‘They are already starving.’ Tyrion then says, ‘It won’t-‘

‘No, _absolutely_ not.’ Jon shakes his head, ‘Too many have died at the hands of Lannisters behind these city walls.’

‘You cannot use dragons.’ Jaime repeats.

‘I _won’t_!’ Jon doesn’t mean to raise he voice, he doesn’t know why he does it. He always knew deep down he never would, never could. That’s not who he is, not who he’s going to be. Not how Ned Stark raised him.

‘Good.’ Jaime says, and his eyes are piercing, ‘She wants you to knock down one of these walls, march into the city, flood it with your army, set it on fire with these dragons… only to… burn them all.’

Jon nods, ‘And you’re telling me this, because…?’

Jaime shrugs, looks down at his feet, before he admits what Jon could have guessed if he’d tried harder, ‘I won’t let her set a city to fire I saved at such great cost twenty-five years ago. I sacrificed my honor for a million lives before, If I can gain it back by serving you, by doing just that again… then perhaps I will find some absolution.’

Jon stares at the man for a moment, then turns to leave him, and finds himself being followed by everyone but Jaime.

‘There’s only one solution,’ Sansa decides, ‘Everyone in the city must come out.’ though it sounds like a joke, Jon knows it’s not,’ Before she sets them all on fire. They must be evacuated.’

‘You’ll have to tear down the wall first.’ Rhaenys says, ‘It’ll take too long and it’ll be too late.’

‘How do we tell the people to leave?’

Rhaenys shakes her head in disbelieve, ‘You cannot simply expect the entirety of King’s Landing to disappear and have it go unnoticed. The city guard has been preparing for this siege for many a moon’s turn. No one may leave or enter the city. It’s impossible, a feeble plan.’

‘Honestly, sister,’ Sansa says, ‘Your lack of imagination is staggering.’

‘I have plenty of it, but I have read all there is to read of warfare, and what you propose is-‘

‘And you cannot use the dragons.’ Tyrion says, as his little legs have difficulty keeping up with the pace. It does not serve to remind everyone the dragons are useless, quite the opposite.

‘ _Dany’s_ dragons.’ Rhaenys helps them remember, ‘All they do is scare people. People who have been told to fear us for the past five years now. The dragons are a dangerous burden at worst, useless at best. You cannot order them, cannot mount them, you cannot do anything with them. What will you do with their flames, hhmm? You want to light something on fire so Cersei can’t? Dragons do little but scare, the freefolk of King’s Landing will-‘

‘I have seen Harrenhall.’ Tyrion says, ‘Dragons can burn down walls, melt stone, castles dripping like water, you’ve seen it too.’

‘Balerion the black dread could burn down walls.’ Jon says, ‘He's been dead for over 200 years.’

'We _cannot_ use dragons,’ Rhaenys says, ‘We ought to be better than that, it is as we promised. They’re mosters.’

Jon stops near his tent and everyone else follows his example. He can’t help but watch the beasts swirl around in the sky. They followed the army every move, Jon fed them over a dozen horses and some cows too, all by himself, not by any other. Had he any more bravery and no children Jon may have found it in him to walk over to them and touch their scales.

‘You're a Targaryen.’ Tyrion says, ‘You've the blood of the dragon, if you cannot trust them, you can most certainly not trust a lion.’

‘Your grace?’ Oberyn says, and Jon silently prays for him to say nothing of offense, ‘If I may remind you, burning down a city wall with dragons will not do the trick. It’ll set it all on flame all the same.’ He glares at Tyrion, ‘His sister will burn it all down the moment we get in, no matter _how_ we get in.’

‘So what do you suggest?’ Jon asks, but Oberyn nor anyone else says a thing. Jon nods, closes his eyes, breathes out, then turns around to get in his tent, leave everyone outside, but Sansa, who closes the tent flap behind her.

‘Jon…’ Sansa says, her voice nervous and worried, ‘Dragons are dangerous, I agree with the kingslayer, you do not wish to be associated with them.’

She grabs his arm and makes him stand still as he moves around, grabbing and pulling his hair, ‘I already am.’ Jon says, turning to look down at his wife, ‘Every Targaryen I’ve ever read about called himself a dragon. How can I claim myself my father’s son and deny their blood?’

‘The same as Rhaegar.’ Sansa says. ‘He never mounted such beasts, he sat upon a horse when he entered a battlefield, side by side with his men, _free_ men who followed him into battle who _believed_ in him. He never called himself a dragon, _others_ did. If you… if you need these beasts and their flames to get the Iron Throne then… then perhaps you should not want it. Sometimes… Means don't justify the end.’

That suggestion sounds unfamiliar to Jon’s ears. No one has uttered such a thing to him before. He was always the one telling _others_ he did not want the Iron Throne, ‘I don’t.’ he says, ‘I don’t want the Iron throne.’

‘Then _why_ are we here?’ She’s not asking, Jon knows, she’s helping him remember, ‘Why are we here, miles away from our children… in this frozen field, in front of the bloody capital, with an army bigger than Westeros has ever seen before… about to make you lord of the Seven Kingdoms?’

‘Because…’ Jon closes his eyes, ‘Because power is no right nor claim, it is burden heavy on our shoulders, one we accept out of duty, because we know we do the right thing.’

Sansa nods and a small proud smile appears around her lips, ‘Exactly.’ She whispers, ‘Now… forget your father and my father. Forget Aerys, Daenerys, forget Aegon, forget Rhaenys and forget Jaime and Tyrion… Forget these dragons. Think of Cersei. Think of what you can do, to defeat her. To destroy her,  _only_ her. And justify the answer, justify the means not with the end… justify it, as if you are no divine man with absolute justice.’

‘I can’t forget them.’ Jon says, ‘I am Ned Stark’s son. I am Rhaegar’s son. I must protect the lives of those in that city, the way they would want me to. Jaime's right. These people cannot burn twenty-five years after the mad King failed.’

Sansa nods, ‘You’re no dragon. I know you have felt you had to... you had to reject the Stark in you to win this war, and perhaps partly that was true... perhaps you had t to learn how to be a Targaryen. But you’re a man of flesh and blood, your blood is of the Valyrians and First Men, of the Andals and the Rhoynar.’ Sansa grabs his hand and lays it to her left breast, as he so often cupped it before, but it’s different now, and he can feel the cold of steel through his leather glove, ‘It flows through your veins, same as mine.’

Jon pulls his hand away and grabs her head between his hands, ‘I am only a man.’ He swears then, he swears it with all he is. Not a Stark, nor a Targaryen. Just Jon. 

 _You'll always be Jon Snow to me_ , she'd told him once. words had never before been so sweet.

‘you’ll be a Stark always.’ Sansa says as he presses his forehead to hers, ‘No matter how badly your father wanted to see it disappear, he was too late, he let you camp in the snow up north for too long and he knew it… your blood may be of fire, the face I see is all ice. You are your mother’s son too.’

Jon nods and presses his mouth to hers as if he means to promise so much that he cannot find the words for. She knows, he decides, she always knows. Speaking is of no matter.

He pulls her on her hand down into the cot. In this tent, it seems somehow even colder than it is outside, yet her skin is warm. She presses her hot lips to his cheek and lays her hand to the side of his face to make him look at her, before she wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds him, as they wait for Rhaenys to bark in, which takes her too long, but when she does, she brings Robb.

‘Seven Hells.’ Is all Robb says, and he shakes his head. Jon reckons he’s been informed. They left Oberyn outside, thankfully.

‘We are lost.’ Jon then breathes, looking up at Robb with pleading eyes.

‘Are we?’

‘We cannot let them all burn.’ Jon decides, ‘But I definitely cannot burn them myself. I cannot make such a sacrifice; my conscience could not bear to suffer such.’

‘People were always going to die, Jon Snow.’ Rhaenys says, ‘I always thought you knew.’

‘No.’ Jon says, ‘Not like this, not so many innocents.’

‘What is innocent?’ Rhaenys wonders, ‘Aren’t we all guilty of some sin?’

‘Stop that.’ Jon gets up, he can’t sit down, his heart races and he feels more nervous than he ever has before, ‘We cannot attack today.’

‘You give up very easily.’ Rhaenys looks at Sansa who grabs the skirt in her lap with both her hands, ‘What do _you_ think?’

Sansa bites her lower lip, glances at her husband, closes her eyes and sighs, ‘You do not win the throne to save the kingdom, you ought to try and save the kingdom to win the throne.’ She decides and Rhaenys raises her eyebrows in small surpise at the high level of wisdom, ‘Jon cannot start a reign with that much blood on his hands, it could not be justified.’

‘There’ll be no throne to sit on and no ass to sit down with if Cersei blows up the capital.’ Robb says, ‘It is not a choice of whether or not we burn others.’

‘We have to find a way to stop Cersei from lightening the wildfire.’ Rhaenys shrugs as if it’s that simple.

‘ _How_?’ Sansa asks, ‘We have no one in the city, we cannot-‘

‘Sister, you do lack imagination.’ Rhaenys says and she gives Sansa that smile she often used to give her when they only just met. She sighs then, seems incredibly tired for only a short moment, then breathes out deeply, before she nods once, bites her lower lip, and walks over towards a table with a big map of all the city walls.

‘This is my home.’ She says, ‘I know every wall, every street, every house, every little corner of it… the odds are in our favor here.’ she looks up, at Robb, who watches her carefully, ‘Don’t remind me not to overthink.’ She warns him.

‘Try not to overthink too much.’ He says still and a small smile moves over her face.

Jon doesn’t know exactly where this is going, but he decides to wait and see.

Rhaenys shakes her head only, then drops it in her hands.

Robb looks at Rhaenys first, then at Jon, then back at Rhaenys, ‘If it were up to you… we’d all drop our swords and fight with patience, pacts and negotiations only.’

‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’ Jon says.

‘It is.’ Robb argues, ‘Because this is a goddamn war, and it’s been going on for too long.’

‘It has.’ Jon agrees.

‘But it’s not a bad thing. It’s… the opposite of that, it’s a dream. A beautiful dream. And those do not come true.’ Robb says.

‘We cannot negotiate with Cersei.’ Sansa says.

‘Words have run dry.’ Rhaenys nods and she moves her hand over de map, ‘She lays traps. I promise. This may be one. Gods know, perhaps there’s no dragonfire at all.’

‘You think Jaime is… he’s playing us?’ Jon had not dared mutter it yet but he decides it might be better to get the matter over with.

‘Cersei knows us. She knows our weak spot. Father wanted us to know her so we could _see_ her, understand how her mind works. Unfortunately, he gave her the same advantage. She’s been using it where we have not.’

‘But-‘

‘We’re smarter. _I_ am. Father knew that. He knew I could play her, he saw me do it. Cersei will want us to lose our temper like a wildling attacking the Wall but… only because losing her own self-control is her greatest enemy. We must be better than that.’ Rhaenys looks up from the map and glances at Jon and Sansa both as Robb decides;

‘Cersei… she knows you. Would she expect us to attack, knowing the dangers of wildfire? Would she believe we’d lose precious self-control? Would she expect us to take the risk of sacrificing thousands of lives?’

‘She wouldn’t.’ Rhaenys starts walking around the map, her hand sliding over the city walls as if she’s gently stroking them, ‘She doesn’t believe perfect self-controlled, cold and careful calculated princess Rhaenys has it in her to be reckless.’

A small smile appears around Robb’s lips, ‘She doesn’t believe you… or _you_ ,’ he nods at Jon, ‘Could ever be convinced to be reckless.’

‘I thought you prefer to call such things risky?’ Rhaenys pushes hair behind her ear as she looks at her husband, almost as if she’s flirting.

Robb grins some more and places his hand over hers, ‘We cannot afford mistakes.’

‘You’re the expert here in short-term plans.’ She says, ‘We’re not talking about crops, or taxes, or peace treaties… we’re talking about this one battle today. What do you say?’

Jon wonders how often Rhaenys’ has asked Robb for his opinion in the past. Somehow, he believes it’s been dangerously little, and it makes him feel even more convinced that’s she’s right to do it now.

‘You’ve always said Cersei sees this all as some game. The Game of Thrones.’ Robb says, and he moves Rhaenys’ hand from a castle wall to the heart of Maegor’s holdfast, ‘You play a game not always according to the rules, but the dolls have the same meaning, the same names, and the spots are always either black or white…’

‘We’re not _cheating_.’ Sansa says.

‘We’re just… _not_ playing the game.’ Jon realizes.

‘We’re being reckless.’ Rhaenys’ voice trembles as she breathes out.

‘No.’ Robb says, ‘We’re being _risky_.’

‘We’re going to play Cersei at her own game by… not playing the game.’

‘Forget about the walls.’ Rhaenys says and she pulls her hand from Robb’s, ‘We have to forget about the bloody red brick walls.’

‘ _Madness_.’ Sansa whispers.

‘Of course it is.’ Rhaenys says and she turns her head to grin at Jon, ‘We’re Targaryens… prone to madness.’


End file.
